Phones 4 A Fool - Part 2
Topic: levers
For those of you who haven't at least skim-read Phones 4 A Fool - Part 1 (posted November 12), the following article might make even less sense that it might otherwise. You have been warned.........

Several months ago, my second mobile phone met with something of a premature death, plummeting towards a watery grave down one of Oxford’s finest lavatories. The events that led up to this incident are as follows.

With great joy, we gathered in Oxford to witness the coming together in holy matrimony of our long-term friends, Alex Roger Rogers and Gail Roger Bartlett (I believe she chose to keep her maiden name for professional purposes, making her full name Gail Roger Bartlett-Rogers*).

*This again, may be factually incorrect. I feel I really must sack my researcher.

My main duty for the duration, along with the world renowned fish fetishist Mr Robert Cowler (and, if you’ve ever seen http://robcowler.tripod.com/robblog you’ll know what I mean), was to act as DJ for the evening’s entertainment. Now, having never Deejay’d previously, I thought it something of a good idea to get in plenty of practice beforehand. And when I say practice, I mean writing lots and lots of set lists as opposed to actual proper deejaying. Oh no, neither me, nor Mr Cowler would actually come within walking distance of an actual turntable until the morning of the wedding, so confident were we.

Now, whenever your compiling a list of suitable records for a DJ set, I believe you have to take into consideration a number of factors such, as the audience, the type of occasion, and the time the time of day the set would be going out (only done it once, but already thinks he’s an expert).

Certain tracks are a definite no-no on such occasions. For example, when someone important dies, radio stations up and down the country revert to what’s known as their emergency play-list. When Diana died, it might’ve been deemed offensive to have played a Mungo Gerry’s ‘In the Summertime’, which includes the line ‘Have a drink, have a drive, Go out and see what you can find’. In Diana, and Dodi’s case, this was to have their chauffeur driven limousine wrapped around the inside of a Paris tunnel. Not that I’m in anyway implying the chauffer was pissed that night, as I don’t particularly want to be seen to be adding to the ever growing list of conspiracy theories that have been populating column inches in the Daily Express for the last ten years. Incidentally, someone who finds ‘In the Summertime’ offensive all the time, is Mungo Gerry’s drummer, who is still to this day, completely cut up that a) it was Mungo Gerry’s only hit, and b) that he never actually got to appear on the record.
I know, because I’ve been to his club in Burnham, and I must have lost count of the number of times someone’s made the mistake of slipping the record on the Jukebox, and then they act so surprised when they’re barred.

Anyway, when the Queen Mother died, one of the specified tracks radio stations opted to play was Golden Brown by the Stranglers, which is of course about taking heroin. What does that say about our Royal Family, huh?

And no, I’m afraid there could be no hardcore house played at the wedding, either. Sorry, Matthew Mann.

Similarly, I found I had to avoid songs with lyrics that could in anyway be deemed to be approaching anything even remotely resembling swearing, as this could potentially alienate the more senior members of the wedding party. And so, “The Man Don’t Give A F***” by the Super Furry Animals was definitely out, as the number of f***s involved probably approaches treble figures. Although Radio 1 were forced to play a hastily arranged radio edit one Sunday afternoon, when the track entered the Top 40, but as the edit didn’t extend much beyond the 30 second mark, it probably wasn’t worth the bother

In the same vain, I had to drop “Holla Back Girl” by Gwen Stefani. An excellent pop record, which had been doing the rounds on radio and television for a number of weeks in the run up to the wedding. Unfortunately, the version of the song I had was taken from the album, as opposed to the clean radio friendly version that had been gaining airplay. If you’ve got a copy of the LP, you’ll find that the word “s***” appears a total of 38 times in a little over three minutes. I know, because I’ve counted.

And so, alas this song also had to go. Although Chris thought it would have been a great idea to slip it into Rob’s set, and thus unleash the combined wrath of the Rogers and Bartlett families upon him. However, as I was relying on Rob for a lift back to Bristol the next day, I didn’t think it was such a good idea.

Anyway, the first set had gone so damn well that I thought I should’ve been presented with a Sony Award on the spot. But, alas none were presented, and so I left the DJ booth to relieve myself in one of Corpus Christie’s finest gold plated lavatories, whilst Rob took to the, er, ‘decks’ as I believe they’re called. Although when I say DJ booth, I actual mean the 3ft space between the dance floor and the bar, where the DJ equipment was propped up on a hastily erected table.

To tell the truth, I had great trouble actually finding the toilet, and it was only through the combined efforts of myself and Mr Hill, that we were able to find it at all. If your wondering, Chris’s seal had broken at this point, and he would be making a return trip approximately every thirty minutes for the rest of the night.

