WoW

I like the online games, and my father-in-law is always playing, unfortunately, he's on the other side of the world, so we can't play online together.

Well, geography isn't the only reason.

I bought a trial version (2 bucks) of World of Warcraft and I've been playing this subscription online RPG over the last seven days, six days left in the trial.

I hate it.

But, I've been playing for the last seven days because it's free, and well, if I collect on my next quest, I could garner the valued Spectral Sword of Gavadin, it's a special sword, maybe, in the six days left I can do whats required to earn that item.

World of Warcraft PvP (people versus people) players will tell you there's no such thing as the Spectral Sword of Gavadin, don't believe them.

Spectral Sword of Gavadin = 30 damage points

The trouble is, if I do score this sword, and at almost 49 years of age, it's a great achievement, yes, if I do make that score, the danger is that little Billy, 7 years old and a level 59 Paladin, will challenge me for a dual on my thirteenth night and win, steal my sword and I'll just be left, once again, with my wooden dagger.

Wooden dagger = 1 damage point.

So, I'll play for the next six days I'll do my quests, gain my points, earn my sword.

Then I'm going to hide from a 7 year old for the remaining five hours.

And I will not renew.

I will not subscribe.

Never.

Buzz in when you know

Graeme was telling Matt and myself a story this morning at work, about rain and a bridge "over the by" back in bonnie Scotland that had a tendancy to flood when it rained.

A minute into his diatribe, he made an audible bzzzzz and tried to continue the gripping tale. I stopped him and asked the tiny crowd if they'd heard it, Graeme hadn't but Matt cracked up and said that he had and wondered what the hell it was.

We rationalised that the numbskulls had buzzed in and curtailed the as yet untold boring story from the Scot, saving us all from a wasted life.

This would be handy, I mean, imagine, every time you tried to communicate a crap anecdote or naff blog the numbskulls would just...

bzzzzzz

What was I saying?

Rain Dance

The weather tonight was perfect for our walk, it had been raining all day and it decided to stop, well almost, for our half hour walk. It was like being back in Britain, back to those miserable days when the light rain would eventually soak you to the skin, grey skies and the exotic scent of dampness, bronchitis and dysentry.

The memories of youth with wet Crosville buses full of drenched smokers with steaming anoraks and parkas, the happy feeling of finally being in a mostly dry vehicle with that warming second hand smoke filtering through your nostrils and the thought of mum cooking liver and onions for tea and perhaps a slice of apple pie and a cuppa to wash it all down.

The rain became such a part of my early life that I enjoy the stuff, I stroll through the car park while other people run, I love mornings when it has rained overnight, the feeling of life and the freshness of the air, a long way from those smoke filled Crosvilles.

There is no real negative to rain, and a lot of very good memories can be had in those bygone rainy days.

The early trips to Butlins when the weather wouldn't always cooperate and we'd all have to go indoors for plan B and maybe stuff matchboxes or watch the redcoats performing or presenting our fathers with their trousers rolled up for the knobbly knees competition.

The afternoons spent sat in the back of the Vauxhall Victor estate with our I-Spy books or magnetic disguise kits, the rain pattering on the roof while thermos flasks of hot tea filled the car with steam and spoilt our view of the seaside.

In my teens, I cycled with my brothers road club on a Sunday, and it probably rained, we'd cycle across the bridges of the Mersey and end up at Two Mills for a pint cup of tea and the best beans on toast on the planet. Then on to Colwyn bay and more rain, more tea, probably more beans and then a long cycle back. The exhausted, soaked David being helped along on the way home by his older brothers mates (seldom by his older brother who was always at the front of the pack).

Happy times.

Match Box Stuffing

It's been a while since I blogged about Butlins, the British holiday camp that my mum and dad took us to every one of our formative years, well, it seemed like it at the time and we didn't complain.

How could a kid complain about endless days, massive swimming pools, different nosh and pirates.

Yep, that pesky pirate that the redcoats finally captured at some point and made walk the plank (high dive board) and take his come-uppance in the pool. Hurrah!

It must have been a break for mum and dad as well, most of the time me and my brother Rob were being baby sat by those same redcoats, lots of activities to tire the kids out during the day, games, treasure hunts (pirate stuff again), rambles and of course the all rides are free amusement park. in the evening there was the chalet patrol, a mobile babysitting service, while mum and dad enjoyed time in such exotic locations as the Gaiety Ballroom, the Continental or Blinkin' Owl bar.

If you corner me, and get me started about it all, my eyes will glaze over talking about the fountains, late night donuts, a famous childrens entertainer called Mr Pastry and long soaks in the Olympic size pool with my multicolored rubber ring stuck underneath my armpits and fingers and toes that were pickled by water.

There's a website called Butlins Memories and the old memories indeed come flooding back. I'd forgotten about Radio Butlins, the local propaganda station, the so called "social cycles" that had four wheels, Puffing Billy, the train that puttered around the streets delivering happy campers to glamorous granny competitions, afternoon variety performances and beautiful baby contests.

How did I forget about match box cramming?, where the eager Butlins Beavers would rush off and find as many things in half an hour to cram into a matchbox, the winner being the one with the most unique items in theirs.

It was a great time, it may all seem pretty naff to todays kids, with their internet, Nintendo, minivan dvd systems and big screen five point one everything. It certainly wasn't back then, it was magical and it was core family fun that will stay in my happy memory storage files until the hard drive gets busted.

God bless you Billy Butlin.

God Bless and thank you mum and dad.

Anecdote

I'll avoid pulling my company down again, although there are increasing reasons to vent.

The long weekend was spent in the garden, learning that three cubic yards of topsoil are not equivalent to three of crushed stone. Jeepers.

It was a good job that I borrowed my buddies wheelbarrow, the weekend resulting in one of those Alex Trebeck Jeopardy anecdotes, it's a none-event anecdote, a non-story, best described in the full Jeopardy way.

Alex "Dave, and over to you, you have an interesting anecdote about the time you were laying crushed stone down in the garden and after three cubic yards of shifting from your driveway to the back yard you thought that you were going to be short by just one bag but quickly found out that there was just enough, can you tell our audience about that?"

Dave "Yes I sure can Alex, it's true, me and my wife Karen were laying crushed stone down in the garden and after three cubic yards of shifting from our driveway to the back yard we were very worried that we were going to be short by just one bag but quickly found out that there was just enough!!!"

Alex "Thats a fascinating anecdote David"

Dave "Thanks Alex, I'll have Anal Bum Covers for a thousand"

Alex "That's Album Covers"

Dave "Whatever"

Backtrax

Blue October.
The All American Rejects.
Mobile.
Hedley.
Angels and Airwaves.
AFI.

Not mentioning Nelly Furtado, oops, I just did.

About twenty groups are recreating the 80's for me at the moment, brilliant stuff, brilliant groups. Shades of early U2, The Cure, Depeche Mode and god knows what.

Mobile, a fantastic group from Montreal, shades of Duran with a fresh spark.

Nelly F. Canada all the way, sounds great with Timba and TimberL. Bril. Smash. UK.

Love to Love ya baby.

Letter to Mike

Mike

Couldn't do without you.

For all you invisible people on the web, Mike is my son.

Nothing over the top here, just a reminder that I was there when you arrived, missed a bit in the middle, but I'm here, will always be here. If you ever need a helping hand, I am here.

Simple as that.

Dad.