Detained In Camp Miserable

I am curmudgeon, hear me bore...

2012-01-30T09:15:00.000Z

I am regularly mocked by my wife for my intolerance, especially when I am trying awfully hard to politely listen to somebody I believe to be an idiot. Whilst she sails through social situations like a majestic galleon surrounded by a fleet of attendant support vessels, I am a fire-ship headed into the enemy fleet destroying the will to live of anyone foolhardy enough to engage me in small-talk.

I just can't do it, I don't care about the mundane, at least if you wish to speak to me, let there be a point to your anecdote, something amusing or at least enough to keep me awake. And have mercy, don't ask me what I think about something, I will tell you, in detail and at length, leaving you wishing you had spoken to a pot-plant instead. I have very strong views on everything, often multiple views. Oh, and don't fall into the trap of agreeing with me, hoping it will shut me up, I'll have no trouble reversing my position and arguing forcefully against the point you so recently agreed with.

I wish it were otherwise, but it is who I am, part nerd, part enthusiast, part crusader, part playful child and part intellectual snob, an elderly curmudgeon since adolescence.

Speaking of intolerance, I am sick to the back teeth of people claiming to have food intolerances, what the hell is that about. You cannot be intolerant to food, that is ridiculous, you can not like it, you can have an allergy and die when you eat it, but you cannot be intolerant of it, "this is your last chance carrot, I am sick of these orange mother******s on my mother****ing plate". When did people become so stupid?

Bah!

Fat feet

2012-01-28T13:40:00.000Z

This morning saw us out and about preparing for renewing our wedding vows at the end of March. I have paid a deposit for the Cafe Bistro we are taking guests to between the service and supper here in the evening. I have ordered a new wedding ring, I never wore mine to begin with but it seems to have disappeared without trace, and we both feel we want to do the exchanging rings part again. I have been measured for a new suit and I bought new sensible shoes with leather soles, since I rarely wear sensible shoes these should serve me at least a decade if not more.

Interestingly though, my diet seems to have resulted in my dropping a shoe size, an unexpected result but one most welcome. I had rather hoped that my belly would noticeably shrink between now and the big day, but it seems I am working from the ground up. Lets hope I don't get stuck half way, else I shall look like a huge fat turkey on spindly legs in all the photos.

The only downside this morning is that we have come to the conclusion that, even if we were to grease them and slide them in sideways, there is no room for a string quartet, still less a quintet, in the room where we will be having our 'tea at the Ritz' style bash. We both would have liked one and had already scouted out the available quartets and the pricing, but I guess it is not to be. A pity, we had planned to have them play in the church, then travel to the reception venue whilst we faffed about posing for photos. But no room is no room and we will have to miss out on this indulgence for now.

Perhaps if we make a better hash of being married than we managed the first time around, we may have an anniversary do in another ten years time or something. One way or another we shall have one play one day, perhaps I should take the intervening time to learn to tango, then we can relive 'Scent of a woman' and dance to Por Una Cabeza, a dream we would both like to fulfil.

Oh well, all systems go today, a welcome change from yesterday when, having discovered our old letters and photos in a box in the attic, we were reminded just how badly wrong things had gone. Our lives together have been a tragedy, mostly the result of factors of which we were unaware affecting our perceptions and behaviour, each of us left with a terrible sadness about the past now that therapy has turned our world upon its head. If only we could turn back time, how different things would have been, but instead, war-weary, old and tired, we shall set out from the beginning once more. This time though, there is no hidden sub-plot, no secret left untold, just the understanding of who we are and what we mean to one another. We have wasted so many years, but our lives now are filled with happiness and, whatever the future may hold, we shall be facing it as one.

Diet update

2012-01-26T09:56:00.002Z

Not my image and not my moobs

This dieting lark gave me a stark reminder over Christmas that it won't be taken complacently. I didn't go nuts by any means, but did give myself a relaxed week in which nice food was consumed guilt-free, puddings, cream, butter and roast potatoes making a welcome return to mealtimes. The result, after only one week, I gained 7lbs! It seemed a cruel injustice, my wife who had munched through three boxes of chocolates had only gained 2.5lbs. Even accounting for her being small and me being large, I had still gained a disproportionate percentage of my bodyweight. I felt like a barrage balloon and wondered if some of the change was due to the temporary return of salt to my diet but, since it took a further three weeks to get back to where I'd started, I guess it was flab pure and simple.

Anyways, since the New Year I have been pretty good and am now fully back on track, having lost 24.5lbs since joining Fat-fighters as part of my epic quest to stop being a fat old bastard. There is a long long way still to go, 93.5lbs in fact, but this is a marathon, not a sprint, and I know I shall get there in the end. Meanwhile, I am determined to lose another 16.5+lbs between now and the 31st March, so I guess I am going to have to once more face up to the harridan Rhonda, the voice of the weight-loss programs on our treadmill. I have not used the treadmill regularly for more than nine months so it will be a bit of a trauma starting again, if you hear strange noises drifting on the wind it will likely be my joints creaking.

No Fat Club next week as I am away up to London to watch Graham Linehan's adaptation of 'The Ladykillers", then having dinner in one of Jamie Oliver's restaurants, one of the down-market ones I think, anyway I shall try to be sensible. So, the next weigh-in will be two weeks away, by which time I shall be "a willow, a reed, .....Audrey Hepburn"*, or gnashing my teeth and crying in frustration if I haven't made a significant dent in my target.

Also, I have had no Fat-fighters awards so far this year, and my unspoken and unacknowledged, but oh so bitterly obvious rival Emily, is starting to look a bit smug. In two weeks time I hope to have caught-up and passed her weight-loss, and once more be challenging for those coveted awards! This is tongue in cheek by the way, I know it is a personal journey, but she sits just in front of me and if ever I lose more than her lets out a frustrated sigh, she is a riot and terribly competitive, I really like her.

Right I'm done here, now to wander the house aimlessly feeling sorry for myself because I still have man-flu. Wait a minute, perhaps that has helped with the weight-loss this week, being ill could be to my advantage, maybe I should open the windows or go and stand in the freezing rain, that could be good for me?

*From the movie Night Shift

Betterest

2012-01-24T12:09:00.000Z

From the previous post you'll have noted the day started well, but things have just got better and better, finally achieving betterest, and it isn't even lunchtime.

With a £1000 silk dress and jacket to wear for our day in church, my wife, having self-consciously put it off for twenty-one years, went today to be fitted for a breast prosthetic. Her cancer and the lumpectomy are so far back in time that we have forgotten why she was not offered reconstructive surgery or a prosthetic when it happened, but over the intervening years not doing so has become a really big deal.

It has never bothered me in the slightest, I have viewed having a choice of breast sizes and shapes, all in the one package a positive thing and I can honestly say that I have never had a preference. However, despite dressing carefully to minimise the difference, she has always hated pictures in which it showed, and it has severely limited the clothes she would choose to wear.

So today was a big day, after all these years of pretending that it didn't matter we walked to the hospital across the road to visit their breast clinic. Not wanting to make her self-conscious I waited outside the door when she was called, but was relieved after all her nervousness to hear laughter issuing from within. What I did not expect was to be called in after ten minutes to inspect the results.

Through the door and past the curtain maintaining the dignity and privacy of the occupants, I found my wife beautifully attired in an evenly distributed sports-bra, looking like the cat that had got the cream. I was asked for my view on the results, issuing a series of amazed "brilliant", "fantastic"s and "wonderful"s, then asked, and I am not making this up, to squeeze my wife's boobs, inspecting them for similarity, helping her choose between different designs of prosthetic boob.

What can I say, prosthetic boobs look and feel like real boobs, they move like real boobs and even have nipples. They are a wonderful gelatinous art-form. The only downside is that we must wait a week before we can bring one home, and before my wife can hit the expensive underwear store in earnest. Nevertheless, she is as happy as ever I have seen her, and I am as happy that she is happy.

I wonder if it will spoil it if I give it a name? What kind of name should a boob have, a boys name I think, something slightly dull. I'm thinking Dave or Brian perhaps, I shall leave it until it comes home to decide.

Awesome German technology from Anita - more fun than a Mercedes

This is the life

2012-01-24T07:32:00.000Z

My new laptop arrived yesterday and this morning I find myself sat in bed blogging whilst a naked lady puffs and pants on the treadmill across the room. To be fair, this in every way exceeds my expectations of laptop ownership, they certainly didn't mention this as a feature when I bought it, I think Dell have missed a trick here.