Anyway, Chris took the first stall, I took the second. I imagine Mr Hill was stood up, as I believe he only required to relieve himself of a number one (if you really want me to paint a picture). As I’d been eating my daily intake of ruffage (or more likely, the McDonald’s chicken nugget’s and chips I’d had about twelve o’clock earlier in the day) I chose to take a more seated stance, as I felt that I might be in for something of . Little did I know quite how long that would actually be.

Chris finished his business, and asked if I was indeed partaking in a number two. I replied to the affirmative, and he walked off to rejoin the throng.
Little did he know, only moments earlier, I had sat on the throne, and my mobile which was at the time secreted in my jacket pocket, had opted to make a bid for freedom and leapt from my jacket pocket down into the watery depths of the toilet bowel below

Fortunately at this stage I had not begun the act that becomes naturally (well not yet anyway), and by the time Mr Hill had enquired to the status of my bodily functions, I had already plucked the phone from it’s watery grave, and set about trying to restore the phone to health, using ample amounts of toilet paper.

What follows next, is so grim and disgusting that I can barely bring myself to write about it. And so I won’t be too offended if you opt at this point to close this browser window, and actually get on with some work.

Okay, you have been warned.

In order to try and salvage my mobile’s well being, I had made the decision to separate it into bits. So I now had the phone itself, the back of the phone, the sim card, and the battery.

And so, it was while wiping down the battery that my hand slipped, and the said technologically piece of hardware brilliance opted to make a second break for freedom in as many minutes, and plunged back down into the watery depths below, only this time I’d been merely going about filling the bowl with all manners of McDonald’s incrusted bodily waste.

Now as far as I was concerned, I had a number of choices: 1. I could throw in the towel and walk away that instant (but on the other hand it would mean having to shell out for a new one and if there was still a chance of salvaging it; and besides, I still had to wipe and didn’t fancy spending the rest of the night with a funny limp); 2. I could flush the toilet and hope that the battery acts like a ‘floater’ (a risk I could have taken, but on the other hand it may well have resulted in Corpus Christie’s aging sewerage system bursting under the pressure, and unleashing a torrent upon the wedding party); or 3. like a man (albeit a very smelly man), I could plunge my hand back into the somewhat murkier depths below, and recover the want away piece of hardware there and then.

And so of course like anyone worth his salt, I went for option 3.

I can guess the look you’ve got on your face right is probably the closest it’s ever come to resemble complete and utter disgust and repulsion, as I describe in intricate detail how I waded through my own faeces in retrieval of my phone battery, resembling something very much like that scene out of Trainspotting, where Renton pushes his body head first down the toilet system. Are you seriously telling me you wouldn’t have done the same? These things don,’t come cheap y’know.

And then, let me assure you, I scrubbed and washed my hands, arms, face, neck, upper body, legs, feet, and genitalia, like I’ve never scrubbed and washed before. It was a credit to the good people of Corpus Christie that they had stocked such an usually generous amount of soaps, hand washes, balms, shampoos, conditioners, shower gels, all over body wash, bubble baths, swarfegers, and paint stripers; almost as if they had been expecting such a thing to happen. Could it be that it hadn’t just been me? That there was an unholy curse upon the college, resulting in many an undergraduate, post-grad, lecturer or tourist, to lose their phones in a similar manner?

No. Didn’t think so.

Well after all that, did my phone still work? No it bloody didn’t. All it would do was making a sickly whirring sound. My phone had become very ill indeed. And, so from that point, I resigned myself to buying a new phone the very next day.

But, I could dwell on my phone no more. I had more deejaying to do, and an expectant crowd all rooting for my return. First tune I put on? ‘A Town Called Malice’ by the Jam, and the dance floor emptied instantly. Philistines!

Thanks must go to all those people who joined me in McDonald’s the next day to attempt a salvage job on the phone, as it was taken apart piece by piece, stripped down to its basic components. Circuits were dried; fluff was removed (as were these ominous strands of long curly hair, the origin of which I don’t particularly want to know, but can probably guess anyway).

I opted not to enlighten the participants of the full horror of what I had endured the night before in the toilet, merely stopping at the ‘phone fell down the toilet once and only once’, story. To be honest, I doubt they would have wanted to have been anywhere near me, if I had told them the full horror, and besides, bringing a phone back from the dead’s more than a one man job now.

To tell the truth, my phone did start working again, but the trauma had been too much, and rather than take the risk of being branded “Mr Stinky Phone” for the rest of my life, I fled in the direction of the nearest Phones4U in search of a replacement. Of course, I didn’t want any of this contract nonsense. No, another Orange Pay As You Go would do me fine. Little did I know that only a few months later, I would find myself in the situation of living in a house with no mobile msignal and no landline, thus resigning myself to the plight of having to make all my calls from the corner of the garden, and in doing so, attracting the unwelcome attention of the local Neighbourhood Watch Association.

