Readers of a nervous disposition or those who still like to believe (against all reason) that drunken mayhem and I don't have a curiously symbiotic relationship should find something else to do. Seriously.

Mur Lafferty presents I should be drinking writing.

Pater's dial-up has become b0rked. It sounds like something exploded halfway through an entirely unneccessary 'upgrade' foisted by a clueless marketing dept.

How long has that Freeserve acct been working? Eight years?

Can I remember anything about Winders dialup? Nah. No-one in range of their domicile has Whiffy that I can leach for out-of-band ( Read more... )

I'd been wondering idly about the startling cost of Voda's international roaming and the cheapness of O2 ditto when the mobile went off (if you've heard my phone ring of late, it's an appropriate simile). It was a fellow from O2 who wanted to know if I'd like to 'upgrade my contract' or similar consumer-jabber. Since I've not bought 'service' from ( Read more... )

Not a useful and productive day; I could have got more done if I'd stopped home in bed. Meanwhile, the greater mass of humanity took every possible opportunity to make me think ill of them ( Read more... )

I've certainly mithered about Septembers recently. I've probably also gone on about Sunday Evening Terror and the Sign of Impending Doom that is the theme to 'Last of the summer wine'. I also recall opining that 'hump day' is a terrible thing to name perfectly serviceable Wednesdays. TGIF? Oh, do fuck off. Don't like Mondays? I dislike the Boomtown ( Read more... )

Davenports beer at home.