Lots of Uni stuff to do today, but I also need to find time to design and print the order of service for our vow-renewal. The naked lady, though clothed at the time, has chosen the readings and hymns she wants, including all too predictably the speech about love from Captain Corelli's Mandolin. Being an atheist, I didn't have much to bring to the discussion but, as I did first time around, I do take the vows seriously and am really looking forward to making them again.

That has set me wondering now, will I be plighting my troth? What is a troth? What is plighting? How easy is it to plight a troth and is there a danger of falling off? Perhaps I should check those readings again before they go to print, plighting might involve ladders and I am afraid of heights.

Oh well, the naked lady says there will be room for one more in her shower, I better not disappoint. Have a nice day blog-fans.

Snot

2012-01-22T09:18:00.001Z

In a dark conspiracy it has been decided that I should have a cold and sore throat, the very morning of my planned diet-busting cooked breakfast at the Hive Beach Cafe. I have bravely decided to struggle on, but may bring about a virus-induced cull of the establishment's older customers.

Meanwhile, I was in Southampton yesterday taking part in a psychology day-school. Uncomfortably I was adopted by an attractive TV producer, my doleful countenance too much for her exuberant and excitable personality to bear. Perhaps one day she'll ask me to appear in an advert for something she wants people to think is sh*t!

Another assignment to do this week and a new laptop on which to complete it due for delivery tomorrow. I just need to keep my Minecraft addiction in check until it is done. Yeah, like that is going to happen. Just..... one.... more...... block.....

The money-pit

2012-01-18T11:00:00.001Z

No sooner had we decided upon a quiet, intimate ceremony to mark a new chapter in our lives, than up jumped the twin-nightmares of responsibility to others and cost.

First time around responsibility to others didn't matter, everybody was invited. This time we need to figure out who we absolutely have to invite and, more awkwardly, who we can not invite without causing bad feelings. We thought maybe twenty people maximum to share the day, yet already the essential invite list numbers fifty, and that is pared down to the bone.

We thought we'd aim just to have the ceremony and then organise a 'tea at the Ritz' style high-tea, rather than another dull sit-down meal at vast expense, but it would appear that to host such a function locally will cost more than busing the whole damned lot up to the actual Ritz!

It seems that there is an unwritten tax system in place where, if a supplier gets the merest whiff of wedding, all previously competitive prices become rounded-up to the nearest £1000, and judging from some of the quotes not even the nearest. If I were actually getting married I might be less horrified, caught up in the whirlwind of romance and expectation, but we are two old farts going to renew our vows after a car-crash of a marriage. We can see the mad gleam of avarice in the eye of those trying to get our business, we can sense our savings surrounded by predators and quaking in fear.

My advice, do try and get it right the first time, the stress of doing it a second time may result in you needing to do it a third.

Wedding v2.0

2012-01-12T13:49:00.000Z

I thought I would announce it here first, though my wife Frances has probably told all 7 billion of you the news already.

Last year, as perceptive blog readers will have already spotted, was a horrific year here in Camp Miserable. I learned an awful lot about myself, a great deal more about my wife, and I decided that I would get divorced.

After twenty-two years together, and still loving her despite everything we have done, I felt I owed it to Fran to at least go to couples therapy, in part to unravel the awful mess we have made of our lives, and in part to allow us to separate amicably, knowing that we had at least tried everything. She in turn went along certain that we would part, and that I would learn just how big a bastard I have been.

That however is not how things worked out.

I am not about to hang out all our dirty laundry in public, but in the space of a few short weeks we quickly learned that, whilst neither of us are yet ready for sainthood, the woman I have loved all these years was not the person that either I or she believed her to be. She had suffered a series of traumas in her childhood and adolescence which had left her suffering from post traumatic stress disorder, and almost entirely emotionally detached from her own life. In effect, despite her being a grown woman, enormously successful professionally, I had married and spent my life with, a terribly angry and damaged eight year old.

What had kept us together perhaps, is that when we first met, we spent the best part of a year becoming friends, and I had seen glimpses and fallen in love with the softness and vulnerability beneath her powerfully self-confident exterior. Once we were married though, that vulnerability and softness slipped away, she became trapped within her own unhappiness, just existing through each day, blaming me for somehow having trapped her within a life she would not choose. At first I felt I was somehow failing her, tried ever harder to do what she wanted, be what she wanted, until it became clear that what she didn't want, was me. After that I too buried myself within my own life, and like her existed day to day. If you do it for long enough, you can kid yourself that you are happy, that this is as good as it gets.

And yet, there always remained the sense that we were missing something, that we had somehow let something wonderful slip through our fingers. Always I was waiting for that something to come back.

Over the years I have dreamed of walking away, several times determined that it was the only sensible thing to do, sought an escape. But when it was there for the taking I couldn't go. Right up until a few weeks ago, despite the changes in her and our perceptions, I knew that I had to walk away, that we had simply done too much damage to remain together.

I didn't need to. Like a snowball rolling down a hill, as her perceptions and lifelong beliefs were swept away, the changes within her came ever faster, eventually becoming an avalanche. A wall once built for protection, but which had become a prison, had been knocked down. The sum result of which is that I don't need to change the person I live with, the person I live with has changed.

For her, it has been like meeting me for the first time, for me, it has been an end to my waiting, a reunion with the person I once believed her to be. Twenty-two years after getting married, we have met and fallen in love. The changes have not finished, therapy goes on, but they are all for the better, helping her, a new person, adjust to the new world into which she has been born.

On New Years Eve I asked her to marry me, and she cried and said yes. For me it will be renewing vows I wholeheartedly meant the first time around, for her it will be the first time. Provisionally it will take place at 2:00pm on the 31st March, at St Laurence's Church, Affpuddle, the place where it all began.

I can't promise every reader a personal invitation, but if you read this and want to witness a true-life happy ending, well you know where we'll be. We may not appear as handsome, beautiful or youthful as once we were, but its what is on the inside that counts, and that is better than ever.

Version 1.0 - Bug-fix due on 31st March 2012

Two Kindles

2012-01-08T23:30:00.000Z

Having suggested a Kindle as an Xmas present for Mrs R and being told she didn't want one, it has been little surprise that she has been constantly glued to the one she gave me. She has also displayed irritation when, on switching it on, she finds my book and not hers on display.

Consequently, in order to have use of my Xmas gift, I have today ordered her a baby Kindle of her own, along with case and a light. So as from Tuesday we shall be a two Kindle family, and I shall once more be able to read the books I have bought.

Actually, most of the books I have awaiting me are selected from the free titles I took a fancy to which appear daily on the EreaderIQ site I linked to before. Even selecting only one every day or so, I shall never catch up with them all, so I doubt very much I will actually have to spend any money, excepting when a favourite author publishes something new that I feel I can't do without.

Despite them being free, those I have downloaded so far all seem to be of pretty good quality, certainly as good as my usual spur of the moment random bookshop purchases. There have even been some free cookbooks on the list, I haven't looked at them yet, but the next time I am stuck for something to cook I shall give them a whirl. Lately I have been using the BBC websites food section for recipes, but I'm always up for something new.

Meanwhile, I bought a load of picture frames and have set about making the arched alcove in our kitchen into a proper picture wall. It has been quite good fun trying to select the photos to fill the frames, finding things which are both representative of us and our family, whilst thematically and compositionally fitting into their slot on the wall. I still need to get another half dozen frames to finish it off, but am very pleased with the results so far. The good thing is, since I am printing the images myself (I knew all those stacks of glossy photo paper would one day come in handy), when we tire of an image we can swap it out for another.

Finally, since I had to deliver some stuff to my accountant this morning (those guys must love accountancy so much they work weekends too), we took the sports car out for a spin and on the way home drove the beach road between Bridport and Weymouth. On the spur of the moment we stopped in at the Hive Beach Cafe and, in the warm winter sunshine, sat by the sea drinking the most awesome mugs of hot chocolate, overflowing with heaps of marshmallows and masses of real whipped cream. Only sorry that we had already had breakfast, the food being eaten at the tables around us looked to die for. We have had lunches there a few times before, but clearly breakfast is the meal to go for. Highly recommended if you ever need something nice to get over the shock of finding yourself in Dorset, it won't make Dorset any less boring, but it should amply sustain you whilst you plan your escape. After putting 7lbs back on over Christmas, I don't think my hot chocolate consumption will help make this weeks weigh-in at Fat Club any less humiliating, but sometimes life needs to be lived.

