So I just had a powercut.
Nothing particularly remarkable about that, especially considering this wasn't a weather based cut, but one from ghostly apparitions flicking the switch on my fuse box.
It turns out that running my microwave, PC and a heater is too much.
Previously, I found out that running my PC, air conditioner and hoover were too much - but I digress.
I groped my way to the box, flicking the switch with some effort. Everything turned back on except the PC, so I went to press life into it. Alas, nothing happened.
Panic set in, and I whipped out the PSU. About fifty presses later and nothing was happening. I gave up, put it on the side (still fully attached) and with a last gasp, I pressed the power button. To my surprise it worked. I let it get past BIOS (to ensure the mobo, cpu and mem were fine) then turned it off again. I loaded the PSU back into the case and turned it back on. Everything fine. I then screwed it into the case, turned on the computer and sat back; to a blank screen.
Oh.
I threw logic out of the window and surmised that the screws must have shorted. I took it out of the PC and nothing happened.I repeated the same process as before to no avail.
I was about to crack open the myriad christmas presents I have on the floor (to entertain me during this long, bleak afternoon) when it fired up. Now I'm sitting here completely perplexed.
I was previously running the heater and PC on the same bar, so I've split them up, I don't know if that will stop this from recurring, but it makes me feel better inside.
I wonder whether it's an overheating issue? If the heater and PC are fighting for leccy on the same bar, does that cause it to 'work harder,' (obviously it's an inanimate object, so it doesn't 'try,' to do anything) to get the juice it needs?
Combined (at full juice) my heater and PC need 1500 watts (plus 2 screens and speakers), which seems like quite a lot to me.
Thoughts are very much welcome as to why it wouldn't load up, and ways of avoiding this issue in the future.
I checked the program I was running at the time, no corrupt files, bonus!
I'm going out for a half hour run now, of course I'll turn the computer off in case it goes all arsonist on me.
The PSU doesn't smell funny either, which suggests to me that it's not overheating. I don't know.
Friday 23 December 2011
Monday 19 December 2011
Patents Infringed, BT Ceases to be Relevant
One example
One example of an alleged infringement is Android's ability to allow a music download if a smartphone is connected to a wi-fi network, but to prevent it when the device only has access to a 3G data link.
Sunday 18 December 2011
(Seven Minutes, Countdown Begins) / (There is my Dike)
So apparently the average person falls asleep within seven minutes of going to bed. Everyone thinks they're special, which makes them not so special - but in this regard I feel I am, if not unique, then gifted with sleeplessness. Last night for example, it took me over an hour to get to sleep.
How do I know, I hear you cry. Well, I went to bed at 11.25, stared at the ceiling (or the backs of my eyelids) and looked at my clock some time later; at which point I was greeted with an indication of it being 12.45. As such, I'm rather tired today.
This isn't a rare occurrence. I would guess at the average getting-to-sleep (I'm sure there's a technical term for it) time for me being around forty five minutes. That's an incredible amount of unproductive time. It's time where my body is not recharging, where my brain isn't regenerating and where I'm not playing games/reading books/watching movies/laughing at Bill Bailey.
If the average person sits on the bog for decades of their life, then I lay on my bed doing absolutely nothing for even more decades. Twenty one hours per month. That's a day every month. That's two weeks a year, lying down, staring at the ceiling.
I've tried herbal shampoo, floral decorations and the 'music,' of bamboo rustling in the wind. Nothing works. The only way I can guarantee getting to sleep within an hour of lying down, is to ensure I am ruddy tired before going to bed. I'm not talking 'I only got six hours sleep last night,' tired (which is what I am now), I'm talking the 'I just went on a seventy-two hour heroine, booze and cocaine bender,' kind of tired. What's more, the average person requires eight hours of sleep a night, but can function on less. If I get eight hours, I wake up with a headache, feel crappy and generally zombie my way through the day. A good nine hours, and I mean nine without being woken up in the middle of the night, the kind of sleep mummified Egyptians excel at, then I'm golden. That morning is like the blissful awakening, the following day will be fantastic and nothing will stop that being the case.
Now obviously I'm an average person, which makes me suspect we've all been duped. Our working days are perfectly calculated to ensure we do the most amount of work with the least relaxation time to ensure we're the most productive we can be. I suspect, therefore, that we need much more sleep than we're led to believe in order to keep us productive. It's just a theory of course, but one worth thinking about.
