There is a scarcity of information available on the web that is specific to the Sony Ericsson P900. For a
new veteran owner like me this can be frustrating. So inspired by the excellent P900/Linux page by Alfonso Martone, I’ve decided to make an effort and publish this page, a collection of the tips I’ve picked up so far.
Caught two (2) gigs this week, after personal fatigue prevented attending Hope of the States and The “fucking” Walkmen cancelled because they accidentally aren’t in the same continent.
Sons and Daughters were a sell-out and packed the Venue; clearly the success of Lord of the Rings has made the all-hobbit band an extremely hot ticket. They were good but they weren’t grate, essentially: the new material wasn’t sounding too groundbreaking and featured some dodgy non-harmony.
The support act – onstage last, confusing – were the possibly schizophrenic Fiery Furnaces. They battled their Carpenter hair to blast through an unknown number of songs without stopping, even once, ever. Kind of like the film Speed but with inpenetrably random blues-rock instead of a bus.
And no Keanu.
Went to N Ireland for my Dad’s birthday and it was grate. Since we were on the Ards Peninsula – pronounced AARRRRRDS in heavy NornIron accent – which features no hotels or indeed pubs, our abode was a big ol’ seaside caravan.
The sun shone, the wind blew, we exhausted the local shop’s supply of low-quality plastic toys and watched the stiff breeze carry them sailing off into the Irish Sea.
We had an ultra-competitive Young vs Old game of Trivial Pursuit after far too many beers. We forgot Not To Swear in front of our Granny Bell who found it extremely amusing.
If you can disregard the extreme and disquieting unionist character to the area – streetlights beflagged with alternating Union Flags and Red Hands, kerbstones painted – it’s lovely and peaceful.
My parents are ‘helping’ me move into my new flat today, by breaking every cool thing I own. I’m going to fucking kill somebody. I bought this totally lush stainless steel clock last wk. One of those London/NY/Paris/Lochee ones. Twas goregeous. Note past tense. Also bought a beautiful steel/glass one in the same $hop. Which is now noticably lacking in the glass department. The death toll doesn’t stop there. Analogue poster. Tea stain. etc, etc..
Sorry… I need to take a moment..
On top of this, i’m in work trying to sort out something vaguely resembling workable shifts. Much to the f’ing and c’ing of my big big boss, the lovely Yvonne Dagan, who is the most peroxide of all the bints.
All in all, the weekend had better start improving here in, or I will be found in a spongy puddle at the bottom of a very tall buliding. Fucking Fuck Fuckety Fucking cunt. And also shite and bastard
Can you help me settle an argument?
Go to this website and scroll down to check out Councillor Eileen Kinnear, Harrow on the Hill Conservative.
Is she wearing glasses or not?
Woo. Two more weeks and I get to move into my lush (ok) new (old) batchelor (taken) pad (box) in uber central (uber skanky) Lochee Rd. Tis gonna be ok though. I’m forfeiting my nice house, nice location, stupid rent, fuckwit housemates place for somewhere that is stupidly, and I mean **stupidly** cheap, and only 5 more mins walk to uni. I’ve been eating pizza. I need the excercise.. one-meg-uber-girth-band-interweb-thingymajiggy pending. Mmmbaby.
Spent most of this week deftly tip-toeing around the the ‘D’ word* whilst painting skirting boards, having beds delivered, buying nice things, and getting emulsion paint in my hair. All is well.
And we’re going to Aspen in Jan! Ultimate snowboarding, babies! Woo-ness, maximum woo-ness
Another day, another dire consequence. The sleep patterns and shocking abuse of Stu/CJ’s birthday weekend have some pretty severe effects come the working week. I think my serotonin levels are at a chronic low. The lower lip is unstable and General Outlook is cowering in his gloomy bunker.
Normally some small comfort can be clawed from recognition of the symptoms as they are. Self-reassurance that all will be fine in a day or two normally helps: with Tuesday the usual nadir, Wednesday marks the return to form.
However with some obscurely bad news received on Sunday I have been rendered extremely low and the grimness continues unalloyed.
Thankfully I am fucking off to Ireland for 4 days on Friday with Ryan, Kat and Father which will probably help.
Over the weekend there we got our first batch of comment spam since moving to Movable Type. The half-dozen or so additions were textbook specimens of the genus Viagrus.
To prevent this sort of thing in future we’re now equipped with the award-winning plugin MT-Blacklist. I’ve noticed that comments today are demanding an email address be provided – this will be fixed this evening, promise.
Despite and because of the endless dreary pishing rain, I got together with my cousin (codename: Brins) last night to catch some comedy culture in the coupon.
An old favourite of mine from Fist of Fun, this year Richard Herring (who’s on Friendster incidentally, and whose chum-network therein features that Dickon fellow that Rosy once saw) is performing The Twelve Tasks of Hercules Terrace, a polished hour-long anecdote-fest about the his self-imposed tribulations over the past year.
So, i’m walking home from the pub last night, relishing the fact that for the first time in a week It’s not raining heavily enough to take your skin off, and the air isn’t so thick that you feel like you’re wading through porridge in vietnam. Somewhat drunken.. Accross the road, towards the underpass that leads toward my house.
There’s two homeless people. Fighting. A man and.. Hold on, they’re not fighting at all..! The guy is wearing the trademark army surplus jacket, and a pair of filthy tracksuit bottoms. Except they’re around the tops of his thighs, and his bare arse is on show to the world. I can’t go any other way now. I have to pass them. I can see the girl looking at me underneath this guys undulating torso, as I realise with a rising feeling of disgust that they’re completely going for it, hammer and tongs.
So as i’m scuttling past, the guy yelps something that will stay with me until the day I die:
‘Uhh… Goin.. Tae.. Blow… Ma… MUCK!’
One year left in dundee, and counting.