Something for the Weakened

Archive for March, 2007

The Hairs on my Chinny Chin Chin

March 29th, 2007 by

Since my electric razor died a couple of months ago, I’ve returned to wet shaving. This has not been without it’s pitfalls, least among them the pint of blood I’m now losing each week. This ineptitude with proper razor equipment has left my face with the occasional noticable scab, but probably not that many more than acne does on a day to day basis. I don’t remember exactly when I stopped wet shaving the first time. It was some time before I received the electric contraption, which I had solely been using since it’s arrival one Christmas. The intervening time between the two events were obviously not spent in the attempt to sprout some facial topiary as regular readers and those who have seen me attempt to force a beard out will know. No, instead I continued to use my Gillette Sensor Excel, but simply did away with the use of water or shaving foam. At the time this really wasn’t as painful as it sounds (probably as unsanitary, but that’s not the issue here), the only thing growing on my chin at the time being a downy fluff that would fall in a stiff breeze. So having moved back to real shaving equipment, I did decide to try and have a go at it dry, one hurried morning a couple of weeks ago when I noticed myself looking a bit stubbly (yes, it is stubble these days – it just looks like fluff). It did not go especially well. And that, officer, is why my sink is covered in blood.


March 29th, 2007 by

or does everyone fart at gigs?

It’s something I’ve been mulling over for the past week or so. Not constantly, you understand. Other thoughts have entered my brain on numerous occasions, but this one has been lurking at the back and rearing it’s ugly head when I least expect it. I admit that it’s a crime that I have perpetrated on myriad occasions. It is after all the perfect environment to break wind in public and not have the blame affixed to you. The music’s too loud to make anything but a pant tearing rip snorter even remotely audible. Unlike a club, people are hardly ever hoping to score at a gig, so having a foul stench around you for thirty seconds is unlikely to make any impact on your pulling power. If you’re with someone, you can bring their attention to it and instantly apportion blame onto anyone nearby – they’ll be strangers and unable to hear your false accusations and unlikely to care what you’re waffling about behind them. I have been present when strangers near to me have dropped one and frankly I salute them. If everyone would just lose control a little (not all the way – I’m laid back about pungency but a dance floor covered in shit is still a dance floor covered in shit) we could make these poorly ventilated, over populated, sweaty rooms uninhabitable to anyone that has decided to skip the support bands. Then we would have a better world. Wouldn’t we?

Though I have taken to farting in empty lifts and then running away. For this reason alone I am going to hell.


March 27th, 2007 by

Toay I’ve discovered myself to be considerably more cheerful han I was yesterday. This is in no small part due to my seeing a performance given by Daniel Kitson yesterday. For those of you unaware of his work, Kitson has been working as a stand up comedian for the last decade or thereabouts. Despite a number of Perrier nominations (and possibly some wins – I haven’t checked) almost all of his work has been done on the stage. Apart from a supposed appearance in Phoenix Nights (so long since I’ve seen it, I’ve no idea who he was, if he actually was in it) he has foresaken all television work and almost all radio work (a sporadic late night program on Resonance doesn’t really count, does it?) and has, rightly or wrongly, only appeared live to audiences for about the last five years. I first came across his name in Edinburgh a few years back, though failed to see him every time I was up at the festival. When I discovered he was playing a local theatre, it seemed as good a time as any to rectify the situation. I’m extremely glad that I did.

I had read quite a bit about him on the comedy messageboard I spend too much time lurking on (I shan’t link to them lest you too become entranced by their bile) and was expecting a fairly normal stand up set. Instead I was presented with a tightly scripted eighty minute story, told by a master storyteller. The story itself at face value is a simple one, that of a man working his last day, alone in a facility that stores discarded compilation tapes, interspersed with that of a lolly pop lady. With these overtones of cataloguing, music and isolation, I was of course drawn in quickly. It was the manner of the telling of the tale that truly entranced me. At no point did Kitson attempt impersonating any of the characters he was using the words of – all the time I was sitting there I was aware that I was being told the story, not witnessing a reconstruction of the events. This I found to be oddly comforting, perhaps harking back to when my parents, grandparents, even teachers read to me when I was a lad.

The jokes came steadily throughout. Though I must admit that I didn’t emit a single belly laugh all night, the chuckles came regularly enough to still class the affair as comedy. It was funny, though I’m not sure I’d go as far as to call it hilarious. What really filled me with joy was the ending. The whole story is set up in such a way that an off hand gag in the first five minutes is actually the crux of the whole piece and when it was referenced again in the final minute of the piece, everything fell in to place. There was hope. Life was affirmed again. I went home a bit sniffily, trying to avoid all other media, attempting to hold on to the feeling. I think that it has inspired me in some way, but to do what exactly I’m as yet unsure.

Wasn’t Doug Yule the talented one?

March 25th, 2007 by

It’s been a busy week, which I am using as my excuse for not updating here as much as I had hoped. Various ideas have popped into my brain and either popped straight out again or are far too detrimental to write down in case the protagonists happen to read about themselves. I’ve tried typing something interesting here several times now, but everything makes me come accross like the whining little bitch I am and has thus been deleted. I’ve slept properly for the first time in weeks but still feel exhausted. My left ear aches. These are the least of my worries and are the only bits I’m prepared to chat about. I have stupid hair.

First one to work out what the title refers to wins.

Don’t know what, probably nothing.

But you can call yourself a winner.

I envy you.