Therefore, as an addendum - if anyone has a job with flexible working hours, like a writer for example, then I'm all ears.
#EDIT# Just came out of a lesson, 'are you sure that's right?' The kid was adamant that his lesbian was leaning against the wall (I understand the spelling differences, sheesh). This kid has a particularly nasty form of DATT Syndrome (-head All The Time) so I left him with his lesbian bicycle. Have fun with that.
How do I know, I hear you cry. Well, I went to bed at 11.25, stared at the ceiling (or the backs of my eyelids) and looked at my clock some time later; at which point I was greeted with an indication of it being 12.45. As such, I'm rather tired today.
This isn't a rare occurrence. I would guess at the average getting-to-sleep (I'm sure there's a technical term for it) time for me being around forty five minutes. That's an incredible amount of unproductive time. It's time where my body is not recharging, where my brain isn't regenerating and where I'm not playing games/reading books/watching movies/laughing at Bill Bailey.
If the average person sits on the bog for decades of their life, then I lay on my bed doing absolutely nothing for even more decades. Twenty one hours per month. That's a day every month. That's two weeks a year, lying down, staring at the ceiling.
I've tried herbal shampoo, floral decorations and the 'music,' of bamboo rustling in the wind. Nothing works. The only way I can guarantee getting to sleep within an hour of lying down, is to ensure I am ruddy tired before going to bed. I'm not talking 'I only got six hours sleep last night,' tired (which is what I am now), I'm talking the 'I just went on a seventy-two hour heroine, booze and cocaine bender,' kind of tired. What's more, the average person requires eight hours of sleep a night, but can function on less. If I get eight hours, I wake up with a headache, feel crappy and generally zombie my way through the day. A good nine hours, and I mean nine without being woken up in the middle of the night, the kind of sleep mummified Egyptians excel at, then I'm golden. That morning is like the blissful awakening, the following day will be fantastic and nothing will stop that being the case.
Now obviously I'm an average person, which makes me suspect we've all been duped. Our working days are perfectly calculated to ensure we do the most amount of work with the least relaxation time to ensure we're the most productive we can be. I suspect, therefore, that we need much more sleep than we're led to believe in order to keep us productive. It's just a theory of course, but one worth thinking about.
Therefore, as an addendum - if anyone has a job with flexible working hours, like a writer for example, then I'm all ears.
#EDIT# Just came out of a lesson, 'are you sure that's right?' The kid was adamant that his lesbian was leaning against the wall (I understand the spelling differences, sheesh). This kid has a particularly nasty form of DATT Syndrome (-head All The Time) so I left him with his lesbian bicycle. Have fun with that.
Wednesday 14 December 2011
Situation NAFU
I remembered about the military lingo website I looked at a while ago. It had a ton of extra-linguistic direction, showing how to communicate in military sign language ala every action movie you've ever seen.
That last sentence had two red underlined words, try to guess which ones are spelled incorrectly.
Anyway, on this website (the information I gleaned ensures I can now competently hold my own in any hostage situation) there were some cool acronyms that have passed into everyday usage. One of the relatively common ones is SNAFU. I dearly love this word, because it could easily be a real loan word. The usage has changed somewhat, as a snafu is a tight situation, or a sticky one if you're so inclined. It's common enough that the red wiggly lines aren't showing up, but uncommon enough that I've never heard it in normal conversation. It essentially means: Situation Normal, All messFed Up.
I think this conveys a mixed message; do you want reinforcements or not? Who knows.
Anyway, my current situation is nowhere near nafu, it's probably best translated as simply SN. Therefore, to alleviate boredom (and give me something to write about) I've been trawling the darkest, foulest depths of the internet, resulting in many BBC hits.
This links to some rioting in china. This is something that happens dozens of times every day, so I don't know why the beeb chose to hone in on this example. There are thousands of reports of organised protests, by the communists own admission. This probably means the situation is far more SNAFU'd than we might expect, primarily because those damn commies never tell the truth. Damn them. Also damn the capitalists, who in their rush to deny every human being (except themselves) basic human rights, won't even let the poor crap in peace. It says a lot when it's cheaper to get a man to clean out your portaloo every week, rather than pay the equivalent tax to the government. The pipes that were laid costs a few dollars to maintain, it costs a few dollars to pay a man to flick some switches here and there, then it costs a few hundred dollars to make sure the mayor has enough cars, hookers and solid gold, ivory plated statuettes to impress the president when he video conferences.
