Breaking the Seal

Posted on the August 26th, 2007 under Life by Dan

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Being a Size 12/13 in a shoe size means that your choice of shoe is limited to whatever charitable slave-worker in the far east makes an oversized shoe that Nike decide to sell anyway, working men’s boots, or the sort of shoe that’s advertised in a black and white advert in the back page of the Sun, on alternate days between that and the Oreck Upright Wonder-Vacuum.

That’s not the worst of it. I have rather… ‘picky’ feet. When the other kids were wearing PU-Lined school shoes, at a tenner a throw - I had to stay with a full leather upper because the plastic made my feet sweat so bad, I wandered home from Middle School with Trench Foot. So I’ve always had to wear twice as expensive, leather coated shoes with decent support.

Sole Trader in Norwich used to sell Caterpillar brand shoes, (My regular reader may care enough to know that it was the Dominator range), which happened to go up to 14. Every year, I’d dash off to Norwich and get a new pair ordered in, and that was the total extent of my shoe-buying.

Then I moved to University where the Sole Trader was staffed by drooling morons. Who charged twice the price as in the Norwich store. Suddenly my £55 shoes were going for £130. So I switched to trainers, because Canterbury has a large Sports & Soccer with a large trainer section. I have bought comfortable trainers for the last three years at £13 a throw. My problems were solved.

Except I hate trainers. Always have, worse still, my toes are beginning to show the age-old symptom of overlong trainer use – they’re turning in toward each other.

For the last three months I’ve been on a quest to find new shoes. So off to Norwich I went. Sole Trader has now become ‘Sole’ (ZOLE if you read the font as if it was English, anyway), and has moved to trendy new Shopping centre Chapelfield full of people snorting Starbucks and lounging about in jeans so tight they might as well be a Ballet outfit.

It’s designed like a maze, faux-beech panels swoop in circles, creating a rounded maze, each with a separate genre of shoe. The dirty look from the haircut I got behind the counter suggested that I probably wasn’t welcome. The screams from the footwear on the shelves confirmed it – It was a cornucopia of Velcro trainers in leather, cowboy boots which slice your ankles off and shoes that taper to such a point you look like the court fucking jester.

I didn’t go back.

Today, two months later, I steeled myself for a second (and final) go. Any failure today and I’d be consigned to wear those retarded shoes from the back of the sun, trainers and of course, going barefoot.
My brain remembered something, half dead in the annals of time, that Clarks did a foot measuring service. Bending down and checking how bad my feet were baking in the summer sun (I’d showered, but still, it was very hot today). I thought I’d go in, and if there wasn’t anything in a decent size and price, I’d demand to have my foot seen to by the greatest foot-mind in the store.

On the way in, lying teasingly on the specials rail (End of line, £30 off!) I noticed a well-made pair of brown brogues. I had seen my Cousion-in-law (and former colleague) wearing a pair of Brown shoes, and imaging them to be the new en-vogue I examined them further. Weirdly, they had similar tailoring to the old Caterpillars, and as opposed to the usual Moccasin style that Clarks make so well (and so awfully, who in their right mind would wear a pair of shoes that make you look as if you’re wearing a pair of rain bowls stitched by a 12 year old?). They were also, Size 11. I assume the sun had boiled part of my brain, the part that understands that 11 is TWO SIZES BELOW 13. So LIKE A MENTALIST I tried them on.

And they fit.

The bastards actually fit! Once you were past the threshold, they were comfortable as gloves! Oh sweet lord, they were amazing. They fit me, actual shoes that fit me, the joy of the moment is impossible to explain in prose.

But then horror. I, Me? Couldn’t certainly pull off brown shoes? I’m barely capable of communicating things in words and sentences, let alone brown shoes!

The shoes were on the specials rail, which meant that there wasn’t any chance of there being different sizes or anything else for that matter. Well, I’d not come this far without exhausting all of my options, so damnit, after perusing the handbags for a while (I’d thought there was men’s shoes in that asile too, and I couldn’t just wheel round – it’d have made me look like a fool), I stomped up to a guy and asked.

