UniFried

It was only after I'd tried to view both my gas and electric bills online that I realised I had the wrong sort of account with my supplier.  They were very nice to me, switched me to something that was capped for a couple of years so that, when the time comes to change tariffs, gas and electricity will probably cost five times more than they do at the moment.

Anyway (:@), I've been put on a UniFi account, which comes with one of those energy monitor thingies.  You put a clip around the mains cable and it sends information about electricity usage to a little monitor that takes up yet more shelf space and gathers dust with the rest of the nick nacks.  The clever thing about this system is that it links to the internet - woooooh.  It also has a clever plug system that means you can control devices remotely: plug your device into the UniFi plug, configure the plug online and you can turn it off and on at a whim.  Better still, there's an iPhone app for it.

Who'd have thought electricity could be so much fun?  So I plugged my UniFi plug in, set it up online, then it went "click", its light died and it wouldn't come back on again.  It also gave me an electric shock when I removed it from the socket.

A lesson there then: electricity is not a toy; reinforced by 240V through the nipples.

I'd hoped to be able to play with the little dog's mind while I was out at work by activating the radio or TV at random times during the day.  Alas, I won't be able to that until the replacement plug arrives.  What I can do, however, is check in to see that he's not messing about with the lights while I'm away.  This is the sort of thing you see:

That's 48p I've used so far today.  Clever, non?  Gimic?  Absofuckinglutely.

Hostage room
My living room isn't what it was.  After living in my magnolia dream home for nearly two years, my girlfriend has decided that it's time for some colour.  I hate colour.  Especially matchpots of colour.  We spent an afternoon last week daubing the walls with 7 different types of emulsion - this was because B&Q didn't have the sample pot for the colour we thought we'd like.  When we did get hold of one, and completed the four wall daubing with 8 splodges of colours, our original choice was confirmed.

Not being able to decorate for a few weeks, and me not being able to live in something reminiscent of a 1970s Maze Prison dirty protest, the paint daubs are now semi covered with the original magnolia: two coats of the bloody stuff.

In the time and effort it's taken to get to this:

...Repeated on all the walls of the room.  (And yes, that's Psychic Sally on the telly).

The entire room could've been painted in our colour of choice.

We'll get there.

There's new furniture coming tomorrow, so the sofa was taken by the council today.  The living room now resembles a 5 star Beirut hostage cell,

but at least that's only for one day.

The new furniture leaves me with a dilemma: the telly.  It kind of dominates the room and I want it more out of the way (especially if I'm watching Psychic Sally).  Without a corner to put it in, positioning on top of one the alcove cupboards would be ideal, but then there wouldn't be room for the cable box and DVD player.  Then it dawned on me: I put it to my other half that I'd had an idea, but she probably wouldn't like it.  "I think we should get a wall bracket for it", I suggested meekly.

"Ha, ha, ha", she laughed, "for a moment there, I thought you said we should put it on the wall."

"Errm, well, yes", I responded, waiting for the backlash from 90 miles away.

"Which wall were you thinking of?"

"In the alcove, on one of those brackets that allows you to pull it out and swivel it?"

"So long as it's not on the chimney breast.  I think that's a great idea", she agreed.

So, there you go.  I'm entering the realms of the common as muck scum and I'm going to have my telly on the wall.

I might cover it up with an oversized doily when it's not in use though.

Next up: a stick-on electric fireplace for the chimney breast.

The leaving of Liverpool

I spent a very enjoyable weekend in Liverpool recently.  I'm sure the weather helped enormously, but there was something about the city, a vibrancy, openness, warmth, that I've never felt in my home town of Manchester... and that I'm certain not to get in Stornoway, where I'm sure a wicker effigy awaits me.

What the fuck is wrong with my dog?

Anyway (:@), Liverpool.  It's my mother's place of birth, the place she still calls home; the place my dad calls home, despite having never lived there.  As children, we'd be dragged there all the time, catching the bus down to the Pier Head where we'd look at the Liver Buildings - again - go on the Mersey Ferry and back - again - stand bored as Mum allowed herself to be washed by the breeze coming from the big river - A-FUCKING-GAIN.

Back then, it was a shithole.  It was always grey, raining.  The best thing about the place was the St John's Centre, which in comparison to Manchester's Arndale, was awful.  There, the finest dining could be found in Gregg's sit down cafe, or maybe is was Sayers.

Liverpool was naff.  The people were up their own arses; they had a huge chip on their shoulders and were determined to drag themselves down, while wallowing in the collective grief of Boys from the Black Stuff.  They needed to get a grip and forget their past glories - move on, it's the 1980s!

Regeneration has come to Liverpool though, at least around the dock area.  The place is unrecognisable from that dreary, rain-soaked dump that I visited so many times as a youngster.  It's fair to say that the main reason for this new found glamour is a shiny shopping centre that houses all the same shops that you'd find anywhere else in the world, but it's much more than that.  There's a vibrancy and positivity that I don't feel in Manchester, which seems edgy in comparison.  You walk around the city (not the St John's area, which is still awful) and it feels wealthy and proud, as it used to be when it was in its pomp.  It's a place where people want to visit from all over the world, a truly international attraction.  This is good to observe - Liverpool deserves a break and hopefully, the regeneration of the city centre will send ripples of optimism and an economic boost out to the poorer areas.

My previous trip to Liverpool was tainted by much sadness as it was on the day that I realised my then partner was on the verge of betraying me for another.  The memories of the place were not good for me.

So, what the hell was I doing there this time?  Primarily, we were there to see Jools Holland and his R&B Orchestra in concert.  Excellent - nothing more that needs to be added.  We decided to make a break of it and arranged to stay in a rather cool hotel in the heart of the action and this gave us the opportunity to explore the place - Albert Dock, Tate Liverpool (I still don't get art), St George's Hall, Pier Head, Liverpool One, Maritime Museum, etc.

It was when were making our down to the Maritime Museum (worth a visit, very good) when I saw a woman walking (marching) towards us with a bearded man alongside her.  I stared in horror, did a double take, blinked and exclaimed "Fucking hell, it's CYNTHIA!".

The other week, I noted learning of the death of Marie from Base 2a.  Cynthia, fucking eccentric to the extreme CYNTHIA, worked with Marie.  Cynthia (Carmelita in very early blog posts) drove me up the fucking wall for six years.  And there she was, marching with a purpose past Costa Coffee in Liverpool One.  She was too wrapped up in speaking Russian to her husband, the hairy man (he's Russian), to notice my gobsmacked face gawping at her.  But the coincidence knocked me for six.

Photo time:

Good boy, bad boy... so confused (and that's Tucker Smallwood, Black god from the Sarah Silverman Programme)

Toasty bed - a Gormley

No idea what that building is

Everywhere seems to have a wheel these days, and everyone seems to take a night shot of it reflected in something or other

I feared that coincidence would haunt me further on a trip to Waterloo (home of mental Ruthie) to witness Anthony Gormley's Another Place, but I was spared bumping into the Scouse lunatic - not surprising really, since all she does sit in her flat and surf the internet for another victim to attack in an unremitting assault of madness.  Here's the deal with the bronze beach people:

Oh look, another Sniffy seascape with a wonky horizon

As you grow up, you become more appreciative of the history of a place.  I still think Scousers have a huge chip on their shoulders and that they're the worst grief junkies in the world, but they have a pride in their city and their roots that should be applauded and cherished.  So long as they don't open their mouths.