And so I find myself throwing my lot in with ‘them’, bloody Man Utd. Not that selling your soul to the devil hasn’t been without its merits. After all, for the first time in my life, I can actually have something approaching a conversation on the phone. Now, all I need to do is find someone to have a conversation with.

Note. Since the publication of this article, Vodafone have announced they are to sever all ties with Manchester United, instead focusing on their sponsorship deal with the Champions League. Do I feel elated? No I bloody don’t. As since purchasing my new mobile, I’ve come to realise that the phone is in fact manufactured by Samsung, who are now the shirt sponsor of Chelsea Football Club. Now, these are the reasons why I hate Chelsea…………

The Mirror Woz Wrong
Yes, not content with printing falsified images of tortured Iraqi prisoners at the hands of British troops, they have now commited the greater sin of publishing Xmas TV listings that are in fact utterly bogus. Not only are there no programmes actually called TO BE ANNOUNCED on any of the networks, but worse they fluffed the start time of the Dr Who xmas special. I am reliably informed by the digiguide website, the special will in fact go out at 1900 and not 1815, putting them up against rural rubbish Emmerdale.

String 'em up i say. It's the only language they understand.

IT'S SNOW-VEMBER

And other mind numbingly dull tabloid style headlines, such as "SNOW MY GOD", "IT'S SNOW JOKE", and my particular favourite from the Daily Sport "MEMBER OF GIRLS ALOUD FLASHES HER ARSE, AGAIN!" (usually it's Cheryl Tweedy or the Blond one, or Cheryl Tweedy AND the Blond one, if you're interested).
Yes snow has befallen this part of the world unseasonly early this year. Whatever happened to global warming I say? I'm going to write to my MP. It's a disgrace!

Letters to the Editor
Topic: levers.tripod.com
Every now and again, I like to sift through the many letters from the ten or so people who might have read this blog once.

First, a bit of support from Mr Simon Spanky Shaw who says:

"I have recently taken my second driving lesson and managed to break the speed limit, but then what should anyone expect when Danger Powers is at the wheel.

"Take heart though, as Hugoid has just failed his sixth test and will no doubt be overtaking you soon enough."

Cheers Simon. I haven't the heart to tell him that in fact it was all a lie and I actually passed my test on the first attempt when I was 17. I can dream, can't I? (well, I certainly can't drive. Sob!)

Next, Mr Cowler, who says:

"I muse about sild, not silt."

Hmmm. Interesting. I muse about sluts myself. Just take a look at the entry below. Woohoo!

Finally, we must end it seems on a complaint.

"Dear Sir,

I write to complain about the amusement value you derive from someone having the name "Roger Rogers". I have lived all my life with this name and no one has even sniggered. No one laughed at Magnus Magnusson, so I am writing to my MP. Oh, sir, this is war.

Truly yours

Alex Roger Rogers"

Let me assure you, Mr Rogers. No comedy value was had whatsoever from the misuse of your name. Of course, what I had failed to mention, was that every member of the Rogers family going back five generations, have had the middlename Roger*. For example, Alex's brother's full name is John Paul Roger Rogers**, and his Second Uncle twice removed should be referred to as King Louis IX of Northern France Roger Rogers***. But, it was a happy coincidence that Alex's new wife Gail, in fact also shared the name Roger, making her now Gail Roger Rogers****.

*Again, this may be factually incorrect
**As may this
***And this
****This is probably wrong

Oh, look. Crumpet...
Topic: Pop
My my, what do we have here. In fact, I have no idea, but apparently this blond well endowed lovely was on ITV's The X Factor, a programme I go out of my way to avoid, and in fact find less preferable than having my organs extracted from my anatomy one by one, with a sledge hammer, and then fed to the neighbours alsation, Bill.

There I was shopping in Virgin Megastore, when I happened upon this Mr Whippy topped delight, and the poor dear was trying to selll her wares to a disinterested audience. Her wares in this case, being her pop single, which unfortunately for her, they had made the crucial error of playing this crime to humanity over the PA system. And, oh my, did every person within a 10 mile radius flee in terror? Well, yes I like to think that they did.

So, did I take pity on this talentless urchin and purchase a copy? No, course I didn't. Instead I slyly sidled towards her, whacked my phone out, and took the cheeky photo of her you see before you now.

And, before you ask, no, I have no idea who the child standing to her left is either. Maybe, it's her pimp.

Buy the Daily Mirror, quick...........
Today is November 24th, which means there's only 31 days until Cadbury's
Creme Eggs go on sale. So, big hoorah, for that!