A second later he produced a pair of black shoes, same style, last pair in the store, size 11. On they went, and aside from tightness in the heel, they were wonderful. So I wore them for the rest of the day. (Yes, my heels are sore from the rubbing, No, I don’t care).

Joyfully, I have broken the shoe-seal, and I can’t say I’m anything other than happy.

And yes. I am the sort of person who would prefer to stare at a wall of handbags instead of making it look like I made a mistake.

Tuesday 2.0

Posted on the August 24th, 2007 under Life by Dan

and with any luck I shall be signing the contracts for my new Pimping flat. (Pimpflat v2.0). Therein I shall be enjoying extortionate rental rates, paying bills and looking for a job, all whilst studying. Either way, I’m moving to London!

Now. Someone fancy giving me a job?

Contact Lenses

Posted on the August 15th, 2007 under Life by Dan

It is very hard to describe the beautiful moment of revelation you get when you get a pair of contact lenses in your eyes for the first time after being blind without assistance for the previous 15 years. Certainly to those of you who don’t have sight issues, the only thing I can suggest is that you rewatch the first half hour of spiderman. That moment when Peter realises he can see without his glasses is similar to after I’d had my eyes prodded at yesterday afternoon, only I was slightly more overjoyed.

I do warn you though, four hours into wearing them today, my eyes fucking hurt.

Black Mince

Posted on the July 1st, 2007 under Life by Dan

The meal I lived off during my 3rd year, now in both a Meat and a Meat ‘Free’ version, which lessens the meat intake and calories by a large proportion.

MEAT:
1 Packet of Mince
1 Red Pepper
2 Cloves of Garlic
1/4 of an Onion
1 OXO Cube
1 Bovril Cube
1 serving’s worth of butter.
Salt & pepper

Heat the frying pan to maximum until the oil is spitting like a mental. Kick the temperature down to 50% (on a traditional hob, turn it down from 5 (Max) to 2.5 (Med) heat). Wait until the temperature has cooled down a little, so the mince won’t scald (but the pain remains very hot, hence why you heat it to max first) Take the mince and place it on a plate, free it out and cover both sides with a generous serving of salt & pepper, two minutes before you add it to the pan. When you have added it, add a little more salt and pepper, turn it over until the mince is beginning to brown all over, crush or chop the garlic and slice the pepper into slices of your preference (I like long thin strips, but it’s a personal thing), add to the pan. When the peppers and garlic have been added, stir them in and leave the mince to finish browning off, then crush one bovril cube, stir it in, and repeat with the OXO cube. Wait until both have been absorbed and serve with pasta or white rice.

MEAT ‘FREE’:
1 Packet of Quorn ‘Suprisingly Fat-free’ Mince
1 Red Pepper
2 Cloves of Garlic
1/4 of an Onion
2 OXO Cubes
2 Bovril cubes
Salt & pepper

Heat the frying pan to maximum until the oil is spitting like a mental. Kick the temperature down to 50% (on a traditional hob, turn it down from 5 (Max) to 2.5 (Med) heat). Wait until the temperature has cooled down a little, so the faux mince won’t scald (but the pain remains very hot, hence why you heat it to max first) Take the faux mince and place it on a plate, free it out and cover both sides with a generous serving of salt & pepper. Add to pan, when you have added it, add a little more salt and pepper, turn it over until the faux mince is beginning to brown all over, crush or chop the garlic and slice the pepper into slices of your preference (I like long thin strips, but it’s a personal thing), add to the pan. When the peppers and garlic have been added, stir them in and leave the mince to finish browning off, then crush two bovril cubes, stir it in, and repeat with the OXO cubes. Wait until both have been absorbed and serve with pasta or white rice.

Draft Deletion Inertia

Posted on the June 25th, 2007 under Life, Small Thoughts by Dan

I was feeling so bloody pleased with myself. The draft of Urban Scrumping was finished. I’d re-read it in the morning and send it off to Mitch for a second opinion. It was awesome. Short (Finally I get the hang of it!), Sweet, there were some funny moments and I’d felt so smug about it, I started photoshopping the books and props that I’d need to shoot.

I returned this morning and couldn’t find it. So, as any smug-arse mac user, I ’spotlit’ (Spotlighted? Spottified?) it. Missing.