In other communistical news, this article shows you how to create the perfect cigar. I'm waiting for some pompous fart to point out that tobacco is a drug, and in creating this slideshow the BBC is condoning the use of heroin, crack and/or marijuana, the well known ultimate super drug. Quick, no one point out that the ingredients are rather difficult to get a hold of, contained as they are on an island that some might call xenophobic.
I honestly didn't know that one should not inhale the smoke into ones lungs. When I move on from cigarettes and heroin, I'll be sure to heed the advice of this article. Of course, once I move on from heroin there is only one final destination, with a stopover at marijuana alley.
If you need a reason why religion should be banned, this is it. Among the crimes committed by the group of punks: looking unsavoury, asking for money, uhm. Thank christ (see what I did there?) these nutters aren't let loose in any built up area of England. 'Oi mate, got twenty pee, need some fags like.'
There are several terrible things about this story. Firstly, the people 'fighting,' for their rights think that becoming a punk and listening to shit music is a teenagers way of acting out.
Firstly, I don't know how many thousands of years people in Jakarta have been listening to punk music, maybe it is a part of their cultural heritage, but I seriously doubt it. It's yet another form of globalisation (yes, me teaching English, IRONY HAHAHAHAA. Sigh.) that undermines the traditions of the country.
Secondly, punk music is garbage, why would you want to do that? Why?
Thirdly, 'acting out,' didn't happen before the war, or even after the war, or even in the fifties. Those hippies have got a hell of a lot to own up to.
Fourthly, Muslims aren't even an ancient and historical part of Indonesia. They only recently decided to enact spastic, nonsense, made-up law, or as it's known elsewhere 'shariah,' law. This boils down to, essentially, the ten people in command can punish you for any action, and because there's nothing written down, the response can be anything we want it to be. Oh, and there are no trials. Nice.
Fifthly, 'They are Aceh's own children - we are doing this for their own good. Their future could be at risk. We are re-educating them so they don't shame their parents.' Okay, so that's obviously complete and total Orwell. Which one is it? Are you 'saving,' them, are you protecting their futures, or are you saving their parents. When you have to give three crappy reasons for illegally imprisoning your own population, I feel you're starting on the moral back-foot. Good luck to those who are being re-educated, and good luck to those making up and enacting these faux laws - I fear for your safety once these kids wake up and realise they live in a society that values you less than their mobile phones. Imagine a country like that eh, where people are the most common (and therefore cheapest) commodity available. They'd be downtrodden, ground into the dust. Going to work every day, without a soul, no sense of self. It'd like being on the tube in rush hour.
Lastly, this old article made me chuckle. At least the religious nutters in the land of kiwis have got a sense of humour (and no sense of self-preservation apparently).
That last sentence had two red underlined words, try to guess which ones are spelled incorrectly.
Anyway, on this website (the information I gleaned ensures I can now competently hold my own in any hostage situation) there were some cool acronyms that have passed into everyday usage. One of the relatively common ones is SNAFU. I dearly love this word, because it could easily be a real loan word. The usage has changed somewhat, as a snafu is a tight situation, or a sticky one if you're so inclined. It's common enough that the red wiggly lines aren't showing up, but uncommon enough that I've never heard it in normal conversation. It essentially means: Situation Normal, All messFed Up.
I think this conveys a mixed message; do you want reinforcements or not? Who knows.
Anyway, my current situation is nowhere near nafu, it's probably best translated as simply SN. Therefore, to alleviate boredom (and give me something to write about) I've been trawling the darkest, foulest depths of the internet, resulting in many BBC hits.