Plagued by Hobbits

March 19th, 2007 by

My day has mostly been disrupted by doe eyed midget Elijah Wood filming in and around the building. It’s an adaptation of the apparently mediocre Veronica Stallwood novel The Oxford Murders. I strode past the little fellow a few times (I really don’t think they used many special effects when he was playing Frodo – though he was wearing shoes today), elliciting what I took to be confused looks, especially when I wandered through the area they were about to start filming. The camera wasn’t rolling on that occasion, though it did start going just as I left the building and I was confronted by a pavement completely empty save for a perplexed looking John Hurt. Should you see a straggly haired buffoon crossing the road in tattered flares in the finished movie, it might well be me. Or one of my many doppelgangers, curse them. Oddly the whole thing has left me completely un-star struck, well, except for spotting Hurt, but that was combined with me running to get out of the way of incoming cameras. The presence of Wood though is slightly less exciting than drinking in the same pub as Dave Gorman on Saturday (not with him – I, like most of you reading this, just happened to be in the same building at the same time).

This horrible name dropping makes me feel like some cunt writing for Heat. I shall stop now. Next time, something resolutely nerdish to make up for this.

Further Missives

March 18th, 2007 by

I’ve been hopelessly busy/lazy this past week, hence the lack of material appearing around these parts. Thankfully, a number of you, dear readers, have been more productive and the 15th of March saw me receiving a bulging mail sack of three (count them) three whole messages. The first of these was sadly anonymous and read;

Your missive. Guv’nor

Thank’s for that, mystery correspondent. My hope is that you are referring to me as ‘the guv’nor’ rather than having some sort of Sweeney based flashback. The next message was also unsigned;

Tuggle Tuggle

Which again is a little bit of a shame. Still, I heartily aggree with the sentiment expressed, if not the sediment. Finally, irregular correspondent Buzz Aldrin dropped me another line, bless his little cotton moon boots. Buzz said;


I need no earth whores, I have space crumpet!

Would you like me to heal your face by laying on my magic moon hands?

I’m sad to hear that the corsage wasn’t needed – if you could post them back I can get them working down in the mines again. I’ve always found space crumpet a bit tart myself, but there’s no accounting for taste. Give me a macaroon and I’m a happy man. The magic moon hands tempt me, after all, as Marvin Gaye sang, I am in need of some facial healing. How long would I have to lay on them? Do you keep them on the moon? So many questions, so little face. I lost most of it on a bet. Now the rest of you – start writing to me. I demand amusement.


March 13th, 2007 by

At long last the swollen gob mystery is over! Sort of. I took a canter back up to the Oral & Maxillofacial department earlier (literally – first time I’ve run for a bus in years and the only time that that running has paid off). Upon arrival, I was immediately redirected to x-rays (radiology? I forget wgat the sign said, but it was probably that) where a slightly confused medical student stuck me into one of the round your face contraptions I’ve been in so many times that I reckon I could have used it more competently than him. Curly haired buffoon. A sit in the waiting room and another chapter of Wodehouse later, I was in with the doctor (who apparently refuses to be called doctor – is this some inferiority complex held by those in the dental proffession? Were I a doctor I would force everyone to call me doctor at all times. As it is, I just try to make them call me sir, which works as regularly as you would expect it to). Thirty seconds of prodding and a look at the x-ray (now done on computer screens – technology saved me walking two hundred feet burdened down with the ludicrous weight of a small negative, wrapped in cardboard) and I was informed that it was my gum that had become infected. I had surmised this. This was caused by my wisdom tooth emerging. I had surmised this too. The wisdom tooth will have to come out. Also surmised by me. It is unlikely that it would emerge any further if not removed. This I hadn’t even considered and frankly I doubt that prognosis. There is a six month waiting list for wisdom tooth extractions. If you cast your eye down to the last couple of sentences of he post below you will see that truly I am the oracle and you should all bend down to worship me. On your knees whelps. About crotch height. Hmm,that’s some good worshipping.

I sicken myself sometimes . . .

The Dying of the Light

March 11th, 2007 by

I’m getting into the final hours of a week’s convalesence (of my own choosing, before you all start firing off those good will wishes I always get when I mention I’m poorly, you tight fisted sons o-) and for once I have actually got some stuff done. There are things written (not as many here as I would have liked, but there you go), my room isn’t quite as mildew infested as it was before (though the extra strong bleach has left the walls an odd colour), I’ve watched lots of old comedy shows (my extimation of This is David Lander is starting to go up) and still managed to do a bit of reading. Tomorrow though, my free time will be gone as I once more flump into the day to day drudgery of the working man. But, what’s this? A dim beacon of light . . . why yes, at long last I have the chance to let a specialist poke about in my face and try to guess what’s wrong with. Waiting lists being what they are, I might get a couple of days off for surgery in, ooh, six months. Whoop!


March 9th, 2007 by

We here at Weakened Towers have just received this charming missive:

FUck you, I’ve been to the moon!

Lots of love,

Buzz Aldrin

Thanks Buzz. I hope you got the corsage of whores I sent. Now excuse me, I have to de-damp my bedroom. Pip pip.

Would House?

March 6th, 2007 by

I’m just about to embark on reading my first few bits of P. G. Wodehouse, something chums of mine have been telling me I must do for some time. I might have a go at it before I finish my current read – Hess’ Steppenwolf which I’ve been foolishly reading in five minute bursts, leading it to just come across as flashes of impenatrable psychobabble. Thing is that having this week off work, I’ve been able to catch the tail ends of a couple of episodes of Fry & Laurie’s version of Jeeves & Wooster, something I never really watched at the time. The bits I’ve seen are moderately amusing, though I imagine that my catching a whole episode would bare far more mirth for me. The problem I’m having is that as it’s an ITV drama program set in the past, in a series of attractive settings, I just find myself waiting for someone to be murdered. Is that my problem or the fault of ITV for neglecting to put anything amusing on for five years or so? Will let you know how I get on with the books. Now excuse me, I have some proper writing to do.