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Found 13 results

  1. It's past 2.00am and I'm pondering if I want to get up at 5.00am to watch the last ever episodes of Lost. After all, Lost is a phenomenonenomeything, isn't it? Well yes (he says, answering his own question) it is. I was addicted to the first season - why do they call it a season and not a series? Addicted, and couldn't wait for the second to start. Then, when it did, and as is usual in the UK (curses to all responsible) it was taken off free-to-air and bought by that scuzzoid Rupert Murdoch and his Sky TV station. So, sadly, with tears free flowing, I gave up on it. Then ... eventually ... I got sucked into getting Sky and there it was: Lost. By this time it had become sooooo weird I had no hope of catching up, and honestly I though I'd probably be floating around a graveyard before it finally finished. Now, in less than three hours, the final episodes are being aired. At the same time all over the planet. W00T! But ... and here's the rub, am I going to struggle out of my beautifully warm and wuzzly pit to watch it? Do I really care that much? I guess it'd be kinda like having listened to the original Orson Welles 'War of the Worlds' transmission in the 50's. 2030 at a 2nd Life drinkyoos party. Everyone's wearing the latest virtual sex outfits with additional length (though smaller is still prefered by some): "Yes, yes, I watched live as the end of Lost went to air back in 2010. Oh yes, I was programmed with the J.J.Abrams virus, too. Another iPopper, anyone?" ------------- And then there're pills. I still have a full box of Prozac yum-yums, and haven't decided whether to start taking them or not. It's not a little decision, like taking asperin for a headache. And I don't want to make a mistake and turn into some sort of ravening beast ... or conversely hide my head under a rock for the next few years. -------------- The writing is going well. There, I've said it. No more excuses. It's true that what I'm writing might end up being twaddle, but at least it's being written, and! I'm getting a buzz everytime I fire up the computer and begin. And that, as they say, is that. Will I watch Lost? Will I pop pills? Stay tuned for further waffle and possible updates. And if you fancy having a goog laugh then click HERE and read Jason's latest bloggy missive. Cheers, y'all! Camy
  2. Camy

    Bloody typical!

    A long time ago I read a book called 'Empty World' by John Christopher. It begins with a global pandemic that first kills off all the adults, and later, most of the children. It's the story of how a very small group of survivors gets on. When I first read it I was the age of the book's hero: a teenager. Now that we are about to suffer a real pandemic I find myself in positively the wrong age group. Bollocks! Much like the public information films about nuclear war that suggested we should loiter behind a door, under a pile of earth filled bin bags, the U.K. government's response to swine flu suggests that: The best way to protect yourself and stop the spread of flu viruses is by using and disposing of tissues and washing your hands. They have also come up with a very catchy phrase: CATCH IT, BIN IT, KILL IT. Obviously Hummers, camouflage outfits and AK47s are of no use whatsoever. Not that I have a Hummer or an AK47, though I do have a rather natty pair of desert camouflage pants. Still, I'm going to be most miffed if I sneeze myself off this mortal coil before I've written a stonking good novel. Hmm, best get started I suppose.
  3. Camy

    Muse vs WoW

    My brain is being battered by warfare. Muse - bless his cotton socks - wants to do stuff, but me, I can't seem to get it together. I mean, here I am on the computer, typing. But when it comes to putting words in order that do anything close to telling a tale. Pah. So it's off to bloody (and yes it is bloody with the amount of poor beasties I've slaughtered and skinned) Azeroth. I have three alliance characters that I'm levelling (don't ask me what it means, 'cause I don't really know). One, a Human Paladin is at level 8 (whoopdeedoo) and is presently dead. My Night Elf Druid (level 5) is also, presently dead, and my weency Gnome Warrior is alive and kicking at level 5. Credit where credit is due: WoW is great fun, but the hours and hours I spend playing makes me feel oh so bleedin' guilty. I mean to say ... I want to have a legacy of at least a couple of dozen novels ... and an album or two, and I'd quite like to knock up an audio play as well. And yet. And yet .... What I really need to learn is WoW speak. The forums are ... well, interesting, to say the least. The problem is they seem to speak a language I don't understand. Here's an example: If anyone can translate I'd be overjoyed. Okay, so maybe overjoyed is a slight exageration. But interested, at least. I just have to 'say no'. "No more WoW! No more!" he said, sweating as Tealshy, the Night Elf, batted his eyes seductively with his 'come hither' look. "I have to write, don't you understand?" Tealshy pouted. Tum te tum te tum. Anyway, I'm in the middle of 'The First Term' which is a direct continuation of 'The First Day.' I'm not sure when it's going to be finished, but, WoW permitting, soon. Ave. Camy
  4. Camy

    Sunday babbling.

