I may regret this...

Beth Orton once sang 'What are regrets? They're just lessons we haven't learned yet'. This line never made much sense to me until recently. I interpreted this literally, my understanding being that regrets were just things we hadn't got round to yet, which I knew wasn't true. I've regretted lots of things i've done in the past that couldn't be undone.

And these things are all pretty stupid and trivial.

I regretted sulking my way around a Tunisian castle as a kid only to realise when I got home that Life of Brian had been filmed in the very castle i'd been ignoring.

Whilst playing in the school band in the Efteling theme park, Holland, to a non-existant audience, I regretted saying (very loudly) 'If I was in a theme park I wouldn't be watching us', which lead to me getting evils from everyone else in the band.

On the same trip, when fronting our sixth form band I regretted singing something like 'I don't speak Hollish' and getting the finger from all the Dutch people in the crowd.

I regretted not taking socks out of my jeans before I throw them on the floor. This lead to me walking around Tescos a few weeks ago with a sock hanging out the rear of my jeans, like I had a smelly cotton tail.

I regretted getting smashed on Somerset Cider at Glastonbury 2003, making the Radiohead headline slot I'd been looking forward to for a year a complete blur. I regretted that the only memory I have of the gig was chastising someone who'd never heard a b-side they decided to play.

Amazingly the Radiohead thing actually really hurt me and I could never bring myself to watch the BBC footage and enjoy it. This was a band that i'd been obsessed with since their first (admittedly dodgy) album. 8 years later I had the chance to see them for the first time, at a once in a lifetime gig and I inexplicably got pissed and deleted the whole thing from my brain.

Anyway, enough embarrassment. I've only recently realised what Orton was harping on about, I'd simply not managed parse the the grammer properly. To paraphrase; If you're still regretting something, you probably haven't learnt your lesson yet. The thing you regret was a lesson in itself, and if that thing didn't happen, you wouldn't be the person you are today.

All of these silly regrets are generally quite funny, and everyone has done similar things. When I was telling some friends about the sock incident Jen and I were in tears, struggling to breathe through the laughter. Laughing that much and that hard has to be a high point in life and this would never of happened if my underwear hadn't been on display during the weekly shop.

So I don't really regret anything, mainly because I think it's all pretty funny and I have learnt my lesson - Stop being stroppy, engage brain before talking, consider that saying something you think is funny might be offensive to someone else, take your socks out of your jeans before throwing them on the floor and finally, live for the moment. Even if you don't remember the moment once it's passed.

Right, erm

Christ! I haven't written anything on here for a over a month. My New Year's Resolution was to write something on here every week. I think I lasted about 10 weeks before I realised that over the course of a week very little of interest happened. Still, for a while I managed a few posts a month. And now I'm down to one a month. That's 12 a year. My blogs are now less regular than a DFS Sofa Sale.

My blog must feel like a dejected gadget you get for Christmas. At first you think how on earth could I ever live with out this? Within about a month you realise you can clearly live without it, and 6 months later it's chucked in the drawer and never used again. This blog is like a sandwich toaster. As always, television can explain this far better than I ever could:

Daisy: In the end, our relationship was just like a sandwich toaster. You know, you just forget you've got one. And it just sits there on the top of the cupboard collecting a layer of greasy fudge. And even if you do see it you just assume it's broken, you think if it's working I'd be using it all the time, but you don't and it just sits there. Then one day, you get an overwhelming desire for toasted sandwiches, you know? And you get it down and it works, and you can't believe it, you know? And then you make every kind of toasted sandwich there is, you have toasted sandwich parties. You make Marmite and cheese, chocolate and...

Tim: Pilchards.

Daisy: Banana and...

Bilbo: Acorns.

Daisy: Acorns. And then as quickly as the desire comes, it just goes. And then you put the toasted sandwich maker away. And, you know what?
Tim: What?

Daisy: You don't miss it.

