Should All Cigarettes Be Forgot And Never Brought To Mind

It's NYE! As they probably say in NY (North Yeovil).

That'll be a night getting wrecked then. Getting wrecked isn't anything to particularly shout about but the truth is it's a given that I will get wrecked tonight. And this being a factual blog means it is worthy of mentioning. This isn't a factual blog in the sense of telling you what Cobra's drink or how the hell amino acids could have turned into something as grotesque as Jeremy Clarkson but it is factual in the sense of what I get up to on Fridays and if that involves getting wrecked I won't shirk from the truth in fear of being considered a 'lad', an alcoholic or an 17th century ship after a night in highly turbulent waters.

I digress.

It's NYE and yes, indeedy do, I have a New Years Resolution. It's an obvious one. I'm going to give up the smokes. But get this people of 2010 - I'm going to start this not in January but on New Years Eve itself - the one night I can guarantee I'll have a rolly or ten. In fact everyone smokes on New Years Eve don't they? I bet even Esther Rantzen sucks on a Consulate in between necking cava and chomping on a carrot that looks like a penis.

My thinking goes something like this. If I can resist smoking on this of all nights then surely I can resist any night. It's a test right in at the deep end. Hardcore tactics. If I succeed tonight I can take from it the strength required to never smoke again.

Postscript

I did it. The whole night through to dawn without a fag. January 16th was another matter though.

Baby Jesus or Baby Hell?

Most people aren't working today for Baby Jesus related reasons. Tomorrow is his birthday and being Jesus he likes to have a good three day knees-up to celebrate. I feel like a touch of blissful Yuletide solitude so decide on a semi-remote countryside walk on a white canvas near parentsville (Leicester). Just me and the footprints left in the snow behind me. Possibly the odd robin or jackdaw for company with a 50% chance of bumping into Alan and Diana Bushringer walking their huge doberman, who will inevitably come charging towards me as if I'm a human shaped can of Pal with pig's ears and cat's livers hanging off me.

As the top of Thurnby Hill teases itself into view, it's chief resident, The Rose and Crown cries out a verse of 'Come and have a nice pint and a bowl of soup'. Belting out a chorus of "Right you are, be there in ten" I receive a call on my Nokia 6440. 

It's a 40-year-old friend of mine who hasn't got kids. I too am 40-years-old and haven't got kids. Christmas is all about kids. We have an earnest conversation about being 40 and still not having kids. We conclude that we are both happy (separate happiness's) with this and that being so accustomed to the freedom we both have now (separate freedoms) puts us slightly in fear of the change having kids (separate kids) would bring. Needless to say if it's with the right girl (separate girls) and there's no MacDonalds, relentless shouty telly, plastic crap obsessions or Centre Parcs involved then maybe it will be alright.

I bid my 40-year-old friend a hearty farewell and enter the Rose and Crown for a nice pint and a bowl of soup.

Business Dinner Awards Results 2010

Best Designer Award
Adrian (3rd year running)

Worst Designer Award
Dave in Accounts

Greatest Fear For 2011 Award
It is announced that hallumi gives you cancer

Funniest  Moment Award
Telling a client over the phone that my pig had just come out. This actually happened last year but there was no category for it then

Greatest Contribution Made By An Imaginary Member Of Staff Award
Dave in Accounts

Best Landlord Award
Barry

Best Working Attire Award
Mustard & Green Striped t-shirt, grey Thai fisherman’s pants, barefoot

The Kieran Stiles ‘He Just Likes A Mention Somewhere’ Award
Kieran Stiles

Best Soft Drink Award
Fentiman’s Ginger Beer (3rd year running)

Biggest Internet Distraction Award
No distractions. I'm 100% focused on my work.

Strangest Moment Award
Catching a spider and a wasp in the same glass

The Doughs And Don'ts Of Secret Santaring

Been invited to my old work's Christmas do. Secret Santa time looms. When one has more time on one's hands one can spend more time going about this task. I remember the days when I had no time and would just buy whoever a pair of yeti feet slippers. Actually there was that one year I bought Toby in accounts a normal pair of slippers. He'd probably have found yeti feet ones an abominable gift as, ironically, they only do them in small to medium sizes and he's got really big feet.