Of course, this also means that the tabloid scramble to print the Xmas
TV listings, as many times as possible in the next four weeks has
begun. And the Daily Mirror has got there first, with an exclusive 14
days listing guide for the festive period in today's edition.

Unfortunately, it would appear that the majority of TV networks are
still to announce their schedules, unless of course, huge swathes of
airtime has indeed being given over to the Xmas extravaganza, To Be
Announced. And, as this is listed approximately 147 times in 14 days
across all networks, I'm guessing it might be the former. Still, what a
great name for a TV show., that would be. Just think of all the free
publicity. Of course, the the one draw back would be that no one would
actually know when the show was actually going to be on.

Still, one of the standout highlights appears to be Dr Who and the
Attack of the Killer Santas (Xmas Day, BBC 1 1815, up against
Millionaire on ITV, should win hands down in the ratings), which'll
probably put all the kiddies who happen to be watching, off Xmas for
good.

And good on em', I say.

Phones 4 A Fool
Topic: levers
I forced myself into buying a contract phone the other day. A wise choice when you consider, that every phone call I’ve made in the past month or so, has been while standing on a particular patch of grass in the corner of the back garden, regardless of whether I’ve been caught up in rain storms, hail storms, hurricanes, or plagues of locusts. The simple fact of the matter is, that it’s been the only, and I mean the only place within a five mile radius where I’ve been able get a phone signal good enough to enable me make a phone call that has lasted more than ten seconds before cutting out. I can’t even get a signal in Tesco of all places. This coupled with the fact that we have no landline, means that unless I was seriously considering becoming a total recluse, I would have to purchase a phone under an operator, that would allow me to make a call even if I wasn’t dangling a hundred feet in the air from the nearest phone mast.

And so alas, I waved a sad farewell to Orange after 5 years, and three phones, one of which I’ll admit was more like a breezeblock than a phone. My friends would constantly mock me about my phone. Although I still believe they were secretly jealous, as everyone knows a mobile phone is directly proportional to a man’s penis. And, boy did they have some big penises in the 1980s!

Anyway, as far as mobile phone companies are concerned, I’ve held something of a long-term burning dislike of Vodafone. This of course has absolutely nothing to do with the quality of their phones, or their ability to deliver service to their customers. But has everything to do with them sponsoring Manchester United.

Like the majority of football supporters the world over, I hate Man Utd with a passion. Again, this is mostly down to their success and dominance throughout the 1990s, and has very little to do with the actual team. You see, in football as in life, success breeds’ contempt.

And so being a Man of principle, there was no way on earth that I would ever sign myself up with Vodafone. Not a chance. No, if I was going to choose another mobile operators then of course it was going to be O2.

O2 have for the past three seasons, been the proud sponsor of Arsenal football club. A match made in heaven, I’m sure you’ll agree.

If I’m being honest, I wasn’t in to football at all during the 1980s and most of the 1990s. Football to me meant standing around in defence on a damp drizzly pitch during P.E. lessons, while the goalkeeper dug himself several very large holes right along the goal line. And no matter how deep he would dig them, it was still inevitable that we would be on the receiving end of a 36-0 thrashing. It didn’t help that I was also shit.

Football just didn’t hold any interest for me. Neither watching, nor playing it.

Then I went to University, and it all changed. Well, not quite, I was still shit at playing, and I would later become a member of one of the worst five a side football teams ever to grace this earth, but alas I feel tha should be a story for another day.

In 1997 I attended the University of Salford, home of the behemoth of football, Manchester United. Now it was while attending University that I first discovered the delights of the student union, which a) served beer (something I like my peers back home, had grown accustomed to drinking down the local pub on a Friday night), and b) showed wall to wall football. Unless you opted to become a recluse and stayed in your room for the next three years, there was no getting away from it.

And so it was during these nights in the union bar that my passion for football was finally ignited, and a long held tradition started by my Grandfather of supporting Arsenal football club, was finally passed on to me. And thou, the heavens opened, and I became bathed in a heavenly dew of golden sunlight, and I could hear Angels singing…

Now the fact that Arsenal went on to win the league and cup double in 1998, was merely a coincidence, I assure you. I’d like to think that even if they’d have barrelled out that season and been relegated, I’d have still been swayed by the romance of the Red and White Army. On the other hand, if you want to call me a hanger on, or a glory hunter that’s up to you. At least, I’ve seen the inside of Highbury.

