POLICE WARNING

Recently, and in the now distant past, I have seen certain things which have left me perturbed. One of these things is the sign that adorns many upwardly pointing poles in car parks across the country. This sign is for motorists and many look like this:

The gist of these signs is that if you leave valuables in your car they become targets for theft. What the signs also convey is a sense that if you do leave valuables in your car then you should expect them to be stolen and that you are the person who is to blame for this. 

Other variations exist; a perfect example is this one:

While this one deals with bikes, there is no real difference in the attitude on display. In fact, it is more explicit - almost giving the impression that if you leave your bike unlocked the police will come along and punish you by nicking it. 

In response to this terrible approach to the law and those breaking it I have created an alternative which I, justifiably, expect to replace all such signs as soon as is reasonably possible. i.e. tomorrow. Please see below and feel free to print it off and post it around your neighbourhood. It will do a lot of good. 

You are very welcome.

New blog

Hello all, just a quick note to encourage you to check my new blog http://validationreport.blogspot.com/ it is all about music and stuff. Will still be on here posting the random wordy mix you have become accustomed to.

Fading Handprints Pt 3

Part One and Part Two.

"In the last hour Watchers have discovered the presence of an unidentified spacecraft approaching the station. Some of you may have seen the ship as it emerged from Jupiter's dark side and is now visible through the port windows." Subtitles read across the screen as they translated the newsreader's words into text. There was little need for them as there was not one person in the room prepared to talk at that moment and the barman was absentmindedly pressing on the increase volume button as his gormless face peered at the television. Tristan stood with the remaining patrons in suspense. To his left a young woman was hurriedly shaking to consciousness the elderly man that had fallen asleep under a drool duvet while a whimper sounded from his right as the barman now clutched at the fake wood frozen in anticipation and fear.

A shove to one side and then the other brought Tristan out of his trance. People were making their way to the port windows. Half walking, half carried he moved with them. Arriving at the long stretch of space glass the area resembled a weekend wetherspoons in a small town. What could easily have been hundreds of people strained both with and against each other trying to get to the window. Not that it was needed, from his position behind the crowd Tristan had an unobstructed view of the dark blue vessel floating into view near the top of the window. He followed it, unthinking, as it drifted sideways.

"Watch out," spluttered a noise from somewhere near Tristan's knee, "watch..."
Looking down he could see his red faced drinking buddy haunched over his knees and a grey pool of what could only be vomit.
"Don't.. I've had, an accident" Joseph was struggling to halt his sudden resurgance.
"How much did you have to drink?" Tristan asked, his eyes returning to the oncoming shape.
"Drink? Can't you, buurr, see outside?"
"Yes.. I can. It's getting closer, quickly. It's, rotating, I think. Should it be doing that?"
"What? I don't know? It's a fucking alien spaceship."
"Okay... I'm moving, it looks like its going to hit us..."

Tristan and Joseph flailed in grey sludge as Tristan tried to haul his friend off the ground, his fingers finding chunks stuck to a shirt collar. Getting Joseph to his knees, Tristan pointed back down the corridor behind them, shouting over the sound of screams he was not registering as the foreign shape careered over his head and slammed into the side of the station.  

Inebriated In Bruges. (Rock Werchter pt. 3)

The man looked down at his cards. They were good cards. Through the smoke that circled their heads he peered at the three other men. One of them, younger, but with strangely thinning hair, flinched. Probably smoke in the eye, the man thought. Regardless, he pondered, I can take them. Easily. In thirty seconds the hand would reach him and the game would be over. Straining against a smile the clattering that rang out down the hall of the hotel reception went unnoticed until the hand of a small boy grasped his side of the table.

"Please.. please. You have to help us. We don't know where we are."
The words gasped out of the boy who was not a boy at all, but a tiny man. His beard was soaked in sweat and cheap belgian beer wove through his breath. Behind him, a large, older man with glorious ginger locks collapsed on a vacant chair. They both exhuded a nervousness that was only conquered by their exhaustion. Behind them, a silent blonde woman stood transfixed on the hotel's silverware, making the man uneasy about their new guests.

After about half an hour of consoling his unfamiliar friends, he came to realise they were tourists, hence the drunken english and sporadic bursts of french and german. They were lost and, rather than just give them directions that could easily be forgotten after passing out under a windmill, he decided to drive them back to their ramshackle abode.

"So what have you been up to tonight?" The kind man asked, trying to break the foreign tension in the car.
Robbie struggled with the question, countless beers flooded over clear images of their evening. "Um, well. We saw some things from that film. In Bruges. Then we drank really big lemony beers. And then we found a bar in which we could smoke. That was certainly a highlight. Then we got lost. The rest is rather a blur."

Minutes later the generous man parked in the campsite and, instead of murdering the three of them, allowed them to leave his car and go back to their tent. Refusing all offers of financial recompense he put his seat belt on and drove away.

He was a good person.

A Kleptomaniac in Kalais. (Rock Werchter pt. 2)

... Despite the promise of Bruges our intrepid subjects (and this narrative) still had to experience the first place all British tourists in France find themselves, Calais. Unless, of course, they go some other way than the ferry from Dover.