So I'd drawn the lovely Dawn out of the hat. I thought to myself "Well, I know the lovely Dawn likes three things - melting moment biscuits, the TV series Red Dwarf and small cuddly toys that look like hybrids of bears and rabbits. I opt for the melting moments. I skip into the village and The Melting Moment Biscuit Shop. Can you believe it - out of stock! They suggest I make my own. Cracking idea! Much more personal. I could even make my own witty label, like a picture of Chewbacca's body with my head superimposed and 'Adrian's Wookiee Cookies' written underneath (in Comic Sans so she knows it's a joke).

I've never made biscuits before so it gives my 'Use Fridays To Pursue New And Exciting Pastimes' category a much needed boost. I hummed my way over to the library and found a recipe, bought all the ingredients from the local Melting Moment Biscuit Ingredient Shop, which thankfully wasn't out of stock, and spent the afternoon baking.

Et Viola! 12 Melting Moment biscuits. It's just a shame Dawn couldn't make it to the do and so will have to receive them in the post, by which time they'll be as stale as a pancake. I take solace in Shakespeare who so prophetically once wrote "The course of true biscuits never did run smooth".

A Heart-warming Tale Of The 21st Century

I wake up on a couch. Dribbling and everything. It isn't my couch. It's a London couch. A slender and spectacled man stands over me and stares. I don't know him. He doesn't know me. I guess he's one of my friend's house mates.

I quickly raise a friendly hand and say, "Hello, my name's Adrian. I'm your house mate's friend."

I fear at this point he may say, "Are you indeed? Well, cock-a-doodle-do. He has no right to allow strangers to sleep on our couch, especially without notifying any of us. Get your trousers on, your stuff together and get the hell out. You're not welcome here."

But it's fine. He doesn't say that. In fact he's really nice and offers to make me a cup of tea. Human kindness still exists. Believe.

Say No To Internet Chopin

I'm currently in my 41st year on this mortal coil. Time to get into classical music then.

Many moons ago the lovely Bev Lee Harling lay me down on a couch and asked me to run through what instruments, styles and moods I appreciate. Afterwards she wrote out a list of pieces I'd possibly enjoy and handed it over to me like some kind of prescription.

Today I took said prescription to the modern music-purchasing chemist - the internet. However, buying classical MP3s feels dirty. If we went Bach in time and told the great classical composers their work was now compressed into poor quality invisible bits of data going for 79p a pop I bet they wouldn't Handel it very well. Their music is fine art and deserves a better medium to be expressed through. MP3s should be reserved for the likes of Kasabian and Lady Gu Gu.

Unfortunately my gramophone is at the cleaners so I'll have to default to buying the music on CD. At least it's a bit better and I'll offset any more guilt by regularly lording up the classical masters on this highly popular and influential blog. My first recommendation therefore is for 'Gnossiennes' by Eric Satie. Unless of course you still haven't hit 40. In this case, as you were with Kasabian and Lady Gu Gu. 

Will The Real Man Friday Stand Up?

You know the dilemma. You're on a quiet train and your phone rings. What to do? Well, today I was on a quiet train, my phone rang and I answered it. Why did I do that? Cue 'train voice'. In my case a monotone, self-conscious drone devoid of gags and playfulness. Just details: "I'm on the train. I get in at six. Yes. No. Yes. Fish fingers are fine. Bye."

Of course there are others on the train who don't give a damn and talk freely and loudly about their lives and don't care about offending, annoying or being judged: "Yeah, Dave. Yeah I did her Dave. Yeah, Doggy style Dave, that's right. Shit though Dave. The bloody condom came off didn't it Dave. I know Dave. Dun't matter, reckon I'm a jaffa anyway Dave. Yeah Dave. Anyway Dave. It's Spurs tonight. Should be a cracker Dave. COME ON YOU REDS!"

Of course I don't want to be as socially inept as that but I do want to overcome this self-consciousness to some extent. I vow to make it a new year resolution. I'm just going to be myself on the phone in public. Be it on the train, bus, the Co-op or down the GUM clinic with Dave's mate.

Watch out human beings in public places - the real Adrian Lancini is 'coming out'.

Healthy Body V Healthy Mind

Spent some time in a health food shop today. As I filled my basket with spinach fungus tea and gluten-free bisexual yogurt I asked myself a question, "What is point?"

