D.I.Y. (Destroy It Yourself)

DIY has never been a great passion of mine. The letters B and Q have been known to bring me out in a rash, and my tool-wielding skills just about stretch to knowing which end of a hammer you use to hit things with. But this week has been like a crash course in Do It Yourself. That's crash as in 'crashing down' or 'crash bang wallop'. I'm finding it hard to type this because I nearly cut off the tip of my middle finger today when I shut it in the front door, but let me soldier on.

We ripped off the seventies wallpaper, along with a lot of plasterboard, to reveal more holes than the plot of the Da Vinci Code. Our walls are now 60% Polyfilla and are waiting for several licks of paint. Actually, make that several slurps of pain. To smooth them down we rented a buffing machine - an enormously heavy thing that made me its bitch for a day. There I was, Sars mask on, earplugs in, goggles in place - oh, how I wish I'd had a camera. Every time I breathed the goggles steamed up so I could hardly see the walls I was meant to be buffing. We pulled up the carpet - great cathartic fun, ripping its green hideousness to bits - thinking that we would find beautiful floorboards beneath, waiting for sanding. But no. We found two great slabs of concrete among the wood and a hole that appears to lead to the centre of the earth. One moment of sobbing despair later, we had arranged for a man to come round and put down new flooring. There goes our home improvement loan.

We also put up coving, which was like trying to solve one of those fiendish Chinese puzzles, removed the skirting boards - more big holes - and tried to level off the concrete slabs. Butter has learned to use a chisel like Michelangelo, but she had a number of what I like to call 'episodes' today, especially when the 'No More Big Holes' stuff we'd just bought at, deep breath, B&Q (where we've spent £300 this week and only seem to have a piece of sandpaper to show for it), turned out to be missing a nozzle. Then I dropped the sugar soap, lighting the touchpaper of her fury and unleashing a torrent of naughty words. I would have got her to wash her mouth out with sugar soap afterwards, but there wasn't any left.

Of course, it's going to look gorgeous when it's finished, like something from the wildest fantasties of that foppish decor-meister Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen. But without the bright purple MDF. There are no photos because I keep forgetting to take the camera, but just imagine a building site. Then add mess.

Our House

We are now the proud owners of this house.





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My company held a poker afternoon yesterday to celebrate our 5th birthday. We went to a poker club called Gutshot, were given £5 each and then taught how to play. I've never played poker before in my life and started out thinking my poker experience was going to last 30 minutes after losing hand after hand. Somehow, though, I hung on - and ended up in the final nine prizewinners (out of 40 people) then the final 8,7, 6... In the end it was just me and Giles, battling it out, hearts thumping, mouths dry. At one point I had such a huge stack of chips that I couldn't concentrate - I just wanted to sit and count them. And perhaps it was this lack of concentration, or bad luck, or fear, but he beat me. I still won £58 though. And the adrenaline! My God. I felt like I'd climbed a mountain afterwards. Fantastic stuff.

We get the keys to our house today. More news of that to follow.

'Pol-axed

Interpol were slick, professional and tight but never at any point threatened to spontaneously combust or do anything else spontaneous. There was no interaction with the crowd apart from a couple of thanks yous and one "thanks for coming out tonight". So I was underwhelmed. I could have sat at home and listened to their CDs.

Butter ran 15 miles today, her longest distance yet, and has retired to the boudoir to rest her legs. She smeared peppermint lotion on her feet which meant the rats kept trying to lick them. Aah, sweet. Not so sweet when they nip.

We played a fun game at work the other day - you had to guess the previous jobs other people in the office have done. Things like underwear model and handy person for the Adult Channel, whatever that involves. Not fluffing, I'm told. I've had some awful jobs in the past: child support officer was the worst; complaints handler for Connex a close second. But I've also been a broad bean picker, a cornflake checker (picking out the brown cornflakes on the conveyor belt), a Kleeeneze salesman (going door to door flogging buckets and cleaning liquids), a pickle maker, a pizza chef, a washer-up, a tyre stacker, a greengrocer and a jelly baby packer. I've suffered, man. And it wasn't even for my art.

We're going to see Interpol tonight at Brixton Academy. I can barely be bothered to go. I'm sure they'll be good but I'd rather sit on the sofa and watch Doctor Who. What's happening to me? Am I finally old and dull? Still, it is good to get out and away from the continuous nauseating coverage of the Pope's funeral. Am I alone in not caring? There'll be another Pope along soon. He too will be homophobic, misogynistic and propagate the myth that condoms are little rubbery passports to hell, thus causing thousands more deaths in Africa. The whole thing makes me sick. But Polly Toynbee puts it a lot better than I can in The Guardian.

Talking of things that make me sick, there's a royal wedding today. Now, I have nothing againt Camilla, apart from the hunting, and it irritates me that so many people stand in judgement against her because they thought the adulterous, attention-seeking Diana was such a bloody saint, but that "I wish I was your tampon" thing was pretty gross, wasn't it? It's also the Grand National today - like the Royal Family, another out-dated institution that should be consigned to the knacker's yard of history, just like the poor horses who will fall and break their legs in the name of entertainment this afternoon. I have an affinity with creatures that break their legs, but at least no-one was calling for me to be put down after my fall. At least, I hope not.

Okay, that's my spleen vented for today. Perhaps I should have called this new blog 'Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells'.

MarkCity is dead...

...long live NewMarkCity!

Future civilisations might speculate about the mythical MarkCity in the same way people talk about Atlantis. What happened to it? Did it ever really exist? Was it brought down by earthquakes, alien invasion or apathy? The truth is more prosaic: the bloody comments feature stopped working and the site went into, if not meltdown then at least slowdown.

You'll have to bear with me while I get the links set up again and make this place look like it actually belongs to me, rather than one of those off-the-peg Blogger sites.

But this is our new home now. Change your bookmarks, bring all your friends. And welcome to the new home of ramblings about rats, girls called Butter, toys, indie bands, reality TV, Japanese stuff, books and many other exciting/trivial things beside.