Bilbo: So what you're saying is 'Don't hide the toasted sandwich maker away, use him regularly and you'll get the most out of him'.

Tim: No, she's saying 'Chuck your boyfriend, have a sandwich'. (Spaced)

Of course, that analogy doesn't really work, because I'm not going to go mental and write every kind of post you can think of, or have a blog party where everybody groups around and laughs/crys at my cynical, irregular and miserable commentary on 2009. Maybe I should do a Peter Kay and start re-releasing old blog posts in a slightly different font.

That is all. I only wrote this because I felt bad for leaving it so long. Maybe i'll sneak something in before Christmas.

Another Day, Another Website

In early September we attended to Becky & Matt's wedding at the pituresque Rushton Hall. RNIB had owned and ran the country estate as a school for the blind since 1957 but decided to sell it on in 2003. To be fair, i'm pretty sure the ornate interiors were lost on most of the students (yeah, i'm going to hell).

I've actually visited the estate before in its former guise, as part of the Montagu School Band to perform christmas carols to the kids. We were told that after our performance one child who hadn't spoken for years uttered 'more'. But my black heart just cannot believe something so beautiful and uplifting could be true. Lying bastards.

I stupidly offered to create a website such that everyone can see pictures from the day. I say stupidly, because sometimes I forget that i'm not a web designer. The term web designer is generally (and incorrectly) used for anyone who works on a website, even though the design of the site is only one part of piecing the technical jigsaw together. I'm a Web Developer or (according to my employee) a Systems Analyst Developer. I'm not a graphic designer.

Because of this I agonised over the design of the site for hours plonking things on the page with no real concept of the complete design or understanding of how colours and shapes fit together to create an aesthetically pleasing site. That's probably why the end product turned out pretty simple. Luckily I think my hours of throwing stuff on a page ended up looking ok, but I can't help but think that a professional designer could of knocked it up in 10 minutes.


Anyway, have a look yourself here - www.mrandmrsshort.com. According to my mum, I don't look good with a bow tie on. How rude.

I'm Sorry, We've Ran Out of Home Made Pasta

Early September is always Holiday time for Jen and I. The kids are back at school (i.e. not where we're going), the weather in Europe isn't too hot, and the hope of any decent weather in England is officially on hiatus until 2010. We've been to Barcelona for the last two years, and despite us being able to taste Sangria on our lips (it's cheaper than Blossom Hill) we decided to go to Rome.

As usual, we left booking the holiday until a few weeks before we left. After days exploring Expedia it appeared that must hotels in central Rome were last refurbished in the early 80s. We ended up staying in a hotel that was on the outskirts of the city centre but only a 5 minute walk away from the Metro (a walk which, according to many reviews, passed a number of hooker hot-spots). We were initially sent to the wrong room, probably scaring the life out the person inside when I was trying to force the door open. I inadvertently had my revenge on the staff by constantly pulling on the emergency alarm in the bathroom for 10 minutes (I was trying to turn the non-existent extractor fan on), leading to Jen getting a confusing phone call about trouble in the bathroom from reception. The hotel was very contemporary, having not only a bidet but, next to the bidet, a telephone. And I thought ringing someone on the toilet was weird.

Rome is a deceptively small city and it's easy to stumble upon a breath taking view whilst aimlessly walking through the city (Rome's Metro doesn't stop at many of the big sites; they're building a third line but progress is slow as every time the tunnel advances they unearth some hidden treasure). For example, in the first 20 minutes of exploring Rome we walked down an insignificant backstreet and stumbled upon a beautifully decorated cross road:



Although it is one of the most well known sights of Rome, Fontane de Trevi is a perfect example of a monumental sight unexpectedly crammed in a tiny out-of-the-way square. Unfortunately the tiny square was permanently rammed with huge crowds whenever we walked through it, watched over by the fountain police (to stop people jumping in, apparently). Throwing a coin in the fountain is meant to guarantee a return to Rome. We chucked in 10 cents, so evidently we weren't that bothered. We attempted to take some photos of us sitting on the edge of the fountain, unfortunately this put us directly in the line of fire from small bits of metal flying from the crowd so the photos were a little rushed (hence, not shown).


