Touching the Void

Friday was a big day in the lives of video game geeks such as myself. The release of the latest installment of the Grand Theft Auto series for PS2. Now, being a good little geek, I went out to get it on the first day - traipsing around town searching for it - hundreds like me, doing the same. If you've ever seen Dawn of the Dead, it was a bit like that, masses of like minded individuals loafing from one shop to the next, but instead of cannibalism, we were only interested in GTA. After fruitless searching in two stores, I finally came across it, plucked it from the shelf and waited in the quite substantial line. As I was waiting, I thought I'd get ready for when I eventually made it to the cash register, so I took the debit card out of the wallet, put the wallet away, happy with myself that I was ahead of the game. As I was waiting, I became bored, starting spinning my card with my fingers, twisting it, giving it a slight bend, then, DISASTER.....the card sprung from my hand and skittered across the floor. I looked on in horror as it bounced and bumbled its way across the tiles and then disappeared....underneath the floor length skirt of a supremely fat lady. So, what does one do in this situation? In the cramped conditions of the store, she wasn't going to be moving for some time, and to just dive under would probably have afforded me a beating. I looked around, hoping for a nod or smile of recognition from anyone that saw the incident, no such luck, everyone was rapt with the back of the box, or in deep conversation - I was an island, alone, and cardless.
The line crept ever closer to the register, and the fat lady refused to move, merely waddling a few cms in any given direction, if my card had eyes, I hope, for its sake, that it had landed face down, to save it from the grotesque view that had been thrust upon it.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I was next in line, still cardless, but the fat ladies bastard child, decided what he wanted - and I have to say, it was a really crap choice, so not worth the deliberation he gave it, I could have walked in with my eyes closed, plucked a random game from any section, and still been happier than I would have been with his pick - and moved to the back of the line. The mother gave an about face, and huffed, puffed and waddled to the back of the line. As she was walking, I looked for my card, it wasn't there! It was caught under the hem of her skirt! Bollocks! I followed her trail with my eyes, and then, euphoria - my card popped out, sweaty, dissheveled and looking slightly sick. I jumped out of line and snapped it up off the floor - promising that it would never happen again, for fear of a mutiny, and refusing to work. This being Liverpool, and not Toronto, I lost my place in line, and had to wait behind the fat lady, but, to quote my bank card (if it could talk), better to be behind, than underneath!

There's Always One...

Can someone please explain to me why every sports team seems to require the one guy that boasts about how good he is? That guy that tells you about how he scored from half, top left, while the keeper was off his line. The guy that tells you he played with (insert name drop here) and that he wasn't anything special, and how he taught him a lesson when they played. Why? How sad must that guys life be, that he has to dredge up these old stories, supplemented by increasinly ridiculous side notes, every week.
Eventually it gets to the stage where you cease to care that he "Scored, from half, flicked it up with my wrong foot, back to goal, header, keeper off his line by 8 inches, top left, no chance, injury time, final kick of the game, to win the league." Honestly, am I supposed to be impressed by this? Do I care what you did two years ago? No.
I've also come to notice that this guy is usually slow, and probably crap. Every errant pass picked out by his outstanding visi0n is the runners fault, every corner sliced behind the goal was going in but for the wind, every shot skewed wide hit a bobble in the turf. The excuses, much like the stories grow old, quickly. Everyone is a legend in their own mind, you just probably shouldn't try to impress the fact that you actually are one on your teammates.
If I can offer you one piece of advice, please don't ever be that guy, he's a loser, and I hate him.

I Wonder How Warm Hell is This Time of Year?

So, I'm going to hell, its official, any good karma gained by rand0mly giving blood on Thursday has thus been negated. "Oh, Paul, why's that?" I hear you ask....well, easy really.
I went to go see the musical Fame this evening with Lori - she's a bit of a theatre buff, so I like to indulge her when I can, usually it isn't that bad, and tonight was no exception, it was rolling along quite well, until intermission....where I left.......to go and play football. Not proper football, mind, football practice - not an actual game, but disorganized, 20-a-side, small goal, football practice. To be perfectly honest, I barely got a touch of the ball all night, there were too many people on my team.

Ahhh yes, I can see it now:
Me: "Hello, my name is Paul, and I'm a football-addict"
Group: "Hello Paul"

Lori told me to go, but still that doesn't mean I should have, and she won't hold it against me, and I'll forget this ever happened, until the day I die, when my soul leaves my body, and the Devil points to a long, winding, rickety looking, downward staircase and says "Should have stayed for Act 2"

Is there any greater indignity than losing your keys and being stuck outside like a prick, while a busload of Middle Eastern's ferry passed you, moving in large items of furniture? This was my Friday night.
After getting up early to go into university (that's right, early, you heard it here first), Lori and I went our seperate ways that evening - I went to football practice, the first one of the year, scored two goals, one on a half volley, missed more, ended up on my arse a whole lot - Lori went with her friend to a vegeterian society meeting, which I have no problem with except, she isn't a vegeterian, I was expecting her to call me sobbing, that they'd smelled meat on her, tarred and feathered her, and slung her out. No such luck. Anyway, as we were parting these famous words were uttered "You've got your keys right, cause I'm not taking mine." "No problem," I thought, "they're here in my bag" WRONG! They most certainly weren't. So after a gruelling practice I roll home, hoping to sit in a hot bath, and then get a jump on the housework before Lori got home, instead I'm faced with locked door. Infernal Buggery. So, its 9:00 at night, you're locked out, your girlfriend, who will also be locked out, won't be home for hours, no one in my building speaks English, what do you do? I've got it, run to the local convenience store and ask for the yellow pages? Brilliant! So I do just that, I get there just as its closing, and a quite lovely, but way too concerned, shop girl let me use their phone to call a get in touch with a locksmith to come and let me in. Sadly, the closest locksmith is 45 minutes away, (aside: the dispatcher kept calling me "Boss," "Guv'nor," and strangely "Chief" all in a 2 minute call, I didn't quite know what to say to that) so I ran back to my house and sat on the stairs, waiting for him to get in. Why me God? Why?
Cue the ethnic minorities!
So, I'm sitting there, feeling ridiculous still in shin pads and socks, smelling of stale sweat, and (most likely) fear - when a gaggle of Middle Eastern chaps descend on my building, with the biggest bookcase I've ever seen, it was massive. They were moving into the flat across from mine, and apparently needed a hand, so I held the doors and massaged this massive hunk of wood around corners for them. Never have I felt more ridiculous, and I mean never...not even when I saw myself rocking out on that Korn video....I was sweaty, tired, grumpy, locked out for approaching 2.5 hours, and was now helping people that spoke no English weave a massive book case up three flights of stairs. Why me God? Why?
So, the locksmith eventually came, walked right up to the door, pulled a plastic sheet out of his tool box, swooshed it through the lock, bingo it opens. Hooray! 89-pounds! $230! 10 minutes work! The old credit card trick! Why me God? Why?