Ginger people smell of wee.

Somebody found my website the other day googling 'ginger people smell of wee and cheat at cards'.

The cacophony of words in whichever particular post that came up with is one thing, but gosh - do they? I've never really come across this phenomenon. My brother is a little ginger, and I can't say I've ever really noticed him cheating at cards. He must be that good.

Why would you google that sort of thing, though? Clearly it's a fully-formed thought in your head, are you looking to clarify something or to confirm it? Is this some urban legend that I've not heard of before? I feel like I must know - I've searched for it on the internet, but it's just not quite there.

There is some Formula 1.

The Australian GP was great, etc, etc - or so I heard. I had to listen to it on the radio because we don't have a telly in our house and no internet just yet. It was very exciting - this is a good part of the year because any tedium is edged out by novelty and fascination as new teams and new drivers test each others' limits.

The fact that the BBC have got the F1 rights back again is also worthy of note and praise as I have just spent an evening on iPlayer (the grammar police have really got to crack down on these flagrant abuses of the English language) - no adverts, hurrah! Quality coverage, hooray! Excellent commentators, standard! I love Martin Brundle, and Jonathan Legard is also excellent - they fitted together marvellously in their first outing, I find myself wondering whether they've been locked in a hotel room in Slough together, playing old VHS tapes of races gone by and doing some practice commentary like so much karaoke.

I'm imagining Jonathan Legard doing commentary in my head now, and I'm reasonably sure that it's not some sort of personality disorder. Actually I had to email my mum the other week (she's a mental health nurse) because I had Celine Dion singing River Deep, Mountain High for two solid days, I thought it was some sort of disorder I was going through.

I am back.

I have returned from my brief sojourn of misinspiration, drenched in the drought-quashing elixir of terrible metaphor or whatever the syntax I'm talking about. Despite my latest flush of posts mid-March my inner monologue suddenly vanished, needing rest following an exhausting 5000-word essay, my narrative blown away by those horrific northerly winds.

I find that my motivation here is almost directly proportional to the weather - it was sunny today again and I found myself noticing things I might share with you, my loyal fans and true friends, my little bloglings. I may sometimes stray a little but I shall always remain true.

Oh, what a load of guff.

Shoppinglist Bus

I'm still a bit befuddled.

I'm still struggling to understand this deprecession, despite the helpful illustrated guides on the BBC News website. Bear with me - money that only existed on paper...no, no, bad choice of word - all money does of course exist on paper...money that only existed on computer has disappeared, everyone is worried, despite these being only fictitious values ascribed to huge things that are never going to get sold cash in hand. The Government's solution is to come up with more money that only exists on computer and start metaphorically splashing it around.

The real crisis then stems from ordinary members of the public sitting at home wibbling instead of spending actual money that does exist. Craziness.

I always cheat when I'm the banker at Monopoly, why would anyone trust people who are playing with really real houses and not just the smug satisfaction of getting one over friends, siblings and mortal enemies? Seriously, is this the part in the game where Gordon Brown tells everyone the rules are just a guide and he offers you a pittance for whatever you're holding and you say yes because Indiana Jones is coming on and you want to make a sandwich with leftover Christmas dinner first? Is it?

Let's talk about love.

I was on the Jubilee between Southwark and London Bridge just now, it was surreal - a 4-piece Russian folk band assemble in the middle of the carriage and knock out a ditty to the utter bemusement of all on board - they don't even have enough English to ask for money. London can be marvellous on occasion - I think it's like that song that epically mismatched couple Celine Dion and Luciano Pavarotti belted out a number of years back - "I hate you then I love you then I love you then I hate you"...

They apologise for the inconvenience...

There was an announcement when I was in Westminster tube yesterday that Blackfriars station is closed until 'late 2011' for 'major improvement works'. How 'silly', I thought. Surely a major improvement after being closed for two years is simply being open? Perhaps they're not doing any work to the place - 1) no-one will remember what it looked like, 2) they'll just be so gosh-darned happy to have the wee place back again.

I mean really, what works are possibly going to take nigh on three years to get done? If it was Changing Rooms they would have been able to do it in two days - AND it would have been decked out in a charming mock regency theme.

I am feeling ill.

I have been ill this week. It started when I woke up in the early hours of Tuesday morning. That in itself is a sign that something is terribly wrong because I never willingly wake up in the early hours of anything at all unless fire has started lapping at my bedclothes. I had a terrifically sore throat and a touch of fever. I'd like to say I had outrageous sweats and was shivering uncontrollably whilst curled up prone underneath my duvet in the foetal position, but I choose at this point to go along the manly road less travelled and downplay my agony somewhat.

The train ride into work was uneventful - which is actually an event in itself, paradoxically enough. The unusual is so usual that the usual becomes in itself unusual to the point that the usual and the unusual have swapped places and you don't know which one is which. Rather like that Disney comedy 'The Parent Trap' which starred Lindsay Lohan twice, back when she was cute and carefree and hadn't turned into a human bedpan. Like I said - the train ride into work was uneventful, although I don't like being stared at like I'm some sort of sweaty-trousered pervert - it may have been half right, but I couldn't help it.