Then there was this sinking feeling as I thought ‘That mass deletion of stuff I did yesterday. I didn’t by accident delete any word files did I?’ .

So now I’m sat here at the page again, trying to remember what the hell I’d just written. It’s not coming.

This feels dirty.

Posted on the June 9th, 2007 under Life, University by Dan

I spent three years and 48 agonising hours waiting for this news. People who trot this out day in day out are dicks, but I think we’re all allowed to use it once, so here we goes.

As of 5:00pm Friday 8th June 2007, My new name is:

Mr Daniel William Patrick Cooper L.L.B. (Hons) Esq.

I thank you.

Detective Fiction

Posted on the June 1st, 2007 under Life, Small Thoughts by Dan

Detective Fiction, our brand new little show. I hope you enjoy.

Well, I hope you didn’t mind my little hiatus. I thought by leaving my tell-all article about Prudence T’Presbo as first article, it might increase the people with eyes looking at this portion of the intertubes. It improved them by a factor of minus three, cheers internet.

Anyway, onto new-things. I have in my hand a piece of paper, demanding £80 else all the Lawyers in the UK won’t let me be in their gang. Apparently £80 for the Solicitors Regulation Authority later, I get a free initiation tattoo from ‘Birdie’, a 22 stone mexican man with a penchant for drawing daggers driving through a bleeding textbook with ‘Law’ written on them, and choose my gang colours. (Civil lawyers have to wear a red bandana, Criminal Lawyers have to wear a beige one).

Since the last time I bothered to tell you about my video-making escapades, here’s what’s gone down:

Britain’s Fattest Teenager, submitted for Acceptable.tv was a reality show parody stemming from the tide of ‘Size Zero’ documentaries that were on TV at the time. It even recieved a comment from Rob Schrab, and got included on this thread here. I’m most proud of the fact that Rachel’s line ‘Everybody Eats Asparagus!’ got a reference here.

Philosophy A little film which has it’s key joke ruined by Youtube’s shitty compression. So cheers for that. Tube-bastards.

Peter André Taken from ‘Katie and Peter - The Next Chapter’, not even the blind, retarded, insane elephant-spawn of Dwight Yorke and Jordan likes Peter Andre, and that’s a fairly low threshold.

Enjoy, and I’ll see you on the flipside.

The first coming of Prudence the Presbyterian ( or Holy Shit, I was on Newsnight!, News 24, Radio 4, 5 and the Guardian!)

Posted on the May 13th, 2007 under Life, Small Thoughts, University, politics by Dan

It’s an odd sensation, being (albeit tangentially) within the news rather than merely viewing it, but Wednesday night I was called by Gary, a friend with deep connections to the Labour party; asking if I wanted to go to London on Friday. Frankly I wasn’t in the mood to talk, I was cramming for my Law of Evidence revision and tried to hastily end the conversation, but politeness and curiosity wanted more; it turns out that the nations accountant, Prudence the Presbyterian was announcing her coming out, and would it be possible for us to go up as groupies?

I had promised myself that I’d stop staying in each night like a boring old (young) fart and experience some new things (apropos of which, I’m going skiing for the first time in a few weeks) and this had a strong whiff of the historical to it, so why not, eh? ‘Smart casual’ he said, so when my exam had ended (and I’d had three pints of Guinness) I tried to work out what the hell that meant.

I woke up at 6:45am, (Handy benefit of living literally across from the train station) showered, shaved and realised that it was 7:10, the train was leaving at 7:17, and despite being across the street, I was still stark naked, hungry, thirsty and groggy from sleep. Then the phone rang.

Stumbling shambolically into the station, thrusting my diary, a bottle of water and my now battered copy of I, Claudius into my satchel, I collapsed onto the tickets desk and asked for a ‘single return’ to London. The corpulent woman behind the plexiglass gormlessly stared at me, waiting for the lardy posh-voiced fool to discover his mistake.

Leaping over the barrier I collapse into a rear-facing seat (The Judas’ had taken the front facing ones there and back) and steal Gary’s copy of the Guardian as they pour forensically over the ‘Blair Years’ insert. I’m doing my best to be funny whilst tired and not hurl over the increasingly crowded carriage.