The most iconic sight has to be the Colloseum, and like the immigrants flogging umbrellas and faux gladiators selling picture opportunities, it jumps out in front of you when you leave the Collosso Metro. Due to the pillaging throughout centuries the Colloseum looked far more impressive outside than in.

We made a habit of using the Collosso Metro at night, as the view on the road walking towards it is amazing. We'd first pass the Monument to Victor Emanuel II, and then walk down a long road flanked by the Forum and ruins of Ceaser's house, with the lit up Colloseum approaching on the horizon.




Anyone who knows me well knows that, much like everything in and attached to my body, my bladder is small but perfectly formed. Rome and I suspect Italy do not do public toilets. One night walking to the Metro I was so desperate I had a cheeky pee half way up a dead-end stair case. Luckily the wall was just above groin height. This has to be the most picturesque toilet experience i've had in my life (not difficult), I felt like Caeser having a cheeky wazz on his was to the Forum. To be fair, a pigeon had pooed on my head a few days previously, so I was just muddying up his turf as revenge. For cover I pretended to take some pictures, one of which is below. Unfortunately, as the camera was merely a prop in my cunning deception, the photo is rubbish. Regardless, here it is:


Although there seemed to be less beggars, dodgy street merchants and theft than in other major cities, those that did it were full on. Beggars were one of two types, either young pregnant girls asking for money to support their bambino or old ladies, hunched over with a stick stumbling around and incoherently mumbling whilst rattling a mini Pringle can full of change. The later were genuinely scary, you could imagine them grabbing your arm and placing a curse on you if you dared to put less than a euro in their retro-fitted savoury snack container.

The scariest beggar we saw was a hybrid of the two types, a scary pregnant old lady (we think the bump was fake). For some inexplicable reason she was wearing a glittery dome shaped hat, looking like she'd been involved in an accident involving a badly secured disco ball. When a waitress tried to shoo her away from an establishment the begger turned, looked the waitress in the eye and made an un-earthly wail at the top of her lungs. After a few seconds of wailing she turned around and continued mumbling at scared Americans. From that point on Jen and I referred to her as Mumm-raa, and regularly ran away if we saw her stalking a square.

Gingers have a lot in common with Vampires - pale skin, fear of the sun and despite all logic, they are deeply attractive to the opposite sex. Well, maybe not the last point, but the Sun is a bitch. And Rome in September gets a lot of Sun, ruining every other photo we took. E.g:



The food in Rome is great and unlike Barcelona the bill isn't full of mystery surcharges. We were genuinely shocked when we got the bill for our first meal and were asked to pay for what was written on the menu. The one night we decided to get food in the hotel we were told that they'd ran out of the home made pasta. We didn't that mistake again. The thing i'll miss the most is the amazing ice cream, which we stuffed in our faces daily.


After four days of walking the city and countless museums history fatigue began to settle in and apathetically it became difficult to be impressed by another gold leaf 20m2 fresco or a monument that only 50 people probably died building. Luckily we ordered things such that we visited the epic Vatican Museum towards the end of the trip.

I had to stop taking photos of the frankly awe-inspiring testament to the Catholic Church's greed and excess as I was concerned that carrying the camera over the border would infringe on the Obscene Publications Act. It is a huge place, and room after room is quite literally jammed with statues, paintings and frescos such that you become desensitized to the beautiful craft exhibited. If you gave every piece the attention it deserved you would never leave. I actually felt bad that I wasn't more interested in large bodies of work - it must be like Disney Land for a historian. Despite Scott's suggestion I didn't get round to asking the staff where the Nazi Gold was hidden.