Anyway, supporting Arsenal while living in Salford was not a particularly bright thing to do. Especially when your watching Arsenal play Manchester Utd in a local pub, full of United supporters. If for example, Arsenal happen to score, you do not scream, “yes” at the top of your voice. And if you so happen to be greeted with the reply “f*****’ cockney c***!”, you vacate the premises as soon as possible, because you do not want to still be in the pub if for example Arsenal happen to go on to win that match 1-0. This of course, did happen, and to make matters worse the game was being played at Old Trafford, when Arsenal’s Dutch winger Marc Overmars put the away team in to the lead, resulting in a town full of extremely angry Mancunians (or maybe that should be Chinamen) looking for blood.
Well, anyway, they got there own back a year later, when I had to endure days of mental torture as they took the Premiership, FA Cup, and European Cup. Believe me, there is nothing worse than being repeatedly jabbed in the ribs by a female United supporter the moment you’ve just lost out on the Premiership title, like I was by Lucy Ettridge that fateful Sunday afternoon in the Union bar. But then, Utd were playing Spurs on that final day, and I should’ve known they wouldn’t want to do us any favours. Basically because we’d crapped up and lost to Leeds at Ellend Road in our previous fixture, we now needed to win our final game against Aston Villa, and hope our other mortal enemy Tottenham Hotspur could hold United at Old Trafford. Well, of course they bloody couldn’t.

Anyway, I sometimes wonder what became of Lucy. We did stay in touch for a while after graduation, as she moved back to Bury, and I came back down South, firing emails at each other from time to time, as the mood would take us. The last email I sent was probably about a year ago. It bounced back as a recipient unknown, so I assumed she must have moved on. I do wish I’d tried more with Lucy while I had the opportunity, unfortunately I was too busy being a dozy git to pick up on the fact that she was actually interested in me. By the time of the Spurs incident, my chance had long passed, and she was dating some bloke who looked like one of the dancers out of boy band Five. I say dancers, as you wouldn’t have thought for a second that any of them could actually sing.

Anyway, despite her Five fixation, she did have some taste in music, and an obsession in the Manic Street Preachers that has only been matched by one other person I've ever had the pleasure of knowing, that of Simon 'Spanky' Shaw. Anyway, I tried an Internet search on Lucy a while back and what got returned was a transcript of an interview her and her sister had conducted with a local Manchester band tipped at the time as being the next big thing. Now if it had been 1992, I could’ve built this up as being someone really exciting like Oasis, but unfortunately it was 1997, and Britpop was already in it’s final deathrows, about to be engulfed by a sea of Spice Girls. As a result I have no idea who the band was, and the accompanying photo taken of her and the band really doesn’t do her any justice at all, so you’ll excuse me if I don’t reproduce the link here.

But, if you’re out there Lucy, give us a call (lever@fsmail.net).

I feel I may have strayed from the point somewhat, and got horribly caught up in my own poigniancy and limitations when it comes to women.

So, where was I? Ahh yes! And so it would surely have been somewhat hypocritical of me to buy a mobile from Vodafone. Wouldn’t it?

To tell the God damn honest truth, I was seconds away from signing up with O2, when I realised I had no ID on me. No ID, no phone. So I was forced to leave that day empty handed, and returned to my patch of grass at the bottom of the garden.

But, that night I couldn’t sleep. I was haunted by phantasms and demons, whispering to me, “buy a Vodafone”, “you don’t need to buy an O2 phone. Thierry will love you just as much even if you buy a Vodafone”, ”Go on, buy a Vodafone, and give all your money to a Fat American Businessman, who knows nothing about football”

Or, maybe that was just my housemate.

For those, not really into football, and I feel there may be a few of you out there reading this (although I’d be somewhat surprised if you’ve actually made it this far), the Fat American Businessman in question, is Malcolm Glazer who bought out Manchester United over the Summer months, much to the disgust of many of the clubs supporters, and somewhat hilariously plunged the club into millions of pounds of debt.

Anyway, in the style of the 1980s children’s cartoon series, Danger Mouse, I’m going to end this piece on a cliff-hanger, because to be honest, I feel I may have gone on long enough, and if I choose to complete this little ‘run around’, it could well be another month before I can dispatch this piece to the ‘servers’ (which I believe may well be the modern day Internet term for ‘printers’, or on the other hand I may just have made that up).

Anyway, cue voice over:

“Will levers give in to temptation and sell his soul to the devil? (chances are in fact bloody likely, as this whole piece has been set up for that purpose, I mean it would’ve been a bit of a con, if I start part two, with “well in fact I opted not to bother, and just bought another Orange phone as I liked standing in the garden and peering through the bathroom window, as we somewhat bizarrely have our bathroom on the ground floor at the back of the house”). “What did become of Lucy Etteridge?” (alas, I feel this will not be answered). “What amusing incident in Oxford hastened the demise of levers second phone?” “Find out in the next thrilling episode of, Danger Mouse!”