We arrive at 9ish at Charing Cross, the press-conference starting at 10:00 at the Imagination Gallery behind Tottenham Court Road. Knowing the area well but having never heard of the place, we walked from Charing cross past Centrepoint and back and forth along Tottenham Court Road, because Gary had omitted to remember where we were going. At breakneck pace, we found the side-street, and walked into a large police presence, a small gathered mass and some media. Scarily, we strode confidently past the police, and after a security check at the door (Yes, I do look like my drivers licence, but no, that isn’t plastic explosive, it’s suntan lotion) the party faithful (as we would be portraying today) were ushered into what most of the papers described Nuremburg inside a Victorian prison. I can see where they were going, the open five story space held two massive banners, one with a flag-shaped swirl, and the near orgasmic faces of multiethnic children, one a simple white affair with ‘Gordon Brown for Britain’, I’m sure someone at Taaschen would wet themselves if they could see it.

Bad coffee and awkward mingling (Gary being an upandup, mingled with the best of them, several of us hunched into a corner) before being wafted past with the greatest plate of Hors d’eurvres ever. The world’s smallest bacon roll, in a coarse French (or Chibatta) bread, the size of a postage stamp yet enormously tasty. I threw one down me (still no Breakfast, remember) and necked the sour coffee and a biscotti (I should come to these things more often) and we were ushered to the other end of this great hall, where a string cordon penned off the media. As we tried not to look rattled since we were the barrier in between the media throng and the rest of the faithful, fanboyishly we spotted Nick Robinson, Jon Snow and others, trying to get shots of them in our backgrounds without drawing their satirical ire and a caustic mention in the following day’s press.

As we chatted amongst ourselves and met a nice chap from the Fabian society, several more Labour youths, a painfully thin, silver haired chap in a beige flashing mac, which flapped around his body, salaciously (perhaps predatory is a better phrase) beckoned over the nearest person in earshot, that of Steve, but before he could get a soundbyte, a man in a suit came over and told him to back down, giving us a stern look that meant that in no uncertain terms could we speak to the journalists, even if it was to stare in awe at Nick Robinson and ask him how he felt about being so popular that he was being parodied on Dead Ringers et al. (Turns out that our predatory journalist was the Financial Times’ Matthew Engel, and the incident would form a large part of his story here . We were told to make sure that we were ready for 10:00, but at 10:05 I jogged through the throng to ask for the bathroom – up one flight of stairs and behind some double doors, whilst there I noticed that the Gallery is less a gallery, more an industrial design studio for blue chip companies, wondering what relevance that had to the first post-New Labour prime minister.

When I returned, two of our female cohorts were dragged off by a press secretary, who required them to ‘balance a photo’ they were doing. We waited around, a little longer than expected, when suddenly we were given the nod. It was time to celebrate, for he had arrived.

Of course I make this sound as if it was excessively stage-managed, the truth is that the whole event was under-managed, if anything. Had Cam’ron done similar, I’m sure everyone would have been handed out Blackberries which beeped when he was within 15 feet, at which point you would have to bow down and start praying in the general direction of Smythson’s of Bond Street.

Obviously the papers describe this bit better than I do, the young labourites exploded into applause as their soon to be new leader conducted a walking tour, taking a little extra care than expected to speak to the students, some of whom had listened to the instructions of ‘dressing casually, this thing hasn’t been planned or staged, so be natural’ and others making us feel all to underdressed.

When it was our turn (Handshake #1), myself and the person to my immediate left (a pun, surely?) responded ‘Law’ to the question ‘So what are you Studying?’ and with that, his head swiftly moved on to greener pastures. I sense that after the last 28 years working with a Barrister at law for a friend, boss and enemy, we weren’t going to be winning any of Prudence’s Hearts and Minds.