Robbie scrambled on the pavement outside a French chemists baking in sunshine. The instructions for an adhesive light alteration left nothing but doubt in his mind while his fingers swayed between positions. Eventually he settled on a location (probably incorrectly) and softly pressed the sticker across a faint line carved into the plastic.
"OW, fuck," a startled Andrew cried from the rear of the car.
A lesson had been learnt. The lesson being that to grasp a recently removed bulb is unwise and can lead to a sharp pain in one's palm.
"It probably heated up in the sun", he stated, stupidly.
During the course of their combined blundering, the third person in the small group scanned the unassuming French landscape for any opportunity to heist, peculate, swindle, plunder, poach and pillage. Drugs from the aforementioned chemists drew her gaze and the bank called out to her with the promise of challenge and great reward. Yet, it was a largely insignificant object that twinkled the most with malice aforethought. A plastic fork adorned the side of a less than enticing salad and she could think of nothing else than to rip it from its moorings and run screaming from the quaint supermarket that would have to pick up the insurmountable pieces of her treachery.

.... minutes later...

"AAAAHHHH", screamed Chloe as she ran from the shop, the fork clutched tight in her criminal hand. "I stole a fork! I feel so alive!"
Robbie and Andrew looked at each other in mutual despair, instantly regretting any and all decisions that lead to Chloe's inclusion on their European jaunt.
"Well, I guess it will come in useful", muttered a sullen Bob, "it will help to spread this cheese, at least".

And so it was that the three of them, and a stolen fork, enjoyed baguettes with cheap ham and garlic-y cheese; sat atop duck shit and gaulish grass. Discarding ribbons of fat into streams and discussing something or other they realised they were only a quick walk away from driving towards Bruges and the disorientation and movie references that would follow....

Coming up next, In Bruges (for real).

An Introduction to Domestic Departure (or Part 1 of Rock Werchter)

Hello.

Before I begin, I feel like I should apologise. I realise that, present within you, there is the possibility for the festering of two emotions. One of those is relief. Relief because, after months of waiting, you finally get to see the product of my nonsensical keyboard bashing. Therefore I am sorry that I kept you waiting so long. Of course, it might be more likely that right now you are curled up on the floor, wailing in despair at my sudden reappearance in the masses of blogs of little note being produced each day. To you, I rescind my apology. If it is so bad then just stop reading you cretin. Bizarre introduction over, here is what happened on my awkwardly awesome holiday....

A speedy getaway from Chepstow with little time to spare left us gasping for breath in the shadow of the ferry about to consume the three helpless figures smoking in front of it. The recently retired driver, Andrew Steel, pranced about amongst other potential tourists enjoying the feel of stretched legs and attempted to divert his guilty cigarette from influencing the lungs of tiny pre-adulted beings. A short, skinny, bearded child climbed out of the vehicle minutes afterwards. Hang on one second, that is no child! It is Andrew's good friend and confidant, Robert Lynn Harries Jones, the sarcastic backbone of the trip begged his significantly larger pal for a similar instrument of fiery, poisonous relief. Within the minuscule  purple automobile that would serve them so well in the week and a bit to come sat the blonde spectre of one Chloe Boulton. The very near future would see her spurt many a word of wisdom while she struggled with the unassuming and horrendous demands of the festival-goer who decides to over do it.

Then they got on the ferry....

Next time: In Bruges.

Hang on a minute, 2011.

At the end of a long ten second countdown amidst general group shouting and jostled movement I took the time to observe my surroundings. The red faced old men and young brawlers of my home town swayed in and out of my peripheral vision clutching at the arms and affections of strikingly unattractive and brash women that stumble along the streets of Chepstow after darkness sets in. The thought struck me gradually, I swear I am not still supposed to be here… and I really should not have started drinking at 4pm.
Hello loyal/first time/sporadic reader and welcome to my latest blog entry. As is predictable for the current time of year this entry is my attempt to review the previous year in a highly subjective and personal manner. Before you protest, I must assure you that I am not being pretentious in thinking that my take on the year holds any importance or relevance. My only thought was "I should probably write something, it has been a while". And now I will start.
2010 held a lot of promise. It looked quite good in terms of how good numbers can look and, like most, began with a drunken resolve to make it the best year yet. Unfortunately, for me, it reached its peak during the first three months before plummeting into long term unemployment and overwhelming apathy.
The peak, of course, was India. It was fantastic. But of course I have another blog that describes it so I won't delve into that bank of reminiscence now.
What followed was some erratic volunteering that focused more on attending festivals and meeting pretty fantastic people than the important stuff. I also discovered that if you try really really hard then you just might be able to get an article in an Indian community's tabloid magazine about a topic that you know very little about. At least I can put the days of minimal effort and patchy writing sessions behind me as I start the year with a job with one of Chepstow's biggest crime families and the juxtapositional job offer for the Ministry of Justice. It will be fine as long as they just ignore all of my skeletons.
In global news, quite a lot happened. To sum it all up, the world is falling to pieces and it is all rather exciting/terrifying. Volcanoes exploded, water got in places where it wasn't wanted, it was windy, rainy, too hot and too cold and this year it will probably get to the point where we are all queuing up to go down that big lift in Chile because it will be much safer down there. Saying that, I constantly fantasise about leaving our tame woes of comfortable unemployment, indecisive voting and much-more-expensive-in-a-way-that-you-will-never-really-be-able-to-notice higher education to escape to a landscape where I am more likely to face agonising death than boredom. But then, I do so love travelling.
Also, England didn't win the World Cup, some lady put a cat in a bin and most of the TV was sickeningly bad. Oh haunting despair!
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
The end (of 2010).