This links to some rioting in china. This is something that happens dozens of times every day, so I don't know why the beeb chose to hone in on this example. There are thousands of reports of organised protests, by the communists own admission. This probably means the situation is far more SNAFU'd than we might expect, primarily because those damn commies never tell the truth. Damn them. Also damn the capitalists, who in their rush to deny every human being (except themselves) basic human rights, won't even let the poor crap in peace. It says a lot when it's cheaper to get a man to clean out your portaloo every week, rather than pay the equivalent tax to the government. The pipes that were laid costs a few dollars to maintain, it costs a few dollars to pay a man to flick some switches here and there, then it costs a few hundred dollars to make sure the mayor has enough cars, hookers and solid gold, ivory plated statuettes to impress the president when he video conferences.
In other communistical news, this article shows you how to create the perfect cigar. I'm waiting for some pompous fart to point out that tobacco is a drug, and in creating this slideshow the BBC is condoning the use of heroin, crack and/or marijuana, the well known ultimate super drug. Quick, no one point out that the ingredients are rather difficult to get a hold of, contained as they are on an island that some might call xenophobic.
I honestly didn't know that one should not inhale the smoke into ones lungs. When I move on from cigarettes and heroin, I'll be sure to heed the advice of this article. Of course, once I move on from heroin there is only one final destination, with a stopover at marijuana alley.
If you need a reason why religion should be banned, this is it. Among the crimes committed by the group of punks: looking unsavoury, asking for money, uhm. Thank christ (see what I did there?) these nutters aren't let loose in any built up area of England. 'Oi mate, got twenty pee, need some fags like.'
There are several terrible things about this story. Firstly, the people 'fighting,' for their rights think that becoming a punk and listening to shit music is a teenagers way of acting out.
Firstly, I don't know how many thousands of years people in Jakarta have been listening to punk music, maybe it is a part of their cultural heritage, but I seriously doubt it. It's yet another form of globalisation (yes, me teaching English, IRONY HAHAHAHAA. Sigh.) that undermines the traditions of the country.
Secondly, punk music is garbage, why would you want to do that? Why?
Thirdly, 'acting out,' didn't happen before the war, or even after the war, or even in the fifties. Those hippies have got a hell of a lot to own up to.
Fourthly, Muslims aren't even an ancient and historical part of Indonesia. They only recently decided to enact spastic, nonsense, made-up law, or as it's known elsewhere 'shariah,' law. This boils down to, essentially, the ten people in command can punish you for any action, and because there's nothing written down, the response can be anything we want it to be. Oh, and there are no trials. Nice.
Fifthly, 'They are Aceh's own children - we are doing this for their own good. Their future could be at risk. We are re-educating them so they don't shame their parents.' Okay, so that's obviously complete and total Orwell. Which one is it? Are you 'saving,' them, are you protecting their futures, or are you saving their parents. When you have to give three crappy reasons for illegally imprisoning your own population, I feel you're starting on the moral back-foot. Good luck to those who are being re-educated, and good luck to those making up and enacting these faux laws - I fear for your safety once these kids wake up and realise they live in a society that values you less than their mobile phones. Imagine a country like that eh, where people are the most common (and therefore cheapest) commodity available. They'd be downtrodden, ground into the dust. Going to work every day, without a soul, no sense of self. It'd like being on the tube in rush hour.
Lastly, this old article made me chuckle. At least the religious nutters in the land of kiwis have got a sense of humour (and no sense of self-preservation apparently).
Sunday 11 December 2011
The Fondness of Stevenage
So the yuropeonz are making a satellite system to watch everything we do, in order to fine us.
I'm not even joking.
They're making a group of so called 'sentinels,' to monitor who's producing what environmental discharge, in order to fine any lawbreakers. This will, naturally, extend into watching through your window to make sure you're law abiding, but I assume it might take a while until the lense required for that is developed. It won't be until 2020 that the climate system is operational, so do all your ill-deeds now, before the voyeur satellite is launched (presumably some time before the climate system becomes sentient and takes over the nukes.)
One interesting tidbit gleaned from the article is where it's being made.
Stevenage isn't exactly the first place I think of, when high-tech (hi-tech) industry is mentioned. This is stupid of course, as my whole family is/was involved in aeronautics and kill-onautics at BAE systems which is a forerunner of pretty much all advanced tech in England. The problem is that my view of Stevenage is worlds away from the hermetically sealed labs of spacecraft creation. In my mind, I liken the creation of extra-terrestrial objects to the creation of bacteriological weapons, and as a result the umbrella corporation. If you don't know what that is, you're not nerdy enough for this blog. Sorry. I'm going to have to ask you to leave.