Anger

2012-01-06T15:29:00.001Z

I recently found myself at a loss for an answer when asked the question "but where is your anger?", and, a little while afterwards, I received an email whose author had gone out of their way to reassure me that it was not written in anger.

The truth is that I am not really an angry person, I don't hold on to a grudge. I am more your explode, stomp off, then a little while later forget about it sort of person. I am not used to having vast quantities of anger, still less accustomed to having to process it.

And yet, the person asking me the question was right. I have a great sea of anger, muderous rage, a primal scream yet to be vented, but no outlet to release it, nor means to let it drain away. It is simply too much for me to contemplate, so, whilst from time to time its presence invades my thoughts, I am for the time being, all be it unintentionally, in denial. Whether therapy or time will get shot of it, I shall have to wait and see.

And that brings me to the email with the carefully worded explanation, stating clearly that not one jot of anger was expressed therein; this the result of my suggesting that a previous email had an angry tone. I don't know about that individual, but it seems to me that in general terms, what we may read in ourselves as defensiveness, being adversarial, sarcastic, point-scoring, just hammering home our point, they are all expressions of an underlying anger. We might explain our actions in other terms, disappointment, dissatisfaction, frustration, annoyance, irritation, but each is, to a greater or lesser degree, an expression of anger.

The things is we don't always recognise that it is there, I certainly didn't, and yet it can become consuming, influencing our every interaction with our environment and those around us. The real futility of it as an emotion though, is that it has almost no effect on the person or thing we are angry with. We are affected, our mood, composure and happiness are victims of our anger, but the cause of it cares not one jot.

This post doesn't advocate forgiveness though, whilst an admirable trait, it isn't one I feel fits every circumstance. What I do suggest is that we try and recognise our drives and motivations for what they are. Whilst we all of us, me included, like to believe that we are pure and high-minded moral stalwarts, with a zen-like inner calm, our darker qualities are always ready to corrupt when we deny their existance.

Better perhaps to own up to a little anger, or in my case a lot, than to walk through life with a rictus grin, furious that the world doesn't recognise just how happy and relaxed we are.

And I'll swing for anyone who says otherwise! LOL

Cod psychology

2012-01-04T15:41:00.000Z

A little while ago I was accused of being a proponent of cod psychology. Were I inviting fish to take time out on my couch to share with me their problems, this might be both interesting and fun. Unfortunately, though I can find no good definition of the term, it simply means fake psychology.

It is something which has weighed on my mind a little, since I think that the accusation was simply unfounded. I'll agree that I am an enthusiastic reader of psychology research, and pop-science books on the subject, and that, as an undergraduate, I am but a fledgling in the science myself. I have though spent over twenty years married to, and learning from, an expert in cognitive behavioural therapy, and all of those years working with clients with a variety of mental health issues; that is my inspiration for taking on my degree when my contemporaries are dreamily thinking of early retirement.

So, I wholeheartedly deny the accusation of fakery. You may disagree with what I perceive, what I believe and the hypotheses I postulate, you may reasonably suggest my lack of knowledge has led me up the wrong track, but there is nothing cod, nor otherwise fishy, about psychology as a science, nor my use of the knowledge I have learned.

All of this preamble is by way of linking to articles I enjoyed on another blog, Listverse, two lists of common psychological misperceptions. I think I have fallen for most, if not all of them at one time or another, check them out yourselves.

Top 10 Common Faults In Human Thought

10 More Common Faults in Human Thought

Most recently, I tripped over confirmation bias, but I am sure you lot have never fallen for any of them, after all, you're all above average, right?

Kindle

2012-01-01T14:44:00.000Z

Christmas unexpectedly brought me a Kindle, the one with a keyboard. As far as I can tell, the only difference between this and its baby brother is the keyboard and 3G internet access, so what follows applies to either model.

The good :
Screen technology has moved on since I was given Sony's first touchscreen reader, the E-ink screen on the Kindle is excellent in natural light, and not too reflective under artificial light.
Fonts and font size options are good and legible at all sizes and the reading experience is very comfortable.
The Kindle Store is beyond simple to access from the device, and buying/downloading a book is a breeze and takes seconds.
Your Kindle will synch with your account on Amazon, so it is simple to log in from any Kindle, or Kindle App on phone, tablet or PC and still find yourself on the last page you read.

The bad :
The Kindle is not backlit, so you really need to buy a light to go with it.
No case/protective cover is included with your purchase, the officially branded covers are high-quality but extremely overpriced, a rip-off in fact.
Books cannot be shared with friends and family (in the UK), unless you share your account with them, and you are locked in to Amazon's proprietary format for downloads.
The device doesn't have a touch-screen. In the days of smartphones, the horrid clicky joypad navigation and buttons to turn the page feel retrograde, uninstinctive and a nuisance.
The page turn buttons (left and right sides of the device) are stupidly located if the Kindle is seated within its official leather cover. There really ought to be one along its bottom edge.

Overall, a brilliant device, thoroughly recommended, but not the end of the story, there remains plenty of room for improvement.

The light:
I thoroughly recommend this overpriced Octovo light for your Kindle, though it is unsuitable if the Kindle is layed flat, and you do have to get used to tilting the Kindle toward you a little so as not to be blinded whilst reading in bed :) It is well made, ergonomically pleasing and works very well. [Click here].

The handy link :

Buying books is an expensive business, and the Kindle an easy way to do it. Amazon's site has plenty of links to free content, but we can always use more. This (UK) site, if you sign up, will watch the Amazon.co.uk website and send email notifications upto three times a day with notifications of new books for free categorised by genre, plus details of ebook price-drops. If you can stand that number of emails each day, it is a great new way to discover new things to read, give it a whirl. It is eReader.co.uk
There are a lot of children's books available for free by the way, so if you have Kindle and kids, this could save you a lot of money.

Happy Xmas Chaps

2011-12-24T15:50:00.001Z

Well, here we are again, another Christmas Eve at Camp Miserable. I won't be doing a late night offering here this time, after twenty years of meaning to do it, we are driving to the village where Mrs R grew up, and where we married, to go to the Christmas service.

So, a little earlier than usual, I wish anybody that drops in and reads this, the people who have contributed to the blog over the last year, friends and family near and far, lost and found, a very happy Christmas.

As our last song of the season, let us, for a change, allow Dino to do the honours.

Happy Christmas!

Mrs Roadshow's nostalgic surprise

2011-12-24T01:07:00.001Z

When she was just eight years old, my wife returned from school to be told her father had died. Though throughout her life she has spoken fondly of him, tended his grave and marked the anniversaries of his life and death, what she has not had are any photographs of she and he together.

Dropping off presents at her uncle's house a few weeks back, he talked warmly of her father and the holidays they had shared. Driving away, inspiration flared and I realised that they might have some snapshots we were unaware of. Sure enough, they did, poor quality, mostly tiny, but there were about thirty in all, and in two of them F and her father were together.

In the tiny 1960's photographs their images were just a part, and by the time I had cropped them down to show only them, each image was about the same size as a small postage stamp. Nevertheless, I scanned them at 1200dpi and set to work with Photoshop to reduce the impact of the scratches and glitches, and to breath a little life into the faded images. Those you see above are pre-photoshop, and have since been much improved and re-cropped, before being enlarged, printed on A3 glossy photo-paper and framed. Hopefully she will be pleased with them.

Meanwhile, we are having a fancy-dress element to Christmas this year so, it might be hard to tell how exactly she feels when we insist she wears the Kigurumi Panda costume my son and I have bought for her. I suspect, being a fan of Minecraft, I will be required to spend a good part of the day with my head in a cube-shaped cardboard box, I shall post pictures afterwards.

Hey, Santa Claus

2011-12-19T23:59:00.000Z

Just watched National Lampoons Christmas Vacation, time for another Xmas tune before bed. This one is featured in the film, the Moonglows.

Cunning like a fox

2011-12-19T08:03:00.001Z

Barney, our canine companion, has had surgery to pin and plate his knee joint, in order to prevent further harm to a badly damaged ligament.
His pain control is an opiate in capsule form smuggled into his meals, at least it was. You see, in an uncharacteristic smart bit of thinking, Barney has worked out that his food is making him stoned off his face. Unfortunately, as a result of this deduction, Barney the dog is now on hunger-strike. No titbit, not chicken, baked ham, sausages, cheese, nor dog food will be eaten. Each new offering will be expertly tested though, sniffed, licked, held on the tongue before, as though it might at any moment explode, it is gently and with disdain rolled away across the floor.
Thankfully, Barney being a moron, the one thing he is certain is safe and worthy of his trust is another painkiller. How long he can sustain himself solely on the doggy equivalent of ibuprofen remains to be seen, meanwhile he is singing "we shall overcome" and refusing to come out from under his blanket.

