Putting the GRRR into grumpy.

Apparently the best thing to do with problems is to sleep on them. Which I guess could work for wriggly girlfriends, but the myth of waking up with a perfect solution to a previously insoluble problem has always passed me by. Mainly because during a crisis of Al, I engage a furious single tasking mode that bypasses both sleep and food reflexes.

This has so far failed to provide a Eureka moment, but it has allowed me to take a slightly longer view of the problem. In fifteen years of car ownership, I have barely had a mechanical blip through a rambling pantheon of Marques and makes.Β  Looking backwards at money travelling in wheeled form, we see Honda, VW, VW, Audi, Audi, Ford, Vauxhall and Ford. What we do not see are any expensive repairs or levels of unexpected explosions.

And then we get to the Renault. A car so unreliable it once broke down seven times in a single 24 hour period. And then six more the following day. I was on first name terms with the AA man, and we both agreed it was not only a Friday afternoon car, it had been built by seventeen pissed Frenchmen using only hammers, chisels and random engine parts scavenged off a WWII tank.

The Boot Spoiler – before it fell off – proudly proclaimed this was the 16V SPORT CHAMARDE variant of a fine historical marque. It quickly became known as the “Commode” when the electrics first flickered and then failed, the radio ate a succession of tapes*, the brake discs cracked, and various trim and panels flew off dangerously as speeds approached the legal limit.

During the few times it wasn’t broken or refusing to start, it was hellish fun to drive. You never knew whether you’d get to your destination, but what fun trying to get there. I refused to exchange it for another pool car and spent many happy hours marooned on backwater verges, bonnet up and confused expression in place.

And then a Salesman with an IQ of petfood nicked it while I was on holiday, and drove it through a ford**. Obviously – being French – it retreated to the far bank and then spectacularly exploded, never to be revived. Since then my car ownership has been boring, conventional and – important point this – reasonably affordable.

But now the French are back to finish the job. My leaky intercooler is sealed using some kind of large hair crimp rather than a proper weld. This saves about $20c on manufacturing costs, but does have the slight downside that a good percentage of these oily radiators begin leaking, with fairly catastrophic effects for the now non lubricated turbo.

Nissan go with the Plausible Deniability defence pretending to be Ostrich’s and refusing to accept that a 1000 people on the Internet know they are liars. “Not a know problem sir” they trill, and refer you back to a dealer who has the smile of a man coming to the end of his personal credit crunch.

I know I’ll have to fix it. I’ve no idea how much it’ll cost, whether it’s all down to me, how long it’ll take or even when it can start. I am confident thought it’s going to provide the kind of eye watering, vein throbbing experience that calls for a stiff drink at regular intervals through the day.

To take my mind off the horror of all this, I was lucky enough to be summoned to London on the 5:53 from Ledbury this morning. After 10 minutes or reading the paper, I’ve decided that was way too scary so started worrying about my car again. And in doing so have made a stunning realisation: 21,200 miles, 36 months old and no problems. 21, 600 miles, 37 months old and properly broken.

Is this some kind of built obsolescence that carries the warranty period, and then guarantees future revenue for the accredited dealers? Sounds possible – maybe those Frenchies are a bit cleverer than I thought.

* Mainly Genesis and Duran, Duran. The local garage wag diagnosed the problem as the stereo being a bit of a music critic.

** A water one. Not a crazed attack on a competitor in a Sierra. Although it wouldn’t have been the first time

Stop Press!

Maybe I should. My mum – MY MUM FOR GOD’S SAKE – has just registered a comment:

should be cabbage looking, you forgot hold it under the cold tap or have a hot bath.you are excused your bad language as you have just cause.a week ago as a valued customer i was told i would be rung back in 24 hours by the manager i am still holding my breath.this is late because i could not access your blog. your disenchanted mum

See, here is me within drinking distance of 41 and still I’m being corrected by my mum! I don’t know what’s worse, my poor old* mother having to choose between being struck off by another rubbish ISP, or gaining access to hedgy roadkill on the Internet highway. Hobson would be doing his nut!

Anyway, all I need now is to find that woman I used to work for to have my quote corrected “No I didn’t say what little talent you had, I said what little bullshitting ability you had

πŸ˜‰ Chickens. To Roost. Home. Make a well known phrase if you must.

Oh Hi Mum! I’ll go fire up the blowtorch for talktalk.

* Not in the true use of the word here. Let’s all be clear. Mature like a good wine, that’s my mum. Not old.**

** Did I get away with that?

5

In a moment of pandering populism, and because working is preventing me from riding and writing, I’ve gone with a line from each of the barely started nonsense.

I once wrote down a erstwhile thesis on farting. All my work since then has been on the decline. It was the standard for grading based on smell, sound, length and pitch. Included in the many sub groups and derivatives were the ESF, the vegetable, the kamikaze and the trumpet.