Da da da da da da da da

He's the Greatest!

He's Amazing!

He's the Greatest Secret Agent in the World!

Danger Mouse!

Power House!

etc...

Awards
Topic: levers.tripod.com
Ahhh. Finally the plaudits start flooding in.

This from none other than Mrs Gail Rogers

Hey Levers,

Love the photos, and the blog especially. I shall read regularly - keep
it up!

Gail

I feel so honoured. It's almost like getting a National Television
Award. Many a night I've spent on the toilet, rehearsing my acceptance
speech with ITN Anchorman, Sir Trevor McDonald. Although, I feel at this
point I should make it clear that this is merely taking place in my
head. Sir Trevor has not and it seems likely never will be sharing a
toilet with myself. That pleasure will surely be reserved for him ans
his wife, and maybe the odd ITN newsreaders such as Katie Durham, or
Nicholas Owen. And long may it continue to do so.

The NTA's, or the ITV NTA's to give it, it's full title, were notable
for 50 thousand audience members booing prospective Tory candidates
David Cameron and David Davis (strangly omitted from the weeks edition of Have I Got News For You, despite lengthy Cameron/Davis baiting), who were to announce the winner of the
Award for Best Drama Made For The BBC in Wales by BBC Wales Called Dr
Who. It being the ITV NTA's, the prize went to Bad Girls. Or so most ITV
execs would have thought!. What they failed to realise is that on the
rare occassion the great British Institution known as Dr Who becomes
shortlised for an award voted by the public, every Dr Who fan worth his
salt, turns into a rabid dog, and bomards the swichboard/website
continually until voting closes. Proof why Chris Eccleston won Best
Gurner, and Billie Piper won Best One Time Pop Star Who Was Marrried To
Washed Up DJ And TV Host Chris Evans. I kept my votes down to
respectable six.

On the other hand, was this programme and it's leads any less deserving
of the awards than the usual shite such as the Bill, Zoe Flamin' Lucker,
or Jack Duckworth?

I think not. Quality drama, quality cast, and it kicked the crap out of
ITV's low-grade Celebrity Wrestling.

Bring on the Xmas Special!

But what must've really erked the ITV execs, was the BBC's Eastenders running off with the Best Soap Award. Despite, the fact it's been shite for the past year! (well, up until the return of the Mitchell's last week)

The Guestbook
Topic: levers.tripod.com
Oh God, people really will post any old rubbish on the guest book page won't they!

Nothing since 2001, and then I get this,

Wednesday 06/08/2005 10:49:22am
Name: Kostov
E-Mail: s2@zz.com
Homepage Title: 24
Homepage URL: http://24
Referred By: E-Mail
Location: Toronto
Comments: Vitamines And Nutrition http://www.nofatonline.com

Vitamins, huh?

Who gives a crap about vitamins?

What part of this god forsaken site has anything to do with vitamins?

24? I bet that's not even a real url. And I bet, your name's not Kostov. And I bet clicking on that url will instantly empty my bank account of all my savings!!!!

Pah, there y'go, I clicked on it, and all got was an error message. Ya boo sucks to you Kostov. So, you're from Toronto, huh? I hope your business got blown away in a hurricane!

(Incidently, how far is Toronto from New Orleans? Is is many miles?)

In other guest book news, Amy Cherry plugged her website, and would like Jennifer Studs email address. So, if your watching Jen?

Why don't you see some of the crazy comments left on my guest book, many moons ago for yourself?

levers.tripod.com/guestbook

Or, at least you'd have been able to, had not cocked up the link. Where's the quality control, here?

levers.tripod.com/feedback

Driven to Destruction................... A tale of woah, that is my driving ability (or rather lack of it)
Now Playing: Car Song (Elastica), In Your Car (Kenickie), Drivng In My Car (Madness)
Topic: The Automobile
It's Wednesday afternoon, and certainly not for the first time in my life, I have just heard the immortal phrase, "I'm really sorry, but you haven't passed your driving test on this occasion". Now, to have heard this once in your life, is fairly upsetting. But, to have heard this eight times in your life, it feels downright conspirital.
And so, it would seem that I had indeed failed my driving test for the eighth time.

I felt things had been going well, right up until I had got into a conversation with the instructor about booking holidays on the Internet. The instructor had very little knowledge of computers, and as I tend to use a computer for work, he felt I should have a full and complete working knowledge of the dangers and pitfalls of booking online.

"Do I need an email address then, as I don't actually have one".

"Yes, you need an email address, but you can should be able set one up for free".

"Oh right, how do I do that then? Left here".

"Well, you can set one up..."

"No, left here, there's a whole line of traffic in front of you".