If you do know what that is, then I'm going to have to ask you to get out of your house more often, and possibly get more exercise, while certainly eating more healthily. As a result, I'm also going to have to ask you to leave. Sorry.
But look on the bright side. Stevenage, while not quite Newcastle, Manchester or Hull, still has enough burnt out cars to provide scrap metal aplenty for the ship. They can make any number of mistakes (something you wouldn't often want to hear uttered around a space mission) and still have enough material to build plenty of spares.
There will be pieces of old Nissan flying around the planet yet, just you wait.
As an addendum, to address my attempt at writing a novel in November (an admirable website called nanowrimo taunted me into starting), I failed. Quite miserably, I might add, with some 12,500 words written over the course of the month. The story was about... well something that's for sure. In those 12,500 words I only managed to establish three scenes within the structure, one of a prison, one of an airship, and one of the airship attacking the prison. As such, I fear it was a terminal case of the BrÖntes, describing every minute occurrence. Where it doesn't stack up is in the interest, as I am quite willing to read her work, I would be unwilling to subject a self-aware being to my story. Quite inhumane.
Also, check this madness out.
I'm not even joking.
They're making a group of so called 'sentinels,' to monitor who's producing what environmental discharge, in order to fine any lawbreakers. This will, naturally, extend into watching through your window to make sure you're law abiding, but I assume it might take a while until the lense required for that is developed. It won't be until 2020 that the climate system is operational, so do all your ill-deeds now, before the voyeur satellite is launched (presumably some time before the climate system becomes sentient and takes over the nukes.)
One interesting tidbit gleaned from the article is where it's being made.
Stevenage isn't exactly the first place I think of, when high-tech (hi-tech) industry is mentioned. This is stupid of course, as my whole family is/was involved in aeronautics and kill-onautics at BAE systems which is a forerunner of pretty much all advanced tech in England. The problem is that my view of Stevenage is worlds away from the hermetically sealed labs of spacecraft creation. In my mind, I liken the creation of extra-terrestrial objects to the creation of bacteriological weapons, and as a result the umbrella corporation. If you don't know what that is, you're not nerdy enough for this blog. Sorry. I'm going to have to ask you to leave.
If you do know what that is, then I'm going to have to ask you to get out of your house more often, and possibly get more exercise, while certainly eating more healthily. As a result, I'm also going to have to ask you to leave. Sorry.
But look on the bright side. Stevenage, while not quite Newcastle, Manchester or Hull, still has enough burnt out cars to provide scrap metal aplenty for the ship. They can make any number of mistakes (something you wouldn't often want to hear uttered around a space mission) and still have enough material to build plenty of spares.
There will be pieces of old Nissan flying around the planet yet, just you wait.
As an addendum, to address my attempt at writing a novel in November (an admirable website called nanowrimo taunted me into starting), I failed. Quite miserably, I might add, with some 12,500 words written over the course of the month. The story was about... well something that's for sure. In those 12,500 words I only managed to establish three scenes within the structure, one of a prison, one of an airship, and one of the airship attacking the prison. As such, I fear it was a terminal case of the BrÖntes, describing every minute occurrence. Where it doesn't stack up is in the interest, as I am quite willing to read her work, I would be unwilling to subject a self-aware being to my story. Quite inhumane.
Also, check this madness out.
Saturday 10 December 2011
Let's Not Go Then
So today is one of the public open days for the Tokyo Motor Show. It's one of the biggest shows, if not the biggest motor show in the world, and I have a ticket to go. So am I writing this from inside the giant convention centre?
No, I'm sat at home because I missed the train.
I was at the convenience store buying some breakfast (I'm so sick to my stomach at my own stupidity that I can't even eat that which I bought) when a bent-double old lady appeared. She was slower than a snail riding a tortoise, but being the gentleman, I let her go ahead of me in the queue (she's spent about ten minutes sidling up to the queue, so technically she was already in it, I guess).
She paid, incredibly slowly I might add, and went on her slow merry way.
So I reach the train station just as the crossing signals were blaring, and had to watch behind closed barriers as my train pulled up to the platform, loaded passengers, and trundled past me.