The reasons for my frailties are such: when I do stuff I get tired, when I get tired I need lots of sleep, if I don't get lots of sleep I get ill. I believe this is the case for many people but I have astonishingly low tolerances and hence invest a great deal of time in making sure that I am asleep. This is largely a passive effort, apart from the odd half hour each evening - aside from when I have a sore throat or my pyjamas are ablaze.

I don't much like being ill, but I soldier gallantly on - my mum always forced me up and at 'em, even if I was on the point of death. She was good like that, instilled a healthy work ethic. She sent me to school once when a wound on my forehead had gone septic and my face was swollen to the extent that I could barely squeeze my glasses on. I'm a fighter, who nowadays would have been taken into care at the first sign of neglect. PC poppycock, I say - what harm did it do me? I'll answer that when I'm feeling better.

the light at the end of the huddle

a show
Originally uploaded by ALBOWIEB

Yea, tho' I travel through the valley of the shadow of SE London...

If there's one thing worse than travelling through London, it's travelling through London with luggage. There's a vicious class system on the transport network based on the haves and have-nots. As with the AIDS epidemic and ginger hair, it's the haves who are being persecuted here.

But anyway - I just spent a brief but lovely weekend in Coventry trying to plan the next part of the rest of my life. Whether it happens depends on whether I can write, which thankfully is one of my capabilities I'm more optimistic about. Earning a crust through writing is something I might aspire to in the same way Vanessa Feltz used to wist away the hours dreaming of tasting chocolate, Gordon Brown imagined being a prison guard or Jonathan Ross pictured himself getting paid millions to be a world authority on leery and smug. All power to them, living the dream.

I went to Ikea for lunch with my mum today and yesterday I met Alfie - Emma and Elaine's new rabbit. Right now I'm getting thrown around inside the 176 because the trains are closed today. Seriously - the only capital I want to be at the moment is S for Somewhere Else. Haha. I'm so witty, for a sober man on a bus.

A statue in Budapest

Some days you're the pigeon...
Originally uploaded by ALBOWIEB

I have been to the toilet on the train.

Weeing on a train is fiendish at the best of times, why did they go and make them tilt? I half expected a crystal to come out of the toilet roll dispenser after two and a half minutes, and that wacky famous bald guy to come running along shouting "That's it for public transport, let us go to the local government zone!"

I pressed the button once on a Voyager and there was a man doing a poo inside - the doors open so slowly it was like a foetid version of Blind Date. Luckily I managed to hide round the corner unsighted until they rolled back closed again. I fondly remember the Arriva trains I used to get to Bangor, they were so small you'd have to use the hand basin as a foot brace, the flush was medieval in both concept and execution - the rails of North Wales must literally be strewn with acres of crap.

I met a traveller from antique land...

I saw a woman (I think it was a woman - the odds are better than evens, but probably slightly less than 60/40, I mean I'm not ceeeertain) dressed as a pirate on my walk to the train station the other morning - at half eight. Either she was doing the walk of shame or she was a bit of a mentalist. I gave her a wide berth because with either option she was probably going to smell a bit. This is the London life, with its rich tapestry of characters and cultures - I might start carrying a rape alarm.

The daily grind...

Welcome to London Bridge for another round of Rushing Roulette. You never quite know when your train is going to arrive and at what platform. When you do get told what platform, you go and the train isn't there yet. If you wish to get a seat, crowd-surfing is in order.

Why do we put up with it? Every day a portion of Mustn't Crumble with an unhealthy dribbling of Cussedard. (A little tenuous, but I'd like to think I can pull it off...) If this were another country they'd overthrow the government in protest. Here it's "Oh dear, I think I might vote for the other chap. I say, could you take your hand off my crotch just while we're at the station?"

Seriously, I'm moving to Germany. (On the off-chance I ever run for serious public office and you happen to have found this in the future - see how humorous I used to be! God bless Britain.)

A little reminisce.

It's a little too easy to dreamify the past, isn't it - rose-tinted glasses ain't what they used to be, etc, etc, snark. I think it's great that our brains try to ensure as much as they can that bad memories aren't too bad, they sort of take the edge off a lot of things for us. I'd say it's kind, but I suppose it's more of a self-preservation thing - keep you functioning but with enough of a thing that you're not supposed to recreate past painful mistakes. This brain thing obviously works to a greater or lesser extent in other people.

I find myself wishing for the good old days of blogging - but those were the days when I could say anything I liked mainly because nobody was reading. Nowadays nobody is still reading but I have to be careful in case somebody does. I lie - I remember back in the day when I was getting 30/40/50 visits a day - heady stuff. I was in touch with a few people, you get chatting, but then you lose touch, and such is life. Was I more interesting then? I don't know. I have a taste for the technical side these days - I sit and ponder about choice of words, probably to the extent that my choice of words is rendered rather dull in its complete form, probably to the extent that I ramble and plod where once I simply stated my point and got on with my day, such as it was back when I was a student. I just don't know how I filled my time, but I'm sure I managed - I don't know how I do it, but I always manage to find things that make me really busy - I love to be lazy, but it's such a luxury because I don't let myself do it a great deal. Apart from Saturdays, of course.