After the tour had ended, we were thrown upstairs, all the time I was wishing I hadn’t been so damn modest and polite and not taken a second bacon roll. My rumbling stomach remained unsated as were told to fill the outside seats of each of the rows in the top area of the Gallery, a roof balcony which had been converted using a similar canvas as on the Millennium dome, all steel wire, canvas and glass. As we sat down as edge fillers, directly in the line of sight of the cameras, we enjoyed the cool breeze from the open French windows and watched the secret service bods wander around (I wonder if those are as similarly talented as the ones at HQ, or if you have to be especially clever / stupid to be asked to take a bullet for a head of state). Then more party faithful were ushered in to the seating area, before the Journalists were pushed at the back (Look! There’s Michael Crick!). Then arrived Gordon and whump, we applauded.

Having been an avid fan of the E Network during the first year we had Sky, I was aware at how awful photographers can be, pushing, shoving and punching their competition out of the way in order to get the best shot, so whilst Gordon delivered his speech I spent most of the time watching out of the corner of my eye the running battle between the UK’s Stars in Your Eyes, Stavros winner 1989 – 1994, the hairest man you will ever see (and BO to match) and a thin looking man who seemed to be far too aristocratic for such a lowly job, working for Getty images (How did I know? The logo was all over his lens). I spent some of it imagining them all getting down the stairs and tripping each other over as the first one to an internet terminal / blackberry would win the £1000 prize, leaving the rest in the dust.

As the speech and questions ended (Which Prudence handled with aplomb, delivering a two hander of pre-written soundbyte first, personal answer second, never before have I seen a politican end his scripted avoidance of the truth, only to come back with a direct statement). Again we got to see the various cool cabal of journos, accompanied by much head creaking to get the best view of John Snow. That’s two Channel 4 news peeps I’ve been in the same room as now, it’s just Krishnan Guru-Murphy left and I have the set (Sod Sarah Smith, who the hell watches anything before the Daily Show on More 4?)

The heat was appalling, the security people had closed the French doors before Prudence had arrived, and I was slowly evaporating there. Gah.

As we left, we were given the nod to stand and ovate once again (Actually not something that was needed really, he did a good show and deserved some praise, but the Journos suggested we had treated him like a messianic figure. I know I wans’t, merely delivering credit where it’s due.), and he came down to shake all of the specially placed student’s hands (Handshake #2) and depart, whilst we all tried to squeeze out whilst a mini riot between photographers had broken out. Of course as we exited, we were accosted by someone from ‘The World at One’ from Radio 4, asking us for questions on Brown. Despite a zealous trend and a want to be in the spotlight, when a microphone was pointed in my face my brain shut down, I was pleasantly surprised that what came out of my mouth not only made it to air but also wasn’t utter gibberish.

As we left we were handed a copy of the speech by a stunning girl I forget the name of, and exited the building. We walked out into a wide media parapet (cameras and photogs lined up ready for the exit of Prudence) and sheepishly inched past them, wondering if we were slow enough, we’d wind up on the live coverage in a slow news second. We tucked ourselves behind the cameras in order to see the exit, our part over.

Or so it seemed, as we discussed what went on, a chap from the Guardian came over and asked us for our thoughts. Three of us provided quotes, none of which wound up in the paper proper, but I suppose you have to try. I received a text message telling me I had been visible on News 24 during the broadcast, which was cool, and I’d receive one at Midnight that night telling me I’d been on Newsnight too.

As we spoke to the Guardian journalist, Gary received a phone call. ‘Where are we? We’re behind the media parapet!’. Whoever was on the other side of the phone spoke in hurried tones, pleading with us to get back inside. We edged past the policeman, hoping confidence and brazenness would avoid a showdown, and walked past the photographers and cameras we’d edged barely minutes before, and walked into a side door.

I hasten to add here, that by this point, the outside of the Gallery’s driveway was surrounded by public and media. Walking across this meant that every eye was on us. Which didn’t bode well for what was to come. We went into the door on the left of the main entrance were greeted by a handler, who told us that our part was certainly not over, and that after we had dropped our bags off, we were to exit the front entrance (as casually as nothing had happened, hopefully the cameramen and assorted media types had the memories of Goldfish) and line up on the way from the Door to the car (an Audi, how tasteless). I was second in line and was told that when I got an elbow to the kidney, begin to clap.