Very occasionally I get extremely angry, upset, annoyed, frustrated and sad all at once. When this happens, I tend to become extremely lethargic, so upon being a moron (i.e being nice to the old lady in the shop, as everyone knows that only idiots are nice) I got home and just zoned out in front of the TV for at least an hour. I still haven't eaten, but I'll get round to it eventually. There are no fast food restaurants around here, so luckily I can't get a pizza or takeaway.
Every cloud has a silver lining however, and this particular lining is multi-faceted. Firstly, I don't have to spend the day with those whom I don't want to, plus I don't have to spend over a hundred quid (in train fares, admissions, food, and the Tokyo Gaijin rugby club awards ceremony in Tokyo.).
The downsides are simple: I can't go to the rugby club party (something I actually wanted to do earlier in the week), which undermines my whole effort to integrate (previous attempts include ripping hamstrings in order to prove I'm keen to play for them) and will probably ensure I'm sidelined come January; I won't be able to buy everyone their presents, or their christmas cards. Christ knows when that's going to happen, now.
There's nothing to be done, I guess. Except, of course, sit here seething.
I can do that with aplomb.
No, I'm sat at home because I missed the train.
I was at the convenience store buying some breakfast (I'm so sick to my stomach at my own stupidity that I can't even eat that which I bought) when a bent-double old lady appeared. She was slower than a snail riding a tortoise, but being the gentleman, I let her go ahead of me in the queue (she's spent about ten minutes sidling up to the queue, so technically she was already in it, I guess).
She paid, incredibly slowly I might add, and went on her slow merry way.
So I reach the train station just as the crossing signals were blaring, and had to watch behind closed barriers as my train pulled up to the platform, loaded passengers, and trundled past me.
Very occasionally I get extremely angry, upset, annoyed, frustrated and sad all at once. When this happens, I tend to become extremely lethargic, so upon being a moron (i.e being nice to the old lady in the shop, as everyone knows that only idiots are nice) I got home and just zoned out in front of the TV for at least an hour. I still haven't eaten, but I'll get round to it eventually. There are no fast food restaurants around here, so luckily I can't get a pizza or takeaway.
Every cloud has a silver lining however, and this particular lining is multi-faceted. Firstly, I don't have to spend the day with those whom I don't want to, plus I don't have to spend over a hundred quid (in train fares, admissions, food, and the Tokyo Gaijin rugby club awards ceremony in Tokyo.).
The downsides are simple: I can't go to the rugby club party (something I actually wanted to do earlier in the week), which undermines my whole effort to integrate (previous attempts include ripping hamstrings in order to prove I'm keen to play for them) and will probably ensure I'm sidelined come January; I won't be able to buy everyone their presents, or their christmas cards. Christ knows when that's going to happen, now.
There's nothing to be done, I guess. Except, of course, sit here seething.
I can do that with aplomb.
Tuesday 6 December 2011
Time
So I've finally got enough time to write a post, between the time I've spent decidedly not doing university work and avoiding the teachers in my office, after I accidentally down-scaled the print queue, from A4 to B5. Whoops.
So at the weekend I went to an old boys game at Iwasaki, followed by a bout of ridiculous drinking. A few things struck me, but I am going to proceed in chronological order so it might take a while to get there.
First up, the game was a simple friendly game of touch. We played on a pitch that was, quite literally, an inch underwater due to heavy rain the night before, and was never one of the best to begin with. In essence, it was a bowl of mud, with some mud thrown in for extra mud. I forwent socks in favour of the South African style no socks. A choice that I'm glad I made, all told.
An hour before the match I went outside and started place-kicking; something I've not done for a very long time. I was surprised at how enjoyable it was, but my hamstrings hurt like hell afterwards.
I was hitting around 45% when I was kicking from the pitch, but I couldn't actually place the ball on any firm ground - it floated away before I could kick it. I therefore switched to the corners, aiming at the uprights from the side. The aim being to hit the only post visible from that angle. I managed to squarely hit it once and graze it a few times. I managed to get bloody close though, and the majority of my attempts were exceedingly close. I would probably give it a 75% hit rate for normal conversions, which is okay I suppose. It turns out that having a patch of grass to kick from, rather than a puddle, makes things substantially easier.