I've been doing a lot of drinking lately. And some smoking. What is point of coming here and buying all this healthy shit when I constantly infiltrate my body with poisonous shit? Well, I'll tell thee what is point - balance. It's all about the B word.

To be totally healthy one would have to give up guilty pleasures. No booze, no fags, no drugs and no watching The Apprentice. If I did give up these and just drank tea and ate bisexual yogurt my body would no doubt benefit but what about my mind? My mind needs these things.

Spiritual gurus would call this a sickness. Society's sickness. I drink because my friend drinks. I smoke because my friend smokes. I watch The Apprentice because my friend watches The Apprentice. The spiritual gurus have a point but maybe risking a shorter life of joyful extremes (I feel good when drinking booze AND when drinking spinach fungus tea) and baffling inconsistencies (happily smoking one minute and cursing it the next) is just as valid as a longer life of sober and steady monotony? They should just make fags out of tofu and we'd all be happy.

NOTE TO MOTHER:
Don't worry. I'm not smoking a lot. Just after three pints or at bar mitzvahs.

The Case Against Fireworks

"Whoopie-woo, it's Fireworks Night!"

You'll notice I've refrained from calling it Bonfire Night. And you'll notice the 'whoopie woo' has a sarcastic inflection. That's because I have issues with fireworks. They have gradually replaced the bonfire as the showpiece. Bastards.

Yes, fireworks are bastards. And here's why:

1) They kill and mame people, sometimes badly

2) They pollute the atmosphere with incredibly harmful toxins which destroy tomato plants

3) They cause stress and depression to cats and monkeys

4) They create ephemeral 'thrills' that mask the true beauty of stars in an evening's sky

5) They only truly entertain people under 10 years old. If you're over 10 years old and are still entertained by them, then please for the love of God, stop it

6) Their sales are controlled by anti-Christmas extremist who use profits to buy weapons of midnight mass destruction.

That all said I do quite enjoy Catherine Wheels

An Exercise In Shoehorning Tree-related Words Into A Review Of An Exhibition Featuring Trees

Ghost Forest at The Pit Rivers Museum
9 July 2010 - 31 July 2011

An exhibition of huge tree trunks from deepest Africa. Good to see the Pit Rivers Museum branching outdoors with their events. At the exhibition's root is climate change and deforestation. Although we've finally twigged what we're doing to the world we're still sapping the planets resources. Any budding news junkie can simply leaf through a paper to see evidence of how barking mad we still are. It's nuts!

Though this is the message the exhibition still blossoms with the beauty of these stumps. It's fruitful to spend time amongst these dead trees though the plinths they sit on could do with some sprucing up. All in all a thought-provoking exhibition that should prove very poplar and have people pining for more. Yew'll love it.

Huge Benjamin And His Massive Hands

Standing outdoors in the cold with a pint and me old mucka Mr King for company. To our left is possibly the most famous clock in the world. No, not the one out of Countdown. No, not one of the surreal melted one's that the Dalai Lama painted. No, not the stopped one in Withnail which still tells the right time twice a day. And no, not the one that gets stolen in a 1980 episode of Terry and June, 'Too Catch A Thief' (my personal favourite all-time episode).

No, I'm talking about the grand old thing in London that goes by the name of Big Ben. The one we all lied that our watches were timed by at school in the eighties.

Two things here spring to mind. How can we be sure Big Ben is telling us the right time? And secondly, why is it called 'Big Ben'?

Now, for the later we could just Google the answer, but instead maybe we should do something else? Maybe we should knock on our old neighbour's front door and ask them if they know. They may then invite us in for a cup of tea and tell us other things like how they made soap in their youth or about how they murdered someone in the 50s and how the body has never been found. In this situation though I suggest politely leaving and informing the police at your earliest convenience.

A Life Or Death Sandwich

Driving into the modest Cotswold Mecca that is Chipping Norton I find myself in a most unusual situation.

I am sandwiched between a hearse in front of me and an ambulance behind. I can't help but devise a scenario.

Imagine if the ambulance driver became distracted by a text message from his nan and drove into the back of me, smashing me into the hearse in front. I go through the windscreen and end up sprawled on my bonnet gasping for life. A critical state yet strangely fortunate. If I survive I have an instant ambulance to whisk me quickly to hospital and life support. On the other hand if I snuff it at least they can just carry me into the hearse and get me buried nice and quick. All neatly done before the Autumn Sales.