* The answer of course is neither. Get meat paste you pretentious knobber.

He looked at me strangely and told me that I should thank my lucky stars there was even a platform. Until 1997, you merely threw themselves at a passing train and – if you were lucky – got hauled in by the other passengers.

Unless performance drinking counts. Opionion is divided I think it does, everyone else disagrees.

Er’s unked and purgy, wuzzy wench.

If you continue to be unkind, I’ll go and sulk behind option 6. Then who’ll be sorry eh? Well me obviously and nobody else would give a monkey’s trunk. I think I have made a very important point there πŸ˜‰

No idea, frankly.

During a particularly difficult work conversation many many years ago, my somewhat prissy and process focussed boss spent five minutes articulating pomposity as an art form. Before finishing up with “your biggest problem is you are not a completer/finisher“.

No it wasn’t. I had two bigger problems than whatever the fuck that means. Firstly, I was properly brought up not to face-slap a women however much their smug, sanctimonious bearing twitches the fist of death and, secondly, I needed to pay a new mortgage about 1{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} more than firing out a resignation barrage ending with”Why don’t you just stick your completer-finisher up your fat arse. You’ll be needing to take your head out of it first”.

She also accused me of being – in no particular order – lazy, wasteful of what little talent I had, obstructive, mule headed, difficult, loud and generally insubordinate and lacking in respect. I TREASURE that appraisal, God I’ve so sold out. Anyway this is probably why I find myself with 13 unfinished articles. Two of which I promised for magazines back when paper was the kind of novelty that’d get your head stoved in by angry tablet makers.

But until someone – and I’d suggest a process driven individual with a penchant for detail task management* – turns down the ‘stuff happening’ meter, it’s difficult to see how the odd amusing sentence or two is going to be dragged into the published world**.

So I need your help. It’s about you bloody put something back rather than just participating in this group therapy experiment. So given the choice, which of these would you rather tut over your morning coffee***

1) A whine about what happens when starting running after ten years meets the reason you stopped
2) What to do when your satellite navigation rings. Apart from narrowly avoiding crashing, while spluttering “woooah fucking aliens are right in here with me
3) Commuting: The view from a hut. Jeez, that’s almost as dull as it sounds
4) Local dialect. The Western Debrett etiquette correct response on being asked if one wishes to “grapple with my ball joint”
5) A random line from each.
6) Nothing. Just STFU. It’s just you and your imaginary friends you know. Blogs are barely one step up from sidling up to random blokes in a pub and telling them what you had for breakfast.

It’s 6 isn’t it? Thanks for letting me down gently πŸ˜‰

* You’re dull. Get over it.

** Except for those two articles. They’re finished. Just need a final polish. Honestly.

*** Other beverages are available. Tea for Northerners. Something fresh, fruity and blended with hedgehog sperm**** for the southern metrosexuals and vodka for those of us facing a tough day.

**** Quite tricky to extract. Allegedly.

Read all about it..

… if you haven’t already. Here is the Hedgehog’s low tech answer to the BBC’s iPlayer. The “read again” feature has been laboriously updated with the best* of the last quarters delusional ranting placed here. So if the web offers you nothing but doomsday predictions and sex with goats** and skiffle practice has been cancelled, then the Hedgehog offers up reheated nonsense and amusing spellings.

I think of it as electronic recycling. Others may chose different words. To my utter amazement, the bikes page has not been updated. That’s three months gone by and not so much as a single new frame. That can’t be right, can it?

For the briefest moment, I gave real consideration to revamping the site, hiding the archives, attempting a WordPress upgrade to bring the release level to something this century, etc. But after an in-depth analysis of the work involved, instead the ‘cant be arsed’ upgrade was installed and I’ve moved on.

Talking of updates, let me share with you everything that has happened around selling this house and buying the other one. <---- that whitespace lists progress over the last month. Maybe we should sack it all off and move to the south of France. Some good riding there, I've heard πŸ™‚ * Possibly not the most correct use of the term, but I felt worst was damaging to my already low self esteem. ** That's about the limit of my surfing ambition, the second merely in the spirit of balance πŸ˜‰

Anyone seen Mr. Mannering?

Because when Corporal Jones shouts “Don’t Panic”, I can add a contemporary suffix along the lines of “Change of plan, PANIC“. Considering the deep shade cast by my mountainous to do list, hedgehog stuffing is vying for April’s “most stupid idea” although considered opinion suggests “Yeah, we’re ready, let’s open Terminal 5” is a shoe in.

Things began to go badly wrong once I bucked everything we’ve learned about the Y chromosome and attempted to start two things at the same time. Obviously I’ve finished neither with packing for the world’s most geographically confused airport properly interfering with desperate maintenance on my London bike.