The Vatican Museum houses the Sisteen Chapel, or as it should probably be called the 'Nippon Sisteen Chapel'. Nippon, a Japanese Company purchased the video and photo rights to the chapel in exchange for paying for its refurbishment. For that reason, photography is forbidden, a rule which is strictly enforced by the Vatican's miserable fun-sponge guards.

The 'Rough Guide to Rome' describes the Vatican staff as

'unsmiling suited functionaries that appear at every turn. A care free experience it is not'

We saw a Japanese couple being marched out of the Sisteen Chapel for taking a photo, a women being dragged away from St. Paul's because skirt length infringement and, ironically, an elderly lady being pulled from her knees for daring to try and pray at the tomb of Pope John Paul II.

Ironically, I think we saw my two favorite things about Rome on the first day. The first was The Capuchin Crypt, 6 rooms entirely decorated using the remains of 4000 monks. Oddly, it was more impressive than morbid. The Crypt's intention was to remind the viewer of the impermanence of life, which is very Buddist for a Catholic Church. No photos were allowed, so here's some I found on the 'nets.




The second was 'The Allegory of Divine Providence' a breathtaking fresco in Palazzo Barberini. I actually found it more impressive then the Sisteen Chapel, more alive, more vibrant, brighter and more awe-inspiring. The fact we were alone in the room and not being shouted at by the Vatican Police probably improved the experience. Something which doesn't come out in the photos is that the fresco looked 3d, the arches in the corner had amazing depth to them, despite the fact it was simply paint on plaster.

Bring on the wall, again

A while back I blogged about painting a pretty large flower pattern on our stairs' wall, aided by a laptop, GIMP and a projector. I mentioned that my Dad painted an awesome Star Wars mural in mine and my Brother's bedroom, free hand, making our monotone technologically assisted job seem a bit weak. Here's a picture Mum dug out:


The Ewok's village has unfortunately been cropped by the 80's lense, but rest assured Wicket was standing there, spear in hand. For added awesomeness, the Death Star and X-wings were painted using glow in the dark paint.

Dad's skills didn't stop with the Empire. Checkout this Thomas the Tank Engine and Postman Pat mash-up, a pre-teen equivalent of Alien versus Predator:


And as if that wasn't good enough, he built us a friggin' fort from bits of an old shed! I don't think I realised how lucky I was when I was a kid, having parents putting this much effort into making sure we had fun. Here I am looking pretty chuffed ruling the fort with my Brother* defending with a Shield, also made by Dad. There was even a trapdoor inside the fort so we could make a quick get-away into the bush behind.


I wish that fort was still there. I'd love to stand on top of it doing my best worst french impressions, shouting python insults at anyone who would listen. You English pig-dog!

Now go away, before I taunt you for a second time.

* We've decided that in this picture my Brother looks like a cross between Phillip Seymour Hoffman and Milton from Office Space

My Hometown is a Joke

I was born and raised in Kettering, a medium sized town in Northamptonshire, roughly in the middle of England. It's famous for shoes and being a bit of a Joke. Literally I mean. For some reason Kettering is funny.

The first use of Kettering in humour (that i'm aware of) is in Monty Python's Travel Agent Sketch, in which Eric Idle talks about being 'carted around in busses, surrounded by mindless oafs from Kettering and Boventry'. Since then (maybe in part due to the Python reference) there's been countless mentions of the town in mainstream British comedy.

A whole episode of Peep Show was spent in Kettering, mostly at the souless head office of Mark's employer. An entire episode of angry man sitcom 'One Foot in the Grave' revolved around a contrived joke about mishearing 'She's in Kettering' as 'She's in Catering'. There's even a classic comedy fanzine named 'The Kettering'. I've been trying to figure out why people find Kettering funny.

Maybe it's the word itself, Ket-err-rin' (as we from k-town say it). There must be something to this, as Douglas Adams & John Llody used it in 'The Meaning of Liff', a dictionary of words that haven't been invented yet. Kettering is defined as:

'...descriptive of the marks on one's bottom caused by sunbathing in a wicker chair'.

