Avaragado's blog

It doesn’t show up amazingly well here, but the white-on-black text says:

“Industry Highest1 15,000:1 Native Contrast

Delivers True Black without any loss in brightnests”

What’s a brightnest? Is that what twitchers call it when a bird lays an egg on top of a lamp post?

Remember the week that was, back in February?

No, I haven’t had another one. But said person from that week today created a new profile on the web site where we originally got chatting. I know that because he visited my profile, which leaves a trace, and ‘nodded’ – a sort of one-click ‘hello’. (Other greetings are available.)

And then in the space of about twenty minutes, he logged out; logged back in again; looked at my profile again; and deleted his account. (I didn’t visit his profile at all – I can tell all that from the way the web site shows my own visitors.)

Whatever can it all mean?

In Blair’s Britain, summer lasts all year long. It’s been about 10 degrees C warmer than average for the last few days so bare white legs, sandals avec socks and tins of lager were much in evidence on Saturday afternoon in town. As is my habit, I spent an enjoyable half-hour watching tourists flail about with punt poles on Madgalene Bridge. There was one accidental swimmer, who received a very generous round of applause from assorted diners and gawpers upon clambering back onto his punt.

It was a gentle prelude to the evening’s entertainment: a couple of hours at the Pickerel, wherein Pimms was dispensed in jugs, and then a meal at Edwinns to celebrate my birthday (photos). The waitress impressed us with her dislike for the decor: twigs in pots, that sort of thing.

Avaragado’s rating: eleven lemons

Some of us returned to the Pickerel until closing time, whenever that was, after which Chef and Andy came back to mine to eat chocolate cake (as supplied by Andrew; four portions down, about another twelve to go). Chef jabbered away and we also edited an article on Wikipedia (drunken encyclopedia authoring, it’s what the 21st century is all about). They left, uh, at some point, I forget.

Sunday was my birthday, and the gods smiled upon me: no hangover.

I pootled around for most of the day, then wandered in the sunshine to the Zebra for pre-cinema pizza. The Zebra’s now run by the people who used to be at Sino Tap (which is now being turned into a posh restaurant, apparently), but they’ve just taken over the County Arms – so they’ll be moving again. Andy and his orchestra mob follow them everywhere for their post-rehearsal booze-up. I think, actually, the rehearsal is just the excuse for the booze.

In keeping with the sunny theme of the weekend we saw Sunshine at the Vue. Reviews seem to be mixed, at least the ones I’ve read. Mutterings about sub-2001 psychedelic endings. It’s sadly inevitable that a film like this will be compared to 2001 – ooh look, a long journey in a space ship, a talking computer, general mayhem. Cue blither about Kubrick, iconic cinematic blahdom, men in monkey suits beating up other men in monkey suits. I think that’s quite lazy. It’s like comparing it to the Matrix because some people wear sunglasses.

What’s true is that this isn’t a by-numbers blockbuster. It’s an effects-heavy movie with some Hollywood names and it’s about The End Of The World, but it ain’t a Hollywood film: hooray for that. A Hollywood film would, let me see, have scripted some love interest, and would have had an American not a Chinese commander. And surely a different ending. It would also have cost more than £20m.

The producers did make the actors speak with an American accent, since, I guess, non-Americans are all commie pinkos and villains. The actor playing Trey, the ship’s navigator, was in the second series of Look Around You. Apparently the film was made in the East End of London, by the River Lee. Insert other Wikipedia-derived factoids here.

I came away from the film feeling generally cheerful, determined only ever to use Patrick Moore-approved protective devices when looking at the sun, and happy that Andy didn’t spaz out when lights started flashing in the film.

Avaragado’s rating: cress

Item: in the Mitre, a bloke carried a fresh pint about six inches before engaging butterfingers. It made a lovely crump as it hit the floor, spraying nearby punters with ale and glass. We were just out of range.

Item: in Ask, Andy knocked over his glass of red wine. Our “comedy” waiter picked up all the shards, which was a good idea since otherwise we may have slashed him.

Item: in the Fleur, someone had some nice spectacles.

My brother’s newish, non-traditional and generally funny blog has been reviewed.

In the Guardian.

And they’ve even plugged his book and his web site!

As far as we know, all Time Lords but one were wiped out in the Time War with the Daleks. The details are sketchy; the survivor doesn’t seem to want to talk about it, for reasons of future storylines. However, I can exclusively reveal that some other Gallifreyans also escaped: they toppled through time, took a wrong turning just outside Cleethorpes and are now working at Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs as tax inspectors.

My evidence is compelling and confusing. To be on the safe side I am currently inspecting all my photographic prints for missing or faded relatives. I am also naturally on the look-out for DeLoreans containing white-haired professors and thirty-year-old teenagers; telephone boxes containing valley stoners and sundry historical figures; and of course any one of at least ten odd gentlemen in varying degrees of fancy dress accompanied by screeching companions with a propensity for tripping, dawdling and/or wandering off.

Here’s the evidence. I would show a simple timeline of events, but there isn’t one. There are two. I shall present them in handy tabular form.

This morning I phoned them up. A nice old man with a nasty cough performed about three hundred identity checks before telling me that I’d have to write to customer services. So I cranked up OpenOffice.

In the letter I have appealed to the Lord High Council of Gallifrey (Tax Department) that, under paragraph zz9 plural z alpha of the Finance (Alternate Timelines) Act, it is unfair to retrospectively apply charges to a corporeal sentient being without formally notifying that being in all applicable timelines such that he, she or it has the ability to avoid late payment. Subsequently (or is that presequently) I have decided to retrospectively fine them £1, effective 1 Jan 1665, the founding date of the Board of Taxes. I imagine that’s accrued some interest.

Anyway, that’ll teach them. In fact it may already have taught them. Oh yes.

Lynda, Chef, Mike and I scooted down to Bath on Friday for a weekend visiting Sarah, Ades, Jo and Alice.

Lynda and I left Cambridge in glorious sunshine; by the time we reached Bath – and orbited parts of it a couple of times trying to zero in on our hotel – it was raining. Once finally located the Paradise House hotel was most agreeable, verging on the posh. Free use of a net-connected laptop was a bonus, and it even had Firefox installed.

Unfortunately Lynda must have mortal enemies in Bath taxi firms. I think we tried three different companies and the only occasions we were picked up on time were post-midnight. We bailed out on one after 45 minutes and two “where is it then?” calls; it was faster to walk down the hill to get one from the railway station instead.

Friday night was spent at the Hop Pole, where the chef was persuaded via our waitress to serve food other than just mushrooms to vegetarians. Mike, Chef and I went back to Sarah’s for more booze afterwards; it was a 3am finish. Despite engaging in the cardinal sin of beer, white wine and red wine in the same evening I felt fine on Saturday.

We lunched by a swollen Avon (must’ve been Servalan, ah HA HA HA HA HA); the Jolly Sailor, I think, a ten-minute drive out of town. It was sunny and just warm enough to eat outside. The beer garden there is, amusingly, on an island reachable only by clambering over a lock gate; I can only guess at the shade of purple turned by the Health and Safety droid.

In the afternoon the climbers climbed and Lynda and I perused the shops. We also popped into the Bath Tap to peruse the locals. That evening we braved the world of taxis again to head to Sarah’s for home-made pizza, wine and the lunar eclipse.

On Sunday morning, after a very nice breakfast that we unaccountably skipped the day before (see the 3am finish), we checked out and headed home. It rained all the way until Cambridge, more or less.