Before I could unleash sharp tools on the latter, I first had to learn fast a skill of urban archeology to find it. While there was something recognisably bike shaped and broken, it was camouflaged under a year of grimy abuse. After an hour of determined effort – aided by a cleaning products that can only be handled with kevlar mittens* – I had transferred the grease from the bike to my trousers.

And my hands. And every cleaning object I own **. And anything I touched was layered with the shiny sludge of a black compound with its’ own chemical symbol and a half life. I had a chat with my inner woman and she declared my trousers fit only for burning and left shaking her head. Still this put me in the mood to multi task – abandon the still broken commuter and make space to ruin it properly by packing the Cove for our cheeky Pyrenees weekend.

Now I’m sat here with a vague feeling of disquiet. On the last two trips, my disc rotors failed to survive falling off the baggage truck, so planning ahead I carefully removed them. Not quite planning far enough ahead to actually put them in the bike bag though. No I did, I’m sure of it. Of course I must have. I mean, where else could they be? I’ve only turned the barn upside twice already hunting for integral bike parts kidnapped by fridgesuck***

I could unpack the bag but the simple act openage will stud my eyebrows with pointy components packed at a pressure of about a 1000 PSI. Because, although I pulled back from packing every tool, item of clothing and the emergency badger into the straining maw, I have secreted at least two types of chain oil and a spare seat post. And maybe some disc rotors.

No, bugger it. I’m leaving it. Definitely. Well until 2am when staring at the ceiling becomes boring and nothing short of a full and frank investigation of the inner recesses shall finally scratch this mental itch. So my brief education into urban archeology may well come in useful later. I have restored the shabby commuter to a working bicycle that no longer creaks, groans and wobbles erratically on a rusted bearing.

There’s enough of that going on with the owner. Right, off riding in warm rain until Tuesday swapping tales or daring with the truth and trying to stay out of hospital. One thing though, my commuter did have disc brakes when I started all this didn’t it?

* On first glance, I read kittens. Still they brought the frame up to a lovely shine.

** The RSPCA are clearly going to have something to say about that

*** As an advanced student of 4-Dimensional losing things, I don’t even need a fridge for this to occur.

You can’t please all the people, all of the time.

Clearly, as from a response to this post I wrote haranguing Chiltern Railways on their rubbish cycle facilities and slightly poorer rail service.

You really are a sanctomonious prat and reflects the current state of he world today. Cant get what you want so make everyone out to be a jobsworth. You are not saving the planet you are helping to achieve in its destruction. Grow up and get a grip stick your bike and yourself somewhere else is anyone really interested in your abusive jibes and personal attacks on the service industry.”

From a disgruntled employee or man not entirely sure how to spell sanctimonious?

I was delighted to find my words can annoy people I have never met. And nutters as well because – childish, grip-less and prattish as I apparently am – how the hell can riding a bike be a weapon of mass destruction? Still full marks for spelling achieve correctly. And although the last sentence makes no sense whatsoever – some punctuation may have given me a clue – I’m pretty clear on the general sentiment.

A while ago, a post summarised all the groups I had so far upset in two years of writing this rubbish. It appears I can now add – and I’m guessing here – ‘Chiltern Railway Employees” πŸ™‚

If the Devil designed websites…

He would look approvingly on the labyrinth of hell that is American Express Internet presence and declare his work done. After nearly converting the laptop into a discus, I’ve come to the conclusion this is a cunning ploy to ensnare you in a web of vaguely related sites until you’re forced to call the premium phone line. Never have I seen anything so under performing, so badly laid out, so bereft of any usefulness and so insanely hard to navigate. Well, except maybe for Belgium.

Old Lucifer could then turn his horns onto Valentines day which is a real triumph of marketing. Dapper gentlemen with speech impediments machine gunning each other in 1920’s America were magically converted into a multi billion pound love industry. So mainlining that grumpy vain, I decided to send Carol my Valentines wishes by email. That’s almost as good isn’t it? It wasn’t as if I actually forgot*. I mean she’s not going to think I didn’t try is she?**

Work is basically flipping between “ARRRRGHHHH” and “GRRRRRRRR“. All I will say is if you are not prepared to accept the answer, don’t ask the sodding question. It is fine timing that we are going on holiday, otherwise my frustration may lead to mugging innocent members of staff as I angrily vibrate down the corridors of cower***

Are we ready to go on holiday? In a word, no. In a few more words “has anyone invented a time machine?”. Carol is rigorously enforcing the luggage limit by ruthlessly returning what the kids demand are mandatory items. In Random’s case, this includes the house. She’s not totally grasped the concept of a motorhome and seems to think we’ll be sleeping under bridges. Which considering my Valentine faux pas, I may well be. Or with the fishes, if we’re going back to the original concept of the day.

My packing involves hiding money for beer, and unearthing cleanish shorts, sunnies and a novelty hat. And finding a way to decouple the part of my brain that is suffering from PMT ****. And between now and actually arriving in a place where email doesn’t, there are days of travel hell which represent a similar amount of pleasure as passing a hedgehog shaped poo. I expect the pain to last almost as long as well.