Prudence came close to the door, elbow was made, I began to clap. Prudence dashed back to speak to someone else. Clap had to be ‘transformed’ into a way of me keeping my hands warm during the chill. In the middle of a bright summers day with the sun beating down on us.

Second time, happens again, this time I have to disguise it with the pretence of a trapped nerve. I’m an awful mime and am fooling no-one. I’m aware that because I am only following orders, I feel morally content, but am aware that as the man in front of all of the cameras, all eyes are on the clapping moron.

That, I am sure, is a metaphor for Politics in general.

Third time, Prudence does emerge, but is met with initially lacklustre clapping because everyone expects a false start, but he and his wife emerges, (Handshake #3) and after a short ‘Good luck’ and a thousand cameras on us, he does the round.

Many things are going through my head. I’ve had three (not one, not two but THREE) chances to speak to the next man to run the country and yet at no point did I ask him any of the things I wanted to. It’s the scene in Taxi driver where he’s about to kill the Senator, but something stops him. At every turn, ‘Give us a job!’ , ‘Hey, why don’t you repeal the Liz Longhurst law?’. ‘Stop fucking up the legal services!’, ‘ID Cards are flawed’ ‘Why don’t you sort out the NHS properly’ and ‘OI! STOP PERSECUTING FAT PEOPLE AS IF WE ARE THE SOLE PARIAH OF SOCIETY’S ILLS’ were on the tip of my tongue, and something stopped me as it had done clipping my local MP with my wing mirror during a driving lesson because he had voted for Tuition Fees, the bastard.

We went back inside to a handshake from Jack Straw and a short chat, before we were on our way to find some food, I didn’t know about anyone else, but I was close to vomiting across several important politicians for the entire morning. As we walked down toward Leicester Square, a hari Krishna followed us (the general throng, not us specifically) banging his tiny cymbals between his fingers every three seconds (I can’t remember what they are properly called but I remember being told to use them ad nauseum in GCSE music) and as we were walking, the sun blotting out my eyesight, a tall man with glasses blotted out the view long enough for me to realise I’d just walked past Danny Boyle. Meeting Prudence was nothing to walking past the man who had directed two of the best films of the last decade. Because I’m aware that this was London, you have to be slightly more restrained, because these people are living breathing people who have jobs (BRILLIANT ONES!) and put their trousers on, one leg at a time. So I didn’t chase after him and offer him a blow job for Sunshine, (2001 for the 2001 generation, if you’ve not seen it, you are missing out), but I couldn’t restrain myself from exploding ‘Fucking hell! That was Danny Boyle!’.

Interestingly, this theory was proved true when my Girlfriend who was in London the next day saw Stephen Fry at Borough Market and get very irritated at a couple who wished to speak to him, and it’s good practice for when I move there next year. Don’t talk to celebs.

We got the train back, and fatigue began to weigh down upon us all, very little food and the early start (lest I not tell you, I had a hangover in the morning as well) and so I collapsed into the train seat and lolled about until we got back home.

All in all, a fairly interesting day.

Congratulations are in Order

Posted on the May 6th, 2007 under Life by Dan

To my missus and my mum who raced the race for life today, in a team of 9 people for Birds Eye walls, who has raised somewhere in the region of £1000, and counting.

Congrats girls!

Hyphens

Posted on the May 6th, 2007 under Life by Dan

Took me best part of an hour to read the new Beasthouse entry. For once, I’m unsure if I’d enjoy a LM novel from the new series. He’s always at his best when he’s throwing the double punch of reinterpreting old concepts and dumping brilliant new ideas into the mix. I doubt the editorial constraints of one of the ‘running down corridors’ novels would suit him. Still, wish he had some new material out. In September I might try to find his phone number and ask him for a pint.

Wrote a piece about this morning’s dream in which I almost engaged in awkward foreplay with some attractive Nu-Punk teenager who claimed she was my ‘biggest fan’ in the upstairs room of a Sci-Fi shop. According to the dream dictionary I need to incorporate that aspect of my personality into myself. I must have at least 15 of these things now.

‘Journey to Blofeld’s Hideaway’ is the most mature piece of work John Barry ever did. Download it now.

Youtube has ruined the gag in my newest video; Philosophy , and some tit gave it one star. Bastard.