Wind

2011-12-12T23:47:00.002Z

Another night of gale force winds here at Camp Miserable, the big question is "will the fence still be there in the morning?".

I admit that, had I been a little more efficient at garden maintenance, the fence needed replacing this year. Instead I have watched it gradually disintegrate, fighting the inevitable with the odd bit of featherboard nailed here and there, the odd nail strengthening sections which looked ready to give up, and two posts angled to stop the whole thing blowing over.

Each time the wind has blown, my efforts have looked a little more ineffective, already the wind has casually torn off one board which now adorns the branches of our Japanese Maple, and the posts have taken to leaning in a manner which suggest all-out surrender won't be long in coming. I have taken to reading the weather reports in the hope that the winds will subside, but it seems they will be here for another twelve hours at least, I don't think my efforts at DIY can survive that long.

Meanwhile, having done our whirlwind weekend visit to all and sundry delivering Xmas gifts, I am feeling full of seasonal cheer. To hell with the fence, it'll give Barney a chance to go crap in someone else's garden for a change.

Tis the season

2011-12-05T20:09:00.001Z

Well here we are again Christmas fast approaching. Not got the time this year to do my normal Christmas countdown, behind with my studies and two essays to be written.

Despite it having been the most appalling year here in Camp Miserable, I am feeling full of festive cheer. I think a diet of terrible Christmas music and a prescription of one dreadful Christmas film a day is guaranteed to do the trick.

What with the diet and all, Mrs Roadshow and I are alternating days with the advent calendar, chocolate has to be eaten after all, whilst planning two days of extreme gastronomic excess for Christmas and Boxing day when diets are being suspended. Obviously we will need to have at least eight meals a day to pack it all in, but I for one am up to the challenge.

Not so good is the present shopping, usually it would all have been done weeks ago, but ideas for BIG presents for Mrs Roadshow and Mini-me are still eluding me. As far as I can tell they both have everything they want, leaving me to give them only things they don't want. Most unsatisfactory, but I am no better, I can think of nothing whatsoever that I want either. It is high time some sexy gadgety goodness caught my eye, but this year there has been nothing at all I have even contemplated buying.

If last year is anything to go by, I shall have to remove the packaging from my gifts pretty fast, else they will again find their way into the lucky-dip at February's Pink Party which raises money for a Breast Cancer charity. When one person returned to the table with something familiar I thought to myself "I have one of those". By the time the third and then fourth person did the same, it had dawned on me that all my unopened Christmas gifts had been secretly recycled.

Oh well, in case I don't get back here again before the big day, here is a dose of Shaky. He's crap and yet...

Benton (or Fenton?)

2011-11-26T19:49:00.001Z

As the owner of a hopeless dog, incapable of following even the simplest command without mucking it up, I feel for the bloke in this video. It seems to me that the dog probably belongs to his wife, and that like me he is from time to time sent out with her out of control dog to be embarrassed by it in public.

Our dog Barney isn't too bad with chasing things, preferring to shag them silly instead, but Benton, well, Benton feels that ancient call of the wild, Benton thinks he is a wolf.

You have probably already seen this, but if you haven't, enjoy....

The chickens are in the chimes

2011-11-23T18:06:00.001Z

A friend of mine contacted me today to share with me the wonderful world inhabited by their son Charlie. He is four, and for the first time he is to participate in his school's nativity play. This morning he proudly told his mum that he has to learn for Christmas, a song about a chicken, Bethany Hen.

Now before you say "aah" or laugh, imagine the repercussions if Charlie turns out to be right, Christianity as we know it is all washed up, every one of us who has eaten chicken is going straight to hell. Instead of nativity scenes we should be celebrating nests, or coops, or wherever it is that chickens live.

I really think he could be on to something here. In tribute, and as my first blog attempt this year to get into the Eggsmas spirit, I give you a Christmas song featuring a chicken. I know, you didn't think there was one, but it just adds weight to Charlie's theory. Here from 1963 is Sascha Burland's "The chickens are in the chimes".

Personality Test

2011-11-10T18:01:00.001Z

I know I have written about this before, but I am much enamoured with the Myers-Briggs personality test. It certainly describes my family and I perfectly. I have not found a good free questionaire yet, but this one on the BBC Science Website [HERE] is a variant which is both free and which produces a result which can be transferred onto the Myers-Briggs scale [Wiki here].

Give it a whirl and let me know what kind of personalities are reading this rubbish. I am a Mastermind, Mrs Roadshow is a Supervisor, and both my son and my spare back-up kid are Strategists.

It's The Woo - Fat Fighters part II

2011-11-09T21:15:00.003Z

Well here we are again after my third visit to Fat Fighters. I'll save you the maths, that's two weeks of dieting, well two weeks of official dieting at any rate. I think in the month of stress before I began that I had already lost 14lbs of the weight I had piled on over the summer.

So anyway this week, due I suspect to some irregularity with the scales, I find myself 'Slimmer Of The Week' and have returned home with the bag of tired fruit which seems to be the reward for such an achievement. I am the envy of my tubby cohort.

How did I do this thing you are wondering, what is my secret. Well, if you are a member of Fat Fighters then I shall tell you it is the woo, the mysterious force which is contained in the Fat Fighters diet book which I have unfailingly stuck to throughout. Yes Fat Fighters, the diet which doesn't count calories, where they tell you that the super fast high-bran foods which help you lose wait quickly taste better when you melt chocolate bars into them. The diet where some foods are free, but where portly ladies despondently wonder why they gain weight by eating their own weight in (free) pickled eggs.

In truth it is three things. Firstly smoking, I didn't smoke for ten years but in the stress of my marriage mayhem I have discovered that smoking is both stress-reliever and an excellent meal replacement. Secondly stress, with great stress comes great anxiety, and with great anxiety all food tastes like cardboard. Thirdly, and this is the trick that the other Fat Fighters are missing, not only am I not eating the foods they tell me I shouldn't, I am eating less food in general.

Whilst calories are anathema to the Fat Fighters, someone really ought to tell them that if you use less calories than you consume, your body will consume itself.

Don't get me wrong, I love these guys, they are all lovely people. I just wish that they would stop striving for the magical answers provided by the woo and have a reality check. But then I suppose that in the woo there is hope, a simple answer to a complicated issue, the religion of weight-loss. Only it isn't the woo that helps them, it is the determination not to be embarrassed in front of their peers.

Next week I get a week off as, apparently, it is black dress night. Those that know me will appreciate that a black dress is not a good look for me. But in two weeks time I shall see if can retain my title.

Fat Fighters

2011-10-27T18:47:00.001+01:00

Last night, Mrs Roadshow took hold of my ear and dragged me with her, kicking and screaming, to Fat Fighters. I can't tell you what a desperate, hellacious place it is, a place for the lost and unhappy to meet a corporate zealot, a place to be horribly patronised, ritually humiliated.

And yet, the people who go there rejoice in one-anothers company, share gallows humor, share a common struggle. You just can't beat peer-support.

I don't want to go back, but it is strangely addictive; if she forces me again, I may kick and scream a little less.

Are you listening?

2011-10-25T21:19:00.003+01:00

Before I tell you about helping my son with his maths assignment, here is a video I shot with my stills camera on Sunday. It is Mrs Roadshow and her horse Toddy doing a dressage test during their lesson. The video seemed the lesser evil to share since, whilst getting to grips with the settings on the camera I was given last Christmas, I also took 900 photographs. Some of them were really good, but that would be one hell of a long slideshow.

Now, back to the matter at hand, helping Olly with his maths assignment. He was struggling with a question about linear sequences, a subject about which I know nothing. However, unlike Olly, I thought perhaps reading the fekkin study materials might be of use, in particular the transcript of an audio file which explained the topic in detail.

He couldn't concentrate and was driving me nuts, first laying back in his chair, then laying forward so that the bloody book was eclipsed by his shadow, I was getting angry. Having barked at him to stop dicking about and start concentrating, he grudgingly sat forward attentively. I told him to follow in the textbook whilst I read out the transcript explaining what was going on.