    Sunday. Sunday, Sunday, oh tranquil ol' Sunday. The day of rest, so sayeth the wise. Unless, of course, you've decided - in a moment of skint fiscal madness (and not my own, I hasten to add) - to 'do' a car boot sale. "Must I?" "Oh yes, it's fun, and we'll make money!" It's not that we ever do make money - or enough to write home about, anyway - but generally we have a laugh. "Oh okay then. But you have to get me up." (minds out of gutter please). So ... on Sunday morning I wake up, glare at the cat - who can sleep on, and stumble downstairs for coffee. Finally I phone him. It rings and rings. Eventually: "Mmmm ... uh ... what time is it?" "You were supposed to call ME!" "Oh ... so, uh ...." I relent and almost laugh. After all, I've had coffee. "I'll pick you up in half an hour, it's a beautiful day." "Umm ... do you still want to, then?" Unfortunately, I adore going back to bed: especially when I shouldn't. And even more so when I can get up later and watch Formula 1! Yay! W00T! A few hours later, during a commercial break, I get an email: Dearest Emu, I should be taken outside and horsewhipped. If you don't hear from me again, you can have all my equipment, (maybe you'll get a tenner for it). I am now going to disappear into the sea with some sad music playing, (some of my own, of course). Don't mourn for me, I don't deserve it. Goodbye cruel world. Lots of love, M. Guffawing, I turn off the TV and drive over - thus missing the conclusion of, probably, the best race of the season. Ain't love strange? Sebastian Vettel won. At 21, the youngest ever winner of Formula 1.
  5. Camy

    Me ... me me me.

    I'm beginning to feel chilled and happy. The stress of the last year has finally vanished over the horizon - never to return - and it's summer! What more could a chap want? Oh yeah, that. ;) That's being worked on. *coughs and blushes* Ooops. I'm late.
  6. Camy

    Uber stressed

    I'm stressed. Stressed to the point of twanging like a human harp - except without the nice chilled music. Another 48 hours will see me either beamishly copacetic, or in a damn nut house. I Pray (or I would if I wasn't agnostic) it's the former ... 'cause I've never really fancied a straight jacket. Too dashed uncomfortable, don't you know. Pshaw.
  7. Camy

    The point

    The point. Of life. Is there one? I'd like to think there is. I'd like to think that it's not all for naught ... but I wonder. The years roll by and I find myself getting more and more jaded. More and more meh. That's not to say that I'm giving it all up to join a hermitage. I know what I want to do, and I know that I can do what I want to do ... but the shear amount of effort required sometimes seems pointless .... I wish I didn't ponder. I wish I could slob out in front of the tube and 'hey presto' some poor bastard would eventually arrive and shovel me into a re-cycling bin. Ho hum. Maybe not. ... more coffee ....
  8. 'tis a beautiful sunny day, even though it started off with a frost. I'm looking at this: which is rather nice, except I'm trying to hate it as I'm selling up .... ... and I'm just off to play with M. Playing with one's true love is ... well pretty damn fun, especially as he's such a good keyboard player. He's just got a new guitar, which I get to strum, and apparently he's written a new song, too: so that should be good. The cat says hello, as do her Mum and brothers. Ave, peeps. Camy
  9. Camy

    Cats are a PAIN!

    It's raining, and the cats are in a fractious mood. Cody sneaks up on her brother ... wakes him up ... he gets grumpy, and starts chasing her ... she comes thundering upstairs, and hides on my lap. Then they go out, and back in again: wet. I have to stop what I'm doing and dry them off ... then they go out again ... and back in ... and .... Ad-infinitum. I'm part exchanging them for a hamster.
  10. Camy


    Two days ago I came thundering down the stairs and wacked my knee into a stupid door frame. Yes, I know. Since I live here, I should know there's a door frame at the bottom of the stairs, but hell .... Anyway, it still hurts ... in fact it still ^&$$()_$%!!! HURTS! So I've had words, and whilst the door frame won't apologise, it said if I'm careful, it'll try to stay out of my way. Yeah right.
  11. Camy


    Arriving home after a long, and very hard days manual labour, is ... just peachy. I can go to bed - or stay up and veg out with the TV brain death machine. Tomorrow, I can throw the alarm clock out of the window without feeling guilty. In fact I'm free ... for almost two days ... FREEEEEEEEEEEE!!!! Until Monday. Damn Monday.
  12. Camy

    The Car Boot

    Sunday car boot (trunk for those with a different vocabulary) sales have taken over from church as the place to congregate. Not only do we all worship the great God Mammon, but we either get a bargain or two, or make a few quid - depending if you're buying or selling. I've been both, but today I was selling. I HATE it. Hate, hate, hate it! Got the idea? It's so damn embarrassing having total strangers trawling through your tat.... But needs must when the devil drives, so suffer I did, with cheesy grins to all and sundry. Mindless gossip with penurious proletarian peasants. Not that I'm hoity toity by any stretch of the imagination, it's just that I FUCKING HATE IT! Then there's the guilt. Selling 'things' that my father gave to me. It was strange: there was an old (pre 2nd world war) small two drawer wooden filling cabinet. One person wanted to buy it, and yet if he'd offered me a fortune I wouldn't have sold it to him. The chap who eventually bought it 'felt right'. So here I am, back home. I'm not rich, but not poor. I guess it's better to make a few quid rather than chucking it all away, but I still hate it. There's another one next Sunday!
  13. I've added a new category 'Claptrapish' This is for claptrap that has marginally more ... erm ... possibilities than straight common or garden Claptrap. Here's an example: Astrology. Believe? No. No proof; but it can be entertaining. http://www.freewillastrology.com/horoscopes/aries.html Aries March 21st - April 19th '"If you hold your dreams too tightly, you'll crush their little ribs," was the message scrawled on the wall of a public restroom I visited today. I immediately recognized that as excellent advice for you. While I'm usually all in favor of cultivating a ferocious devotion towards one's goals and desires, I've noticed lately that your grasp on yours has turned into a manic clench. Please let them breathe better. Give them some slack. Maybe tell yourself a joke about how funny you look applying that death-grip.' Totally meaningless, but entertaining = Claptrapish.
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