The matches were fun, but being touch aren't really worth commenting on.
So I was originally supposed to stay at the after-party until 10.30 at which point I would catch the last train home.
Interestingly, the last train home did not, in fact, go home. It stopped half a dozen stops before my transfer station, so it became impossible to go home. Having got a lift to the station, I trudged back to the party. It's amazing how bright the night is here, I could see the local big city radiating light over the brow of a hill as I walked, and even thought there was no sound, it looked like a there was a massive incandescent fire rolling around just out of view. That or a jellyfish.
I can't decide whether that view was because the city is just so bright, or because that particular area was so vast and rural.
Anyway, trudge I did, and upon re-entering the party a small arm-wrestling competition had broken out.
Being the foreigner, I was invited to challenge one of the underlings (everyone is ranked by ability in everything, so the club had a champion who designated who should compete with who). I dispatched the underling (a lock I believe) raising an eyebrow here or there. I then competed with the old master, a prop who was more prop than man, but under his belly lied a strong arm. I beat him, setting up a title fight with the king of the fiefdom. It was a surprisingly long battle, with a man who weighed 135kg's (another prop.) The table took a battering, with it bowing in the middle (we were both holding onto either edge, so we were essentially folding it around our elbows.) After what felt like an eternity, he relented, allowing me to slam his hand down in glorious victory.
After about ten minutes of recovery time, he asked for a rematch. I made him promise that this was the last (my shoulder still aches) and we were fighting for national pride once more. The man hits the gym regularly, and he isn't weak, and in this second fight, as he was straining with all his might, he sprang a leak. As blood burst forth from his nose, his elbow began lifting, and at its peak was three inches off the table; at this point he was essentially scrummaging my arm off the table with his whole body. This had ceased to be an arm wrestle. The table was decidedly more U-shaped than when it began, meaning that to win, we needn't push the opponent far.
After much blood, and four people holding the table down, I was declared the victor. It was more of a technical knockout as I don't have the ability to bend others to my will, I simply hold out long enough for them to wear down and tire out. It's an extremely slow process that involved more than a few words of swearing.
Anyway, after this, I settled down with an orange juice and wore the night down talking to a crazy woman and the man who introduced me to this particular club in the first place. It was quite interesting, but I would have rather been at home.
I bedded down in the club room (on a futon, with a pillow and everything) to be awakened (after the worst nights sleep ever) the next day.
At this point, I would like to add a few photographs, but wouldn't you know it, home beckons. I'll finish it up tomorrow.
So it's now tomorrow.
I wanted to show you the picture of me sleeping, but my friend deleted it, so now no one will ever see!
What I will show you is this:
Everyone appears relatively sober at this point. It's worth noting that the stuff they're holding up is showing support for one of the towns affected by the earthquake, something akin to 'do your best.'
So at the weekend I went to an old boys game at Iwasaki, followed by a bout of ridiculous drinking. A few things struck me, but I am going to proceed in chronological order so it might take a while to get there.
First up, the game was a simple friendly game of touch. We played on a pitch that was, quite literally, an inch underwater due to heavy rain the night before, and was never one of the best to begin with. In essence, it was a bowl of mud, with some mud thrown in for extra mud. I forwent socks in favour of the South African style no socks. A choice that I'm glad I made, all told.
An hour before the match I went outside and started place-kicking; something I've not done for a very long time. I was surprised at how enjoyable it was, but my hamstrings hurt like hell afterwards.
I was hitting around 45% when I was kicking from the pitch, but I couldn't actually place the ball on any firm ground - it floated away before I could kick it. I therefore switched to the corners, aiming at the uprights from the side. The aim being to hit the only post visible from that angle. I managed to squarely hit it once and graze it a few times. I managed to get bloody close though, and the majority of my attempts were exceedingly close. I would probably give it a 75% hit rate for normal conversions, which is okay I suppose. It turns out that having a patch of grass to kick from, rather than a puddle, makes things substantially easier.
The matches were fun, but being touch aren't really worth commenting on.
So I was originally supposed to stay at the after-party until 10.30 at which point I would catch the last train home.