And on that happy note, I shall begone to warmer climbs. There is the slimmest chance of some outside broadcast hedgehog should the twin planets of sobriety and Internet access align themselves in my personal geography. Failing that, enjoy the rest of your winter and expect photographs and lies when I’m back.

Which is on March 10th. I cannot tell you how good it feels to write that πŸ™‚

* Okay I did

** She is

*** Like power only with more terror.

**** Post Management Trauma.

Fucking hell..

.. I am aware that swearing is lambasted, by those with gene-baked condescension and leather patched elbows, as substituting poorly for a limited vocabulary. And I know – my mum for one – there are many normal people, who have noses for purposes other than looking down, agree with them.

I’m not one of them. It’s a mental steam valve which relieves the pressure of a world tilting ever further to the arse biscuit side of sodding irritating. If we could just reclaim the centre ground of pragmatism, it would be perfectly acceptable to suggest to almost anyone “You are a world class F*CKWIT. I’ve met far more intelligent C*NTING ferns. I’d put my F*CKING house on your inability to locate your C*NTING ARSE with both BLOODY hands and a F*CKING copy of Grey’s C*NTING anatomy

Through the shadowy power of latent parenting, I’ve gone with censoring stars but you’d hardly have to be a crossword wizard to work out what I’m talking about here. Remove the madness of political correctness and all will be well. And anyone who responds to an outraged – but perfectly crafted – fucking hell with “Why, when there are perfectly good beds in heaven?” shall be killed instantly. Both for the their ludicrous pretension at what lies beyond the pearly gates, and for being an prissy dog-lobber.

The reason for my base exclamation was the realisation that old hedgy is on an unprecedented third orbit of the planet. Even when you consider a new vanity publisher spears the blogsphere every second, and the certain truth that content is not even lightly tethered to intelligence, that is still somewhere beyond the furthest tenets of sanity. But rather than distress upon the past, we must look to the future and wonder how long can I possibly continue writing this drivel.

I was going to stop at Christmas but then became annoyed. And then new year sprung a new river of angst. Then I checked out how much real therapy costs and, frankly, that’s a fuck load of beer. Maybe going cold hedgehog with three weeks away in New Zealand might do it, and yet I’m already looking forward to spamming you all with a million pictures of children being hung over gorges and told to behave.

Right enough of wasting my Friday night writing this. Although wasting is a descriptively a little light as the beer fridge door has been seeing some action. Which generally leads to an orgy of expensive bike fettling. Just to be clear, the parts and frames were expensive before “Drunken Al and his Twirling Spanners” were loosed upon them. No where in the instructions for fitting a front mech are “Neck four bottles of beer before starting”.

And since we started with swearing, I’d better finish with yet more beer that my eldest – and almost antique – brother shall be necking to celebrate his 9 millionth birthday. I’ve emailed him to caution against a birthday riot of coke and hookers as he’s no longer the young man he thinks he is.

The hedgehog actually hit a toddling two on January 5th. But it is like British Rail* in here. Arriving eight days late, this post is statistically on time.

* Re-Nationalisation of our railways has been undertaken by stealth. And through the intelligence and integrity of our political class, we now have the worst of both worlds. For further study, see Foreign Policy, Domestic Policy, Tax System, Health Policy, etc. Oh God, this is why I don’t do politics. Because drinking for breakfast is ridiculously stigmatised.

Christmas presents..

… a number of seemingly insurmountable challenges. First off is how to usefully occupy your time, before it is deemed appropriate to crack open a beer. Secondly, the correct make up and dosage of drugs for children suffering from chronic excitement. And some unspecified lurgey which has Random croaking like a 20-a-day man, and Verbal running a temperature high enough to risk imminent explosion.

I’m sure – come Santa time – a miraculous recovery will sweep through the family and instead we’ll all overdose on chocolate, pop and extreme present opening. I intend to avoid the annual relative cluster-hug by heading first back to work, and then over to a bikey Wales. This is merely displacement activity when faced with the real possibility of breaking Al’s life rule #1. You all remember Rule#1 don’t you?

Assuming I achieve a karmic balance between boredom and alcohol, the many unfinished drafts may bleed into published. Then you too can share the exasperation of your loved ones shouting “Will you get off that bloody computer and get on with vacuuming the cat“. For fifty one weeks of the year, our house is clean, tidyish and welcoming, but imminent in-law arrival triggers an illogical need to turn it into a show home.

This just puts everyone on edge, though you dare not sit down on one without running the risk of extreme dusting. But because this sort of stuff lives in the “never to be understood” slice of the life pie chart, I’ll treat it with respect and a bottle opener.

So until then, Happy Hedgehog from the holidays. Or something like that.