Who The Hell Needs Time Out Magazine?

I've acquired myself a new hobby. It's called 'Visiting museums but just hanging about outside instead of going in.' Today I visited the Natural History Museum in London Town and saw the following exhibits:

Exhibit 1
An Hispanic youth lying prostrate on a brick wall, idly stoking the hair of his girlfriend whilst she sat on a bench below him chatting expressively to a friend

Exhibit 2
A blue overall clad bin man emptying a bin and being told by a passing member of staff "At least it's Friday". To which he replied, "That doesn't mean anything to me mate."

Exhibit 3
A Muntjac statue nestled high in the building's facade

Exhibit 4
A white plastic bag flying around in the breeze like in that film 'American Moody Kid' where a moody kid films a white plastic bag flying about in the wind

Exhibit 5
A painfully thin yet über cool and beautiful couple smoking Gitanes and kissing between drags

Exhibit 6
A hazy sun

Exhibit 7
A Chinese man eating Pringles

Next Week: Outside The Museum Erotica in Copenhagen

Squiggle Over The River Evenlode

Katie Q told me over the blower today, "There's no such thing as bad weather, just a bad choice in clothing." I remember Sean Connery also saying this once in a Bond movie before making love to a girl with five tones lighter skin than his.

T'was absolutely belting it down out there. A thick leather belt full of outrageous bling and swashbuckling buckle. I'm ashamed to admit the rain was influencing my decision not to go for an afternoon walk along the riverside. In my defence however, it wasn't just the rain.

I was battling with what to do with a middle eight on a new song. Actually, it's a middle four. Actually, I'm not sure what it is. It's a tiny section of the song that isn't a verse or a chorus. It could be a bridge but I think a bridge always leads into a chorus and this doesn't. It leads into a verse. Maybe it's a small bridge like a footbridge or a bridge a baby would draw that just looks like a squiggle. In fact that'll do. I'll call it a squiggle! I like that. Sounds absurd but it could catch on. I can just imagine four years down the line Morrissey talking about a 'squiggle' in an interview with NME:

"Yeah, I got really stuck with the squiggle on that song so I got Johnny Marr to come in and do it. We're definitely not reforming though. He said he'd just record the squiggle for old times sake. I'll probably get Slash to come in to do it live (laughs out loud)."

He's A Celebrity We Are Safe Here

One wonderful thing about famous people is that you don't need to worry about them attacking you. In the presence of a complete stranger, let's say walking towards you on a remote country path, you can never be totally sure that they won't lunge at you with a crowbar. But say, for instance, you recognise the approaching man as being Michael Winner you can totally relax.

He will not harm you. He's far too high profile so if he did you wouldn't even need to do a photo fit for the Rozzers. You would just tell them to watch 'Michael Winner's Dining Stars' and go for the main guy.

The Friday Sermon - Sponsored By Fiat

4.45pm. Stuck in abysmally dull traffic on the Bath ring road. I've been in the Punto since 10am and for much of it in either stationery or slow moving hell. I'm doing all this as a favour for a friend. He called me last night and asked if I'd mind spending a whole day stuck in abysmally dull traffic. I joyfully replied, "Yeah, sounds great. Where do I sign?" to which he replied, "You don't have to sign anything. Gentleman's agreement. See you at 10."I sit here philosophically. Today is Friday. To me it is the sacred day. But they are only sacred in terms of not working. And I'm not working. Even if I'm sitting in a stupid piece of ugly metal in sweltering heat all day the point is I'm still not working. And that'll do for me. Amen.

An Afternoon Art Attack

An afternoon at an art gallery. On dating websites this is a possible multiple choice answer to the question "What would you like to do on a first date?" Other possible answers include 'A drink or seven in a pub', 'A game of Battleships' and 'An evening pretending your cheese'. I went on a cheese pretending first date once. I just kept quiet and stilton all night while she cheddered on about herself. We didn't see each other again.

I'm not actually on a date myself today but I bump into a couple who are. One of whom, who shall remain nameless for legal reasons (but Matt Sage you know who you are), comes out with the classic put down line of contemporary art critique. The line, "My four-year-old daughter could have done that."