Interestingly, the last train home did not, in fact, go home. It stopped half a dozen stops before my transfer station, so it became impossible to go home. Having got a lift to the station, I trudged back to the party. It's amazing how bright the night is here, I could see the local big city radiating light over the brow of a hill as I walked, and even thought there was no sound, it looked like a there was a massive incandescent fire rolling around just out of view. That or a jellyfish.
I can't decide whether that view was because the city is just so bright, or because that particular area was so vast and rural.
Anyway, trudge I did, and upon re-entering the party a small arm-wrestling competition had broken out.
Being the foreigner, I was invited to challenge one of the underlings (everyone is ranked by ability in everything, so the club had a champion who designated who should compete with who). I dispatched the underling (a lock I believe) raising an eyebrow here or there. I then competed with the old master, a prop who was more prop than man, but under his belly lied a strong arm. I beat him, setting up a title fight with the king of the fiefdom. It was a surprisingly long battle, with a man who weighed 135kg's (another prop.) The table took a battering, with it bowing in the middle (we were both holding onto either edge, so we were essentially folding it around our elbows.) After what felt like an eternity, he relented, allowing me to slam his hand down in glorious victory.
After about ten minutes of recovery time, he asked for a rematch. I made him promise that this was the last (my shoulder still aches) and we were fighting for national pride once more. The man hits the gym regularly, and he isn't weak, and in this second fight, as he was straining with all his might, he sprang a leak. As blood burst forth from his nose, his elbow began lifting, and at its peak was three inches off the table; at this point he was essentially scrummaging my arm off the table with his whole body. This had ceased to be an arm wrestle. The table was decidedly more U-shaped than when it began, meaning that to win, we needn't push the opponent far.
After much blood, and four people holding the table down, I was declared the victor. It was more of a technical knockout as I don't have the ability to bend others to my will, I simply hold out long enough for them to wear down and tire out. It's an extremely slow process that involved more than a few words of swearing.
Anyway, after this, I settled down with an orange juice and wore the night down talking to a crazy woman and the man who introduced me to this particular club in the first place. It was quite interesting, but I would have rather been at home.
I bedded down in the club room (on a futon, with a pillow and everything) to be awakened (after the worst nights sleep ever) the next day.
At this point, I would like to add a few photographs, but wouldn't you know it, home beckons. I'll finish it up tomorrow.
So it's now tomorrow.
I wanted to show you the picture of me sleeping, but my friend deleted it, so now no one will ever see!
What I will show you is this:
 |
| This was shortly before some seriously crazy shit happened. |
 |
| That must be a captivating stain on the floor. |
I have completely zoned out in the picture. Your guess is as good as mine as to why, why goddamn I look terminally stupid. Also, I don't know why I'm wearing shorts. It's three degreee outside (hence why I'm wearing my coat inside).
Also, this was taken immediately prior to the main event of the evening - naked rugby.
A group of lads went outside (in the freezing night) completely starkers. One of them had a headband on, securing a strange flag. I don't know why.
This was in front of everyone as they took photographs and videos - they seemed to love it.
Interestingly for me, it was also in front of some of the kids. There was obviously nothing sexual, but these guys would have been arrested, locked away for 25 years and put on the sex offenders register in England. Remember, naked =/= sex. Yet another reason why christianity should be outlawed (and all religion for that matter).
I don't have any photos of that. Sorry ladies.
Sunday 4 December 2011
Please Waiting
So it was originally my plan to write about the weekend, which was rather different to the normal.
Instead, I ran around obtaining presents, preparing to send a big package to England, with some of the least imaginative, boring 'presents,' to ever be gifted. It's exceedingly difficult to find presents that are interesting when everything is either vegetables (in my hometown) or prada (at the local outlet mall).
I also did a bit of teaching in-between, but don't worry, it wasn't a lot.
In the meantime, check out this advertisment that was taken down due to death threats.
You know it's going to be good when it's suffixed with 'deaths threats.'
Instead, I ran around obtaining presents, preparing to send a big package to England, with some of the least imaginative, boring 'presents,' to ever be gifted. It's exceedingly difficult to find presents that are interesting when everything is either vegetables (in my hometown) or prada (at the local outlet mall).
I also did a bit of teaching in-between, but don't worry, it wasn't a lot.
In the meantime, check out this advertisment that was taken down due to death threats.
You know it's going to be good when it's suffixed with 'deaths threats.'
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)