I thought I had his attention, but as I got in to miles of Xn = RXn (RXn-3 x RXn-2 x Rxn-2.......... etc I sensed I might be talking to myself.
"Are you even listening?" I shouted, prompting him to open his mouth and drop the three seashells he had distractedly chewed off the top of some cocktail sticks.
"Yeeeeeees?" he unconvincingly replied, before collapsing into fits of giggles which lasted a good ten minutes.

My son is twenty-one years old and, though he did eventually complete his assignment, there is no hope for him.

Watch out for that piranha

2011-10-17T20:41:00.000+01:00

Well here we are again, another report from Camp Miserable. Once again this week finds the camp living up to its name as I struggle to comprehend recent revelations about my life.

With the speed of windscreen-wipers I vacillate between optimism and the abyss of misery which seems to have opened up before me. My past now a foreign country, no recognisable landmark left standing, the future impossible to contemplate, I am left living in the present, struggling to function and get through each day.

The rescue party has been sent for in the form of the charity Relate, but when they will arrive and to what destination they will eventually lead me, I have no idea. All I can say is that my first interaction with them was marvellous, and that I have great faith in their ability to guide me from this mess. Unfortunately, now I must wait for their call to say help is on its way.

All that said, I must also say that I would rather face the certainty of devastating honesty, than to continue on with the quicksand uncertainty of secrets and lies. Certainty allows one to have the freedom to choose, where uncertainty serves only to obfuscate reality.

Anyways, that is why I do not have the energy to blog of late, and it is also all I am going to say on the matter, here or elsewhere. I am at the start of a process headed who knows where, I'm sure I shall have more to report at journey's end.

Meanwhile, rather than have some vaguely associated song tagged on, leaving you puzzling over the ill-defined connection, lets have some sheer unadulterated joy, a band whose work has stood the test of time, as crazy and as brilliant as they were when first I heard them in 1979.

Poet

2011-10-07T11:01:00.001+01:00

Mrs Roadshow called me "her poet" yesterday, I rather liked it. It probably had more to do with my head in the clouds airy- fairy nature, and my ability to flounce when I don't get my own way, rather than because I can rhyme, nevertheless it felt like a validation of the person I am.

I have come to the conclusion that I am a cross between George Bailey and Clark W Griswald*, a romantic fool with impossible ambition, struggling to remain afloat in a harsh reality for which I am wholly unsuited. Always a project, always a passion, always a dream, always startled by the disappointment of failure.

Like George Bailey I wonder if the world would notice my passing, I think perhaps it wouldn't. Should the day come that I am stood on the bridge in Bedford Falls, Mrs Roadshow claims she'd be my Clarence there to save me, but I think maybe she'd push me in, I'll wear a safety harness just in case.

All this floats through my mind because I've started to think about Christmas again. It'll be rubbish this year, no guests until Boxing Day, so we will struggle to make it feel different than any other day. Normally we would have a spending frenzy to make up for it, but this year things are tight, will have to get my thinking-cap on and plan some way of making it special.

*George Bailey is a character in It's A Wonderful Life and Clark W Griswald's best outing is in National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation.

Crocs

2011-10-03T14:57:00.001+01:00

I assume that is the spelling, I have never seen it written down, but I am talking about the spongy shoes once seen exclusively in operating-theatres.

I think the fashion, maybe anti-fashion?- to wear them has been and gone, but a love for them remains strong in our dog Barney. Each time he sees one at home he carefully picks it up, then takes it into the garden where he will lay holding, almost caressing it, for ages. He doesn't chew it, he doesn't lick it, just lovingly rests his head on it.

LOL, he just walked past me into the house carrying one with him. I wonder if it is the smell of his owner Mrs Roadshow, but if it is that, why doesn't he carry other things? Most odd.

Thinking about it even Barney, a dog which regularly eats poo, cannot possibly want to smell Mrs Roadshow's feet. All those hours they spend in wellies and riding boots, eugh!

So what is it that is so attractive about gaily coloured foam shoes, do other dogs like them, is my reader sat chewing on one right now?

The only thing of which we can be certain is that if you put on a Croc left in my house, your foot will get covered in drool. Oh that and that your missing one will be somewhere outside.

Doh!

2011-10-03T08:53:00.001+01:00

Curse my luck, I truly have a gift for losing. A gypsy trying to sell me "lucky" heather once told me I had a lucky face, there was only one thing I could reply, "well I don't need lucky heather then" I said. But honestly, if I didn't have bad luck I wouldn't have any luck at all.

I know in psychology that experiments have demonstrated that it is all a question of self-belief, that success or failure are determined by an individual's mindset. When an opportunity arises, the unlucky think "it can't mean me".

I really should take myself to one side and give myself a stern talking to, make me change my attitude, be a little more positive about things. Obviously I am too ingrained in my behaviour to have a complete about face, the blog is not going to suddenly become 'Choosing to live in Camp Cheerful', that is too big a leap. Perhaps to begin with I might try "Flight delayed at Camp Ambivalence", depressing as hell but with a hope that I might still get home this side of hell freezing over.

Or would that be unlucky?

Now where did they go?

2011-10-02T10:24:00.001+01:00

I can't tell you what an interesting year it has been, no, I mean I really can't tell you. But I can tell you what it has felt like to live it.

There has been some horror, dreadful dreadful disappointment, resignation, some optimism, some excitement, a brooding sense of unease, overwhelming grief, bittersweet memories and vain hope, but above all else, confusion.

I arrive at this point feeling like my life has spent the last twelve months in a whirlpool but, though all is most certainly not as I would wish it to be, I have felt this weekend has marked a real transition toward better times ahead. I have no idea what those times will bring, but I do know that the worst days are left behind me.

Life would be very much simpler without other people wouldn't it, other people have such power to disrupt our plans, both for good and bad. I find that whenever I get my head straight and decide upon a course of action, my fellow travellers have wandered off lost, or set off in a different direction altogether.

Perhaps life should come with a tour guide? I'd like that, having to chart one's own course is such hard work. That said, I know I am headed the right way, if only my travelling companions would listen.

Perfect

2011-09-27T23:39:00.000+01:00

I have always liked this song, and the BBC multi-artist version of it was superb, though I think tonight I will be happy just to hear Heather Small belt out the whole thing. It most certainly hasn't been a perfect day, or week, or month, or year, but the song brings to mind better times, times of dreamy optimism.

I think we're alone now

2011-09-26T09:09:00.001+01:00

Quiet reigns over Camp Miserable. The parents have left for home, some of the other detainees are at work, and for the first time in ages there are no voices to be heard.

The peace feels like luxury, and good job too, today I must begin year 2 of my 6 years studying. Officially the course kicked off yesterday, nine months, seven essays and an exam ahead of me, my on-line study calendar now my master once more.

A lot has happened since I sat my exam in June and it is going to take some effort to motivate myself to learn. But to meet the future head-on, I need to break the old habit of being a leaf floating on the river of life, and start kicking toward my destination.

Slow, sloe, quick, quick, sloe.

2011-09-25T21:57:00.001+01:00

My last day today of babysitting my parents, stranded here this last week after my mum's heart-attack whilst visiting last weekend. Firstly it was just a matter of keeping my dad entertained, whilst my mum was busy making herself the trades union shop-steward for the patients of the cardiac ward in the local hospital. The last few days it has been a matter of trying to prevent my mum, now bored with being ill, from galloping around the house trying to cook, clean, and be helpful, no easy task.

Yesterday in bright sunshine I dragged them to the beach for the afternoon, where we walked along the prom and had ice-cream, a nice way of killing a couple of hours without her overdoing it. Today though they decided they would go and check out the sweet chestnut trees my dad had spotted along the side of the gallops beside our horse's field, a rather more ambitious walk.

I did some damage limitation by taking the truck along the unmade lane past the fields of horses, so that we at least started in the gallops, but then they were off. The chestnuts, though already falling over the last couple of breezy days, are still flat and unripe, so another month perhaps before those still on the tree will be worth eating, but my parents foraged around the hedgerows feasting on nuts and berries like a couple of elderly boy-scouts. My mother, clearly the model for Ann in the Famous Five, told me how her childhood camp in a hedge had the straightest bricks, the shiniest tins, and the best swept dust, almost seventy years later I can vouch that nothing has changed.