Shit! I slammed on the breaks, narrowly missing the Merc in the left hand lane.

"Now, whatever you do, you don't want to go hitting that Merc. As they cost money".

Really, well cheers for that.

From that moment on, I started to get that sinking feeling. Had I blown it again? Meanwhile the instructor, continued to babble on about booking his holiday online, while I tried to concentrate on the road in front.

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"Now, I bet you thought it was that incident at the junction", continued the instructor, as I sat in the car, listening with dread to the debriefing. Well, yes. Of course I thought it was the incident at the junction. Because, you wouldn't f##king shut up about booking your holiday.

"Well, no I'll give you that one. Cos, that was partly my fault".

Oh, well that's alright then.

"No the reason you failed your test is because you failed to stick to the recommended speed limit".

Speeding? Me? Rubbish! I never once went over 30.

"Only once did you get any where near 30".

Oh.

"At one point you were going slower that the cyclist you were trying to overtake".

Yes. But that was because I was trying not to crush him against the row of parked cars along the side of the road, pal!

"It wouldn't be worth your while getting a car, the speed you drive".

Right. And so it seems that I drive like Dustin Hoffman in Rainman. But surely it's better to be cautious, than to drive round like a lunatic?

"Look mate. I prefer it that your cautious, than someone who drives like a maniac. But driving slowly can be dangerous too. I'm not being funny, but you'd be better off getting a push bike".

Hilarious, I'm sure you'll agree.

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Can I just point out, that I have long been the undisputed family record holder for the number of failed driving tests (and in fact, probably the undisputed record holder of many families for failed driving tests), previously set by cousin who failed 6 tests in all (but has since claimed she passed on her fourth attempt, which is kind of like rubbing salt in the wounds).

My, (how shall I describe it?), somewhat uneasy relationship with the automobile, dates back, as it tends to do with most people in this country, to my 17th birthday. Although maybe it can be traced as far back as when my elder sister decided to take a ride outside a moving vehicle while being driven to playgroup (probably before they had such fancy things as child locks, it was the late 70s after all). My sister was fortunately unscathed by the incident (the car was probably only going about 5 miles an hour at the time), but the resulting rise in my Mothers blood pressure, was enough to ensure I arrived on this earth several days early.

Anyway, as seemed to be the trend at the time (and probably still is), my parents gifted me my first set of driving lessons for my 17th birthday. Most teenagers are probably thrilled with the prospect of getting into a car, and 'burning rubber' up and down the neighbourhood, and crashing through their neighbour’s front window. I however, was less than keen.

As suggested, this could well be psychological. I'm prepared to admit that my sisters little adventure as a toddler probably had very little to do with it, but what may have been a factor, was my collision with a car at the age of 12, when it was customary to run hell for leather across busy roads, dodging oncoming traffic. While my friends made it across the road unscathed, I completely misjudged the time it would take for me to get across the road in relation to how far away the car was. And so, I ended up spread eagle on the road, my rucksack with rugby kit (we had P.E that day), absorbing most of the impact.

And the one thing going through my head as was I sped away to hospital in the back of the ambulance, was "oh bugger, I'm going to miss Knightmare!"(Knightmare was a children's fantasy role-playing style game show, screened on ITV). Rest assured, any damage done was minimal.

Was this incident enough to scar me in later life? Or was I just, generally shit?

(Notice how I used shit in the past tense. Oh, how they laughed!)

My first driving instructor bore an uncanny likeness to the villainous Emmerdale character, Eric Pollard, which did little to encourage me on those maiden voyages, as it was around that time that he'd been burying his wife six feet under the ground. The fictional soap character that is, not the very real driving instructor. Eric, as we'll call him (the instructor), was something of a fierce, brash man, who didn't mind mincing his words, regardless of the mental state of the novice driver. Then again, this may have just been me, as one of my school friends at the time, Colin, had also had him as an instructor, had got on famously with him, and had passed his test first time. Alas, I got no where near even contemplating taking a test in that formative period, as after a mere three lessons of bad steering, bad gear changing, and bad breaking, I decided that it wasn't to be, especially as he'd said in no uncertain terms that I was a shit driver, after I'd almost steered straight through the neighbours front garden.

And so, much to my parents’ displeasure (although, possible my fathers relief, as god knows what I'd have done driving his car), the automobile and I parted company for the next five years, until I had returned from my time at University.