I laugh ironically. I want to ask him how come his four year old daughter doesn't exhibit but then remember:
a) It's this kind of subjectivity that makes modern art so fascinating
b) I've been thinking some of this stuff is quite questionable myself
c) He doesn't actually have a four-year-old daughter

I wonder if this artist actually has a four-year-old daughter, who he gets to knock up the odd piece for his exhibitions. And perhaps she has exhibitions herself where he does the same for her. Other four-year-olds come along to it and announce to each other, "Jesus, my 40 year old dad could have done that."

A Day In Anniversary Wood

It's my fifth anniversary of liberated Fridays. Ah, a day in the woods me thinks.

Ben drives me in. He is a bear, absorbing my enthusiasm like it's absorbable salmon flavoured plankton. He drops me off at The Trout public house. It's all early morning desertion and distant clink of preparation. The sun is moody and adolescent in a parental blue sky. The wood awaits me like crinkly lettuce to slug.

In the next three hours I do not cross one other human being. My only contact with the outside world is a phone call from Page. But more of that later. Patience.

Before I penetrate the wood I'm a sunbathing whore on a wooden bench. Here I discover the hawthorn tree! I lived 25 years 3 months and 16 days of my life in a house called 'The Hawthorns' yet have never known what one actually looks like. I mistook the conker tree we had there for a hawthorn. Armed today with a tree detecting book I'm able to identify the tree next to me as hawthorn.

I penetrate the wood. Dappled sunlight on monster trees. Quiet as a mouse save for the monotone defiance of the nearby A34. Many paths to choose from sets the pattern early. I duck left.

I begin by pussyfooting - edging in and out. In being wood, out being wood and field's edge. Be brave Bombardier! Lose yourself. Jump into the dark and borrow.

I become bombardier and jump. Delightful. A 'he who dares' moment rears it's wise old head. I notice a curious dip down off the path and take it laughing in the face of a nettle fire that crackles and hisses in protest. My reward is water! A hidden gem. A lush pond surrounded by Tropicana.

I skirt round to the sunny side and watch dragonflies catch and enjoy their prey before racing off to discuss their meals with each other. Our equivalent would be describing a delicious meal to a workmate and being met with a hearty "Well, if it's that good then Julie and I must give that place a try." But they never do. They only ever go to the Thai restaurant on the Shepperton Road and who can blame them. Pad Thai to die for.

Onwards I hop, skip and jump past beech, birch and oaks. It's dense. The sky has a limited invitation to this party. Printed on 250gsm paper. Trebuchet font.

I perch above invisible badgers, busy sleeping off their morning sherries before they rise in the still of night to watch Attenborough on iPlayer.

I walk on heartily. A ruminant pace. This is more of a 'be' than a walk. I'm just allowing myself to 'be' in the woods. Some may call this pretentious but I would say to those spiritually impoverished cynics, "Hey there man. Don't fret. Come and snuggle into me. Let me hold you still and kiss your silly little head. It's all okay. Everything's all right. Breathe deeply and feel my heart beat next to yours. Do you feel that? We are alive my friend. Alive!"

There is natural art in these them woods. I shimmy around a piece even the late and great Henry Moore could only dreamt of creating. A fallen twisted and knotted tree trunk has become a kind of eagle faced man tree with appendages spiralling out as if to ward off evil spirits created by the competitive energy of eBay users. I want to take a picture to document my find but have no camera. My phone rings. It's Page.

"Page dear boy, it's you!"
"Yes."
"Oh Page."

"What's up mate."
"Well, I've just shimmied around an amazing eagle faced man tree but I haven't got a camera to document it and show other human beings at a later date."
"Okay mate. I'll deal with this. What have you got with you?"
"A bag."
"Okay. Do exactly what I say. Open the bag up. What can you see inside it?"
"A cardi, a paté and cucumber sandwich x 2, a book on trees and a book on birds, a braeburn, a piece of tiffin, some suncream, 6 plasters, tube of Germaline, shades, a bottle of water, binoculars, 2 pens and a notepad."
"You've got your notepad?"
"Yes."
"And a pen?"
"Yes. Two of."
" Then just draw it man. Draw the eagle faced man tree."
"Draw it?"
"Draw it."
"Draw it?"
"Draw it."
"Draw it!"