Then they got to the sea of sloes I photographed the other day, bush after bush ridiculously weighted down by their beautiful but bitter fruit. And it started, after frequent pauses for a rest on the way up the hill, my mother forget she is a cardiac patient and seventy-four tomorrow, and landed a well aimed sloe at a good velocity right on my father's bald spot, war was declared.

Amongst hysterical laughter and screams the two of them chased around me, using my not inconsiderable size as a human shield, launching volley after volley of fruit. From time to time they would each feign the end of hostilities, feasting on another bank of blackberries, all the while secretly re-arming with further handfuls of sloes.

They laughed, they ran, we all had a really good time. They'll sleep well tonight, but for a short while today they were unafraid of mortality and brim-full of life, I couldn't keep up with them. A very good day.

The loneliness of the long-distance writer

2011-09-24T09:31:00.001+01:00

Was listening to the radio yesterday and there was a discussion with a charity campaigning to raise awareness of loneliness.

One element which resonated with me is how common it is to be lonely in the company of others. I am rarely alone, yet this blog is evidence enough that frequently I have nobody to speak to.

That said, being an up-tight Brit, I have no desire to air my dirty laundry in public, so perhaps my isolation is self-imposed. The French shout and gesticulate, Americans come out shooting, we write a polite letter of complaint.

This morning my mother, now out of hospital, set about giving me the third-degree, 'are you two alright" she wanted to know, a question so open-ended that in some respects it can only be answered yes and no. Despite her best efforts I gave nothing away and, since water-boarding is outlawed here, if she wants to know more she'll have to study cryptography and read my blog.

It wouldn't take a genius to figure out that we have been detained in Camp Miserable.

Autumn

2011-09-23T21:30:00.000+01:00

A few pics taken over the last month. don't remember the butterfly in the garden at the end of August, but the autumnal shots were taken earlier this week over at the farm. Whilst my mum was in hospital I have been responsible for keeping my dad entertained, wandering around the field with him telling me the names of trees and bushes, and foraging for nuts and berries, kept him happy for hours. I enjoyed it too, just like being a kid again, except the two of us wisely refrained from trying to climb any of the trees.

One Year

2011-09-22T21:37:00.000+01:00

A little over a year ago I wrote a post that for a while at least changed my life. For a short time something which was lost seemed found.

But like all good ghost stories, when the protagonist wakes to a new dawn the ghosts have gone, their presence but a dream, a fast-fading memory as the shapes and sounds of reality assert themselves once more.

My dream was a good one, and I am saddened that it had to end, but life has hard edges and is dangerous to those who walk in their sleep.

Meanwhile an emotional whirlwind has recently passed through Camp Miserable, tearing the place to its foundations. Nothing is as it was and I awake to a brave new world. The foundations of the place are as solid as the day they were built, but in another years time it may all look very different.

Helen Mirren - my shame

2011-09-12T11:29:00.001+01:00

Some years ago, the actress Helen Mirren made a donation to a charity auction to raise money for a rehabilitation centre for injured firefighters. It was a classically beautiful red leather Gucci handbag. Rather sweetly it contained a penny, and a signed note from its previous owner, perhaps she is superstitious.

I bought the handbag and gave it to my wife, a Prime Suspect fan, for Christmas. It was then, and remains, as good as new, an object even a cynic like me considers worthy of appreciation. It is simply perfect in form and function.

But today I have disgraced myself, not only have I had to spoon poo into a jar (see previous post), I then chickened out of taking it to the path labs myself. Well Mrs Roadshow was going to a meeting which involved walking past the hospital, how was I to know that, today of all days, she would be carrying Helen's bag?

Helen, I can only apologise, I am so so sorry. If it is any consolation at all, I did make sure that the jar's lid was fully tightened. Honestly, if I had known beforehand I would certainly have taken it myself.

Can you ever forgive me?

Big poo, small jar

2011-09-12T10:04:00.001+01:00

So after ten years of pain and discomfort, it turns out that I am likely one of those stomach ulcer types who may be cured simply with antibiotics. There is also a cheap over the counter medication which may relieve the stomach cramps which have recently been making me still more grumpy than usual. But there is a catch....

Because the medication will make me read negative for all manner of other nasties, before starting it I must provide a stool sample for testing. To facilitate this I have been given a very small jar, with what might be a plastic spoon attached to its lid.

Now I don't know about you guys but I am unable to produce a highly compacted neutron-poo, and, even if I could, I am a big bloke and think it unlikely that I would be able to successfully hit the pot. This is going to require some thought, I presume turd-fishing the toilet is unacceptable, that catching a poo mid-air is the standard expected. So what should I do? Should I go to a baby store and buy a potty pretending "honest mate, its not for me", or should I improvise with some other receptacle originally unintended for poo? And if I were to do so, should it be disposable, or should I entertain at dinner parties by casually asking Mrs Roadshow "which was the plate I took a dump on?"

To be honest it is all just hypothetical, my insides have stage fright and show no inclination to produce a poo this side of hell freezing over.

Minecraft 1.8 pre-release version

2011-09-10T19:56:00.000+01:00

I have known for a while now that the developers of Minecraft are something a little bit special. Not only do they care about their creation, they care about gaming. It is not enough to declare their product finished to meet a deadline, or to patch it because they have thought up an innovative new feature, they play the game to see what is fun, and they listen to the people who play and mod their game, making the game feel like a living breathing community.

So how did they react when one of the closed-beta copies of the unfinished release 1.8 was leaked? They announced that it had happened and expressed their disappointment in the breach of faith, but then they made the release available through their official forums so that excited players could download and play it safely, free from the risk of virus and exploitation. In doing so, they have an unplanned huge public beta of their new content, and have won a great deal of good will for their product. Well done Mojang.

The pre-release version, though incomplete and differently balanced than the version due to be released during the next week or two, is simply wonderful. Biomes (areas of climate and vegetation) are bigger and as a result the landscape seems more real, terrain has a more fractal appearance which gives it a different look and feel, and the world now includes wonderfully naturalistic rivers and ravines. It really does feel more world-like.

I have galloped around the countryside exploring and discovered non-player character villages (so far unoccupied), complete with a variety of homes and buildings, a stone tower, streetlights, farms replete with crops ready for harvest, even a well into which I of course fell. Underground and in the bottom of ravines there are derelict mine-workings, complex tunnels with wooden pit-props and railways where once minecarts ran.

The new food mechanic, whereby health regenerates over time but is dependent on you having eaten, works wonderfully. Food now stacks and above ground cattle, sheep, pigs and chickens are plentiful, as are mushrooms growing among the vine-covered trees of the swamp biomes. It feels natural and doesn't penalise the player who forget to pack his lunch, if you are hungry enough and stuck below ground, the rotting flesh of a zombie might mean the disgusting choice between life and death.

New animations and models are also excellent, as are the changes to lighting and to clouds. The ability to sprint is a boon and combat has been improved upon immensely. I have yet to meet the new monsters, though their existence creates a new level of tension when exploring. I have also failed to locate this map's Stronghold, and any of the new crops which can be farmed, but it is early days.

If your PC meets the minimum specs required to play Minecraft, when 1.8 is released you really should give it a try, as much an experience as it is a game, there is really nothing else out there quite like it. Visit www.minecraft.net to see for yourselves.

Poorly Sick

2011-09-06T11:00:00.000+01:00

Yes I have man flu, an illness no woman could hope to understand, one so serious that only baby-talk will do to describe its symptoms. Various bits of me are too hot, too hurty, too achy, and too poorly sick for work. I barely have the energy left to play computer games once Mrs Roadshow has left the house.

Of course with symptoms this severe, I needn't worry about getting caught playing games when she returns home, it is unlikely that I will last out the day. I am weakening fast and don't think I can make it to the kettle.

If you hope to read more of this rubbish in future, please send me a picture of a cup of tea, and hurry, I may not have long...

Sulking in the rain

2011-08-30T09:11:00.001+01:00

My previous reference to the Gene Kelly musical seems to have precipitated disaster in the family bathroom.

Sat watching a movie last night, I heard my son speak to me, speaking is not something at which he excels, preferring primordial grunts and cursing, so I knew that something was awry.

Sure enough he wished to deliver bad news, "the shower won't turn off" he said before wandering off to his pit, the concept of drying oneself before leaving the bathroom also seeming to have foxed him. So wading through the trail of puddles I made my way to the bathroom, from which I could hear the sound of water pouring with elemental force.