My next instructor, was a dead ringer for the now sadly deceased DJ, and king of the voice-overs, Tommy Vance, even down to the silver hairy, dark glasses, and leather jacket. Unfortunately, the broad west country accent kind of spoilt the illusion somewhat, but I'm sure on his days off, he would drive around the streets of Thornbury, waving at passers by, stopping to sign the odd autograph, or open the odd school fete, or even like a real DJ, spin the odd tune. Now, Tommy (as we shall call him), was something of a 20 a day guy (the instructor that is, not the DJ. Although, then again Tommy Vance might well have been a 20 a day guy as well, I have I no idea). Which meant, I could quite often tell how bad the lesson was going, by the number of times he would light up in an hour. And if he'd start the lesson with a full box of B&H, and then half an hour later make me pull into a garage forecourt so he could pick up some more, I knew things weren't going well at all. To be fair, he probably had quit smoking, but had run out of enough bare flesh for all the nicotine patches, that all he could do, was inhale smoke through his lungs, just to calm his nerves.

The upside of learning with Tommy was that he was also an incredibly bad bookkeeper. He would encourage his pupils to buy lessons in blocks of six, and then give away the seventh free. But, what would often happen, is that he would lose counts of exactly how many lessons a pupil had taken, so much so that he would be under the illusion that he owed me time. To be honest, I didn't have the heart to tell him. And anyway, it probably makes up for the amount of passive smoke I'd have to inhale (I was almost in need of nicotine patches myself, some lessons).

Anyway, with Tommy and me, it wasn't to be either. So we eventually parted company

However, I'm still amazed he actually put me in for a driving test. The first one was officially the worst experience of my life. My god, it was like watching a car crash (no pun intended).

Now one of the major problems I've had with the driving test, and this was certainly true of the first, and probably the following four, was the bit at the start when they ask to read out the number plate of that car parked up the road. Now, quite often, I'm tempted to say, what car? But I don't think that's really suitable in that situation, especially as I actually couldn't read the number plate, as I am long sighted from birth. On one occasion, I actually had to guess what each letter was, and by some miracle I actually got it right. However, what was most embarrassing (I think it was test number four), was when I had so much difficulty reading the number plate, that the instructor had to go back into the driving school office, to fetch a large reel of measuring tape, so she could mark out the specified twenty metres between me and the car. I didn't pass that test, either. In my defence, this wasn't really my fault, as my optician had got my prescription wrong, and so I had been walking around, or rather driving around with glasses too strong for me. And so, I probably shouldn't have been out on the roads anyway.

Anyway, on my first test I was somewhat unfamiliar with the driving test protocol, and so every time the instructor asked me to pull over to the side of the road (something they tend to do a lot, I have discovered), I thought he was going to end the test there and then. And at the time, I wish he bloody had!

On another occasion I was driving along the portway, which is like a main road that runs along side the River Avon in Bristol and under the Clifton Suspension Bridge. Anyway, I'm driving quite correctly, in the right hand lane, as the left hand lane's for buses; when the instructor asks me to turn left at the traffic lights. Now, unfortunately for me, the road markings are such, that the bus lane appears to end just before the junction, and there are traffic lights over the left hand lane and the right hand lane. In order to turn left, I positioned the car over the left hand lane, and looked out for the traffic lights that I perceived to be for me. Meanwhile the traffic lights over the right hand lane have already turned green, while I wait for the traffic lights over what is now my lane to do the same. They don't, they stay red. The traffic lights over the right hand lane turn red. Then they turn green again. My traffic lights stay on red. This continued for probably only another few minutes (but it seemed like an eternity at the time), until the instructor, somewhat exasperated, said I could go. I hadn't twigged. The traffic lights in the left hand lane, were for buses.

Now what does surprise me of the ten years I've spent on and off learning to drive, is that I have never actually crashed a vehicle. Although, there was a close call the night before one of my tests (possible number five, or was it six?), while out driving with my dad, when I almost mowed down a moped (that's almost a limerick), on a roundabout. The man on the moped looked like he was in his seventies, and so to be fair, probably didn't have long to live, anyway. My dad seemed to take it with some amusement, although he was probably in shock.

My third instructor, who I'm afraid I have some difficulty in thinking of any cultural icons to compare him to, though maybe there was something of the Tony Hart about him, and I don't mean we spent every lesson with his little plasticine pal Morph, while he attempted to do charcoal drawings of cattle; was really rather good. Although still, not good enough for me to actually pass my test. I would have happily stayed longer with Ol' Tone, but various factors conspired against us, and anyway the paint fumes were getting too much.

Anyway, my fourth, current, and hopefully final instructor, I really am stuck for any cultural icons to compare her too. So I won't, as she's a bit too current and might get a bit offended if I started comparing her to the grandmother off the Kumas.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t gutted not to have passed on eighth attempt, or the previous seven for that matter. But I just felt I had a real determination, that I was going to do it this time, so much so that I barely considered that I might fail.

Anyway, it's eight and counting. Just remember, Maureen from Driving School. You've got nothing on me................