Personally though, I think what's funny about Kettering is what it represents. Kettering is funny because it's a town that has ideas above it's station, it's trying too hard to be something it never will. It has visions of grandeur, despite the fact it's always going to remain an insignificant smudge on the map between Leicester and Northampton. What other town would throw money at building an amphitheater jut down the road from a street where every other shop unit looks like it's been hurriedly deserted hours before the economical storm hit town, the remnants of the businesses once occupying the shops obscured by the 'closing down' graffitti painted on the inside of dirty windows. A road where, believe it or not, even charity shops are going out of business.

It's odd, because if you believed what you saw on the TV or road signs, you'd think Kettering was a bustling up and coming town. It's always on the ITV regional weather looking sheepish next to City's like Nottingham and Leicester. It's on sign posts miles away for no discernible reason. I live in Loughborough and Kettering is signposted on the A6, despite being a good 50 minutes away and 'Rock and Bowl' being one of its primary night spots.

The thing that perfectly sums up this desperation is Wicksteed's Park. Wicksteed's Park is the (i.e. only) theme park in Kettering. I'm not sure what the theme is though. Wicksteed's used to be fun, when there was an element of danger. The original rollercoaster had wooden carriages with no harness or belt, just a metal bar to hold onto at the front, perfectly positioned for smashing your teeth on. They had a centafugal death trap that stuck punters to the wall and pulled the floor away. Seeing someone vomit in it was always a treat, because one person to the left would be the unwitting receiver. A bit like a Newtonian version of Russian Roulette. Wicksteed's Park will never be able to compete with the big boys because Mr Wicksteed left what was then an expansive park with gentle boat rides to the people of Kettering, by way of a charitable trust. Wicksteed's spin is:

'Wicksteed Park is unique in that, unlike other parks, you don’t have to pay for the rides if you’re not going to use them'

But this is only because they have no right to charge. Wicksteeds is a nice park, in the traditional sense of the word, but it's tainted by its attempts to be a mega-attraction, with over priced food, tame rides and a lame mascot (Wicky Bear, whos clothes look suspiciously like Super Mario's outfit)

I think the writers of Peep Show picked Kettering because, like the character Mark, it is trying hard but always failing to be something it never will. At one point in the episode Mark and Jess visit Kettering's (fictitious) strip joint 'Lap Land' (Kettering does actually have a Lap Dancing club but it's called 'Cleopatras' and is above a working man's club). There's a huge sign on the wall, reading 'Lap Land, Kettering'. This sign is, possibly not deliberately, a perfect summation of the funny desperation of Kettering. Given how shit the club is, there has to be only one Lap Land in the world, yet the try hard Ketteringite who owns the place wanted to subtitle the name with 'Kettering' to make it seem like a chain, more important then it really is.

I think you can see a bit of Kettering in everyone. If they're naked, sunbathing on a wicker chair.

David Atkins comes from Kettering and lives in a house with Jen in Shepshed. He spends his days programming and pressure washing. He trys to write like a proper journalist, but really isn't good enough. He's a true child of Kettering.

Jen, Music, Good Films, A Lawnmower with a Bag and a Pressure Washer

I think about three years, I realised that I really don't need a lot of money to be happy. My happiness list was, in this precise order: Jen, Music and Good Films. All of which is pretty affordable. Apart from Jen, obviously. She's not for sale (that didn't sound right, it's not like I own her. Or could put a value on her. Look, she's not yours. I have got a VHS copy of 'The Big Lebowski' going free though if anyone wants a good film).

In the last few weeks I've found two things to add to the list: A lawnmower with a bag and a pressure washer.

I heart my pressure washer. I'm going to clean everything with it: the patio, the car, neighbour's cats, my teeth. For the first time in my life I actually left work early because I was looking forward to cleaning something. I'm a changed man.

So, that's my happiness manifest : Jen, Music, Good Films, A Lawnmower with a Bag and a Pressure Washer. Try it yourself. You'll need to find your own Jen though.