Here it should be said that our shower was a god amongst bathroom equipment, a wall mounted bar controller linked to a pump beneath the bath powerful enough to knock over an elephant. The controls are simple, to the right a twiddly thing for controlling the temperature and to the left a twiddly thing for turning the shower on, selecting whether water should fall on you in torrents or fire out of the detatchable bit, what we refer to as the chuff-squirter, and how hard.

Were our shower in a James Bond movie, the reading on our shower would last night have been at "danger level", about to explode demolishing my whole subterranean lair. I needed to reach the controls, but between them and I was the water.

Heroically I stepped in fully clothed and twiddled at the controls, he was right. I somewhat curtailed Niagara by isolating the pump's power supply and setting it only to run cold, but was no nearer stopping it altogether. So at midnight, soaking wet, I stood outside wrestling with the padlock preventing me gaining entry to my shed and some screwdrivers.

Eventually, by laying on the floor and risking spider attack, I was able to reach the isolater valves beneath the bath and cut off the water. As I stood up, dripping with water, covered in dust and what other unspeakable detritus I had collected from the bathroom floor, I reflected that this episode had brought to a close what passes for a pretty average day in Camp Miserable.

At no point did I break into song.

The wanderer returns

2011-08-29T11:53:00.001+01:00

At last Mrs Roadshow has returned and we can rest easy. Our fears that we would be overwhelmed Pompey style by the dirt the dog has distributed across the kitchen floor, or swept away in an avalanche of dirty laundry, have been allayed.

I don't want you to think we have done nothing though this last few days. My backup kid Paul moved in and we transformed the kitchen table and worksurfaces into a high tech games room, we randomly fed the dog resulting in him looking like a football with legs, we checked the horses each day and only one of us was bitten, plus we did our part to sustain the fast food industry.

Admittedly our priorities meant that a few minor chores were overlooked, but now the kitchen fairy has returned we hunter gatherers are excused domestic duties.

The sun has come out, the house no longer smells like stale socks, and someone has put milk in the fridge. The collapse of civilisation has been avoided.

Twilight Zone

2011-08-28T02:33:00.000+01:00

I think this must be just about the oddest thing I have done. It is 2:20am and I am sat up listening to Ginger Gorman's Sunday morning show broadcasting in Canberra, Australia, waiting to hear my old blog-post featured.

Although I wrote about my friend Debbie, there were no pictures of us together, I took pictures of her with her camera, and she took pictures of me with mine. The best I could find was this one, we both feature but at opposite ends of the group.

From Debbie and Ian 1989

Thought I should include it to complete the memory I have painted.

Jealousy

2011-08-26T21:16:00.000+01:00

Each year when my wife and her chums head off to the Rhythm Festival I know that I will miss a performance I would dearly love to have seen, Steve "Guitar" Cropper being one of the more notable regulars. I console myself by thinking of them trying to pitch tents in mud and having to spend four days using portaloos, whilst I relax peacefully at home. This year though I am green with envy, I knew that Hazel O'Connor would be playing this weekend, and as an adolescent I loved Hazel O'Connor, or perhaps her character in the film "Breaking Glass", but either way I adored her.

This evening not only has Mrs Roadshow watched Hazel O'Connor perform, she has sat and talked to her afterwards, and here am I sat home alone bored to tears. Curses! So lets have a musical interlude, with performances of "Will You" from 1981 and 2008

Woman Of The Year

2011-08-25T08:50:00.001+01:00

Apparently the ladies at Slimmer's World get to vote for someone who has been their inspirational woman of the year. Since I don't go to Slimmer's world I am unable to report on whether or not they also have a man of the year, nor am I able to tell you if he is inspirational.

However Mrs Roadshow does go to fat club (as we refer to it in these parts) and was voted her club's woman of the year. Fair play to her, she has lost three stone in six months, but they knew not what they had done. You see, they gave her a sash.

Now beautiful though she was as a child, Mrs Roadshow never before had her own sash. All those nights watching films like Miss Congeniality, pretending that she was above that sort of thing, what she really wanted was a sash and a tiara.

So, when they put that sash over her head, looking out at the audience in front of her, she thought of only one thing. And when they asked her to say a few words about how she had achieved her success and what might be her future goals, the fantasy took over and she replied....

"World Peace"

The first sign of madness

2011-08-24T21:34:00.000+01:00

I have often heard it said that speaking to oneself is the first sign of madness and, if this is true, then I am in some trouble. These days I find myself doing it all the time.

Where it began I can't say, perhaps decades ago when I used to make digger noises to my baby son in the car? There was that memorable occasion when I said "look diggers! dgdgdgdgdgdgdgdgdgdgdgdg" before realising that I didn't have my son with me, just my wife and two friends with whom we were going to dinner. Now though, I talk to the dog, I talk to the cat, and worst of all I find myself mumbling out loud when replaying conversations in my head, the clutch between brain thinking and mouth moving seems to be slipping.

All is not lost though, speaking to myself cannot be the first sign of madness.

When I was ten years old and allowed my mother to dress me in a pink shirt and tie to participate in a inter-schools country dancing competition, that was the first sign of madness. Perhaps it was the lure of being able to hold hands with the otherwise out of my league Helen, but not pretending I was too ill to participate in a country dancing competition, that was the second sign of madness. Since then I have almost certainly displayed many thousand other signs of madness, speaking to the dog hardly seems significant.

When he answers back, then I'll be worried. Still, I'm just being silly, that won't happen, the cat never lets him get a word in.

Meanwhile, interesting news, one of my blog posts, or at least my audioboo reading it, seems likely to be featured on Australia's ABC radio this Sunday. I am flattered and horribly embarrassed in equal measure. If you hear the programme and visit here as a result, welcome, apologies if that post represented a high point that the rest of this nonsense doesn't live up to.

I wonder if Debbie, the subject of the post, will get to hear about it, the internet works in mysterious ways.

English Summer

2011-08-10T22:44:00.000+01:00

A perfectly simple twenty minute journey became an hour long nightmare yesterday when someone inconsiderately allowed their car to catch fire between me and my son's workplace. The result was that the road was closed and that I had to find some other way to approach my destination. Thus it was that I found myself in a traffic jam along Weymouth seafront (motto: A vile destination but still better than Bournemouth).

What I saw as I drove along beside the seaside was the English summer encapsulated in all its glory. There were hundreds of people on the beach who on closer inspection appeared to be dressed for an arctic expedition. The pedaloes bravely cresting the waves were captained by occupants wearing winter coats. Many of them were eating icecreams encrusted with sand sprinkles whipped up by the howling gale.

The British are a hardy lot and allow nothing to stand between us and a good time, no matter how much reality might try to intrude. Whilst others might be nailing up storm shutters and abandoning their homes to move to higher ground, we Brits will be heading to the beach with a lilo and a bottle of sun-cream.

It did make me proud, the legacy of Scott of the Antarctic (motto: didn't make it, died, but who is more famous now Amundsen you Nordic swot?) lives on.

Beach-goers enjoy the sunshine in Weymouth

Lifting off the dust covers

2011-08-09T23:54:00.001+01:00

Hello blog, I'm back. The old place has been a little neglected, but we'll soon have it back to its old self.

As always, the best posts here are born of misery, anger, frustration, bitterness and combinations thereof. Well, after a blogging break my cup runneth over with all of them. Too tired now though, but normal service will resume shortly.

Menawhile a little spookiness on Spotify today, having mentioned "Singing In The Rain" to a chum yesterday, it was the very first song that played when I plugged my phone into the stereo today. I had forgotten how lame the song actually is without the dancing, but fortunately I improvised around the kitchen whilst it played to maintain a sense of cosmic balance.

I think we all know the Gene Kelly version, but some of you non-Brits may not have seen the comedy duo Morecambe and Wise perform it on one of their 1970's Christmas Specials:

K-Passa - The Big Jig Gig lives again

2011-07-21T12:54:00.001+01:00

Good news this week for aging aficiandos of Bristol's Fleece & Firkin during the 1990's. Bristol's finest live act have stopped trying to kill one another long enough to reform and play some music. This time perhaps they are here to stay, they have a facebook page and even this wonderful set to listen to for free on Soundcloud.
Latest tracks by K-Passa
Meanwhile if you are in the UK and within range of Bristol, they will be appearing on the Cascade Steps Stage at the Bristol Harbourside Festie on Sunday 31st July.