Was yesterday all it is cracked up to have been? I don't know. I find myself full of zest and no pith - or is it the other way round? I really enjoy twitterising, I've taken to it in the past few months - but I just can't figure out what it's for. I suppose it's more relational than this, but only in a superficial way. I do suppose that it's less creative than this, but brevity has its challenges. It's easier and more immediate than this, but that's not always a good thing. There are no end of tweets that I've had to go back and delete with the 20/20 vision of a cooler temper.

I suppose you get to the bottom of a post waiting for a point - no point today, I'm afraid - just a 6/10 and a must try harder. I shall try.

Wo, nest for the ricked.

I've done nothing in the evenings this week and I'm still exhausted - it's really quite odd. It's quarter to eleven and already this feels like an outrageously late night. Every sleep feels foreshortened, just that little bit not long enough. My eyes hurt, my back aches - although that has more to do with sofa acrobatics the other weekend than anything. But if there's no rest for the wicked I feel like I'up there with Hitler at the moment.

This weekend I'm going back to Coventry for an open day at their fine institute of higher learning to find out about a masters in writing about cars and that. I hope it's all it's cracked up to be. Easter is for resting - until then...

White birds can't jump.

doves
Originally uploaded by ALBOWIEB

Jogging, the memory.

Did you know that one in three marriages end in Davos? I heard that today. Divorce capital of Europe. There are lots of joggers in London - yes, my segue is going to be that abrupt - I don't know where they all come from when I see them staggering along the Thames. They could be the same ones I see at home - it takes them all day to do that funny running on the spot across London, they only manage twenty minutes at work before they have to turn round again. I've never understood that running, it must use ten times as much energy as just walking wherever you want to go. Just walk. In fact, why not drive? That would be even quicker. Think of the time you would save not having to dress in a wanky lycra outfit and find your sweatbands whenever you leave the house. You just grab your keys and away you go.

I saw a girl today on the way home from the train station (which is never as close to the house as I ever imagine - I worked out today, I think it's further than I used to have to walk home from work when I lived in Bangor...that was the whole journey then!), I thought maybe she had been stabbed in the back the way she was fumbling down the path towards me. As she came closer it sorted of sashayed into a compulsive salsa dancer fleeing from a burning building. I believe the poor lass was in some pain if her face was anything to go by. If her face was the only thing to go by I can see why she started jogging, if you catch my drift.

I just don't know why anyone would put themselves through that - and in public!

"I'm sorry to announce..."

Do you think they deliberately engineer the announcer's voice to sound shockingly insincere? Every few minutes he chunters on about how devastated he is that my journey has been held back in any way, but I just don't think he cares about my day...

Titularating.

No but really - isn't this the greatest blog post title you've ever seen? That Cliff...

In which I do a meme.

There's this meme going round where you're supposed to list 25 interesting things about you that people don't know, or somesuch - my friend Melanie tagged me on Facebook and I note that Nick Clegg did it the other week too. I've only managed to come up with 12, though, so that's your lot I'm afraid.

1. I was born six weeks early (my parents were on a daytrip to Ireland)
2. I have a sister who was adopted from Albania
3. I skipped year 6 and started secondary school when I was 10
4. I once had a job working as a toy demonstrator
5. I took a gap year before university and worked on a farm in Germany
6. The Duchess of York, Fergie, has looked in my ears
7. My Grandma is German
8. I passed my driving test first time, albeit 4 years after I started learning
9. I go to church every Sunday
10. I used to be a columnist for an F1 website and my student newspaper
11. I've been emailing a girl called Ashley who I've never met since 1998
12. I've been a member of the Liberal Democrats for two years

Extraordinary rendition.

king of the air
Originally uploaded by ALBOWIEB

The Saturdays

I can't remember whether I've written about Saturdays before, but I'm not really wont to search back through my meagre current back catalogue find out. I really cherish my Saturdays at the moment, in fact I have done since around a year ago when we had a great talk at church about the Sabbath and the history of it through the Bible. I'm not one of those chaps who won't switch the light on or buy a newspaper on a Sunday, because I think that's a bit silly - but I do heartily subscribe to the idea of needing a day off a week to do nothing. I get terribly grumpy when I'm tired, as most of my compatriots will have noted in the past couple of weeks - Saturday is my day for a lie-in, to watch DVDs, to catch up on all the fun things that I've missed out on during the week - ringing friends, writing letters, or even blogging and sorting out the pictures for Flickr that I occasionally post on here.

I am entirely sociable in bursts, but I need time to reset my soul, gather my mind and become human once again - it's not easy or even sustainable being this witty and charming in person, you know.