Crapped out

2011-07-15T00:06:00.001+01:00

One of the hazards of extreme laziness is laziness myopia, agreeing to do something energetic in the future in order to put off some tedious menial task in the present. This week I twice succumbed and twice have paid the penalty.

Both events resulted in my agreeing to pick up all the horse poo in the paddock where Toddy and Woody reside. The first time in order to avoid making sandwiches for lunch-boxes, the second to avoid emptying the dishwasher. Obviously when I made these deals, I had no intention whatsoever of carrying out my part in them. I'm not completely stupid, I had a whole range of excuses at the ready, from hay-fever to my being something of a delicacy for hordes of vicious horse-flies. What could go wrong?

Well first off, having immediately forgotten our agreements, I failed to notice the attentive and thoughtful way that my wife remembered to offer me hay-fever medication with my first cup of tea of the morning. Secondly, when I enthusiastically launched into my speech about horse-flies, I found it curtailed by the mouthful of fly-spray I swallowed when the cunning sod doused me in the horse's vile-smelling insect repellent.

Thus it was I found myself the other evening unenthusiastically approaching the field wheeling a dayglo pink wheelbarrow containing poo-picking tools. How bad could it be, after all there are only two of them and I know the girls do them almost every day. Two hours later as the horses and riders returned from their ride, I was still there. I had filled five wheelbarrows by the time I thought I was finished. I say thought, because just as I was about to down tools, Woody let rip a gleefully triumphant fart and dropped a good ten pounds of steaming beige jobby which I then had to pick up. Now Woody is a big horse, very big, a former champion, but that doesn't account for his crap. An elephant would strain to equal what that horse produces, it's unbelieveable, I bent the bloody rake whicking it up. Our horse, Toddy may lack the collosal capacity of his chum, but he makes up for it in style. I can only imagine that Toddy gets up to a gallop before letting rip, resulting in each of his poos being spread over several yards. I don't know how he does it, but I'll admit I'm impressed.

Two days later, today, I fell for it again, just 90 mins and three barrow-loads of fly swarmed crap today, it seemed never ending. I'd like to think I've learned my lesson, but there are lunch boxes to be made up in the morning and do you know what? I can't be bothered.

Turning Japanese

2011-07-06T09:44:00.002+01:00

No, not like The Vapours did, you have a filthy mind. Though in fairness, still with reference to biology.

Thirty-plus years ago during the second of Amnesty's Secret Policeman's Balls, now disgraced comic actor Chris Langham shared with us the secret of speaking the Japanese Language. There were three key stages, to sound as if you are cold, confused and constipated. This won't help you understand what is being said, but to non-Japanese speakers you can pretty much pass as a local.

I suppose in these politically correct times such things are a hanging offence, but they have served me well providing entertainment for my kids over the years. In fact I now get requests to perform the same tired routines to the families of those kids now grown up. I don't oblige though, a bad gag is more joyful in the memory than viewed again with adult eyes.

The relevance of this is that today I am feeling two thirds Japanese. Don't think about it too much, it'll put you off your lunch.

Meanwhile, this week I learned a top money-saving tip. No need to buy a new phone, ereader, PC monitor or TV, you may just need to have glasses. Having at age 5 jealously envied the children who started school with glasses, aged 46 I will now be getting glasses of my own. Very pleased whilst the novelty lasts.

Dorothy Parker said "men don't make passes at girls who wear glasses", I'm hoping the reverse will be the case for we blokes. In my head I thought they made me look pretty damned cool, but in truth I'll settle for people not laughing out loud when I have to put them on.

There and back again

2011-06-17T23:50:00.001+01:00

Well howdy blog, after two weeks struggling to get even the weakest of 3G signals, tonight marks a welcome return to the internet. It wouldn't have been so bad if I hadn't forgotten my own password allowing access to all the free mobile hotspots out there, but that's what I get for being an air-head.

Won't bore you with another travelogue, in short, went to Scotland again, climbed things again, took bad pictures of lots of cool stuff including frequent visits to the cottage from otters, and without the camera had a close encounter with a weasel. Desperately sad to travel home today, but relieved to get here after twelve hours in the car.

The CD player in the car packed up, but I was able to drive Mrs Roadshow mad by singing bits of songs from musicals for the remaining 500 miles. Once she realised her annoyance at my atrocious singing was only encouraging me, she wisely pretended to be asleep much of the way. Too bad I only know a few lines of each song, not enough to get a sense of achievement but plenty enough to murder each one.

I was particularly proud of my renditions of tunes from Paint Your Wagon, even the dog groaned in dismay. To honour the memory and to evidence to Scotland's doubters that fun can be had even when it has rained, I give you....

Feeling Oirish

2011-05-27T23:21:00.001+01:00

Feeling unnaturally cheerful today, and have had strange urges to listen to the Dubliners, The Commitments and Hothouse Flowers. This extended version of Don't Go is spiffing.

EDIT

Oh hell, lets have em all..

Better than Otis Redding methinks:

And the late great Ronnie Drew and the Dubliners. Click through to Youtube for the lyrics, hard enough to read em, let alone remember them:

Rapture

2011-05-24T18:17:00.004+01:00

I couldn't let the 'end' of the world pass without marking it here. I'm guessing that there are a number of very embarrassed people wondering how their particular fantasy has failed to be realised.

More concerning to me, there are still more people out there pitying these poor fools whilst harboring equally deluded fantasies of their own. They wallow in their particular flavour of baseless nonsense whilst looking with pity upon those who fail to see their 'truth'.

It seems that for some, it is easier to accept mumbo jumbo than to take responsibility for their own lives.

Wake up people, the world is an amazing place, appreciate it whilst you are here. It is time you all grew up.

Closing the stable door...

2011-05-04T10:17:00.003+01:00

We've had a good run here at Camp Miserable, but it is time to relocate.

We've studied the packaging on toilet tissue, done a little bit of politics, contemplated nasal hair, lycra wearers, books, games, films, even had a sing-song, but the time has come to move back into the shadows.

We've peaked at an amazing 3 public followers, plus around twice that too shy or ashamed to show themselves. Camp Miserable has not been about performance, it is just my diary of incoherent ramblings, and I am very fond of it.

Publicly linking to it, removing the protection of anonymity, has been a mistake though. Meeting real-life people who clearly read this rubbish has been flattering, but it has also been very constraining and left me with very much less to say. I shan't abandon this site as there are small parts of it of which I am proud, but my future regular posts will be elsewhere.

I thought we should close, even if only temporarily, on a song, but I have found it hard to choose. I could be theatrical and finish with My Way, or embody the feel of the blog with Johnny Cash singing Hurt, but ultimately I chose this, though it is lyrically inappropriate, because if nothing else, I am a rambling man :)

Jurassic Park - the feudal attraction

2011-04-28T22:25:00.000+01:00

Yes, tomorrow some parts of Great Britain will be celebrating our theme-park preservation of an irrelevant thousand year old feudal system. Not here in Camp Miserable though, where the inmates will be doing their very best to avoid the wall to wall fawning coverage of the marriage of a reasonably attractive woman to a balding horse-faced toff.

We just don't care.

Instead, lets have comedy royalty, Pete and Dud may not have sold as many magazines, but they surely brought more happiness.

Poly Styrene

2011-04-26T23:43:00.001+01:00

The wonderfully quirky Poly Styrene, lead singer with X-Ray Spex, has died aged 53. An icon for those of us of the punk generation, she was simply fantastic.

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Travelogue - A week in the life

2011-04-22T22:50:00.002+01:00

Saturday:

Journey turned out to be a little over six hundred miles, completed in a very respectable smidge over ten hours. Unfortunately, before it could be completed, I was forced to spend half an hour at a supermarket in nearby Oban, in order that we might have something to eat during our stay. Loved the sound of overheard voices though, the "aye"s and "that's you"s telling me I was back North of the border.

Not the adventurer I once was, having unpacked and eaten, I was tucked up in bed by seven-thirty and didn't stir until I was brought tea this morning.

It being Scotland and the weather being grey but dry when we woke, I was immediately dragged off the mile down our driveway to climb the hill Barr Aille. It is not a very big hill, perhaps 300m, but it is steep and rough terrain. A lot of lambing going on up there today, so our dumb dog Barney had to be on his best behaviour, especially when we bumped into a ewe still licking her newborn clean.

The summit was a tad windy for we grim optimists who had declared it t-shirt weather, but wonderful to once more see the view of what feels like our spiritual home.