The Infinite Problems of Howard Nebulator

Where did December go?

2006-01-23T14:48:00.000Z

Did it go to the toilet and never return?

Where, oh where have the last two months gone? It now appears to be January and I've not updated my blog even one tiny iota during that period. This is truly tragic. What possible excuses could I have for not placing myself at my desk and burping forth words for the past 8 weeks? Well, in true Howard Nebulator blogging style, I shall explain...

1) Christmas.

Like a noisy child that just won't shut up even though you've given him many, many things to play with including - in no specific order - pipes, insulating foam, car alarms, toxins and Play-Doh, Christmas turned up on my doorstep and demanded to be let in. Now, being a reasonable person, I had to oblige. And anyway, if I had refused, Christmas would have no doubt struck me down and stolen my hat, as it has done with countless other Christmas-deriding heathens in the past.

It's not so much the idea of Christmas that irks me - being nice to people for a change is quite a smashing plan - more the incessant commercialism that gets force fed into my face feet first, like a mewling puppy being launched forth from a catapult. And no, I don't see the similarities either. But anyway, shopping, more shopping and shopping seemed to be the order of the day, so I did none of that and just sat in a darkened room for roughly three weeks doing nothing but sneering at the wallpaper and occasionally venturing to the shop for teabags.

2) Skiing Holiday

This was a lot of fun. And even though it lasted but a week, it seemed to take up a lot more time. I spent the week before being hugely excited about going on a skiing holiday, and making skiing noises at every given opportunity (beep beep). I spent the week afterwards being hugely excited about having been on a skiing holiday and taking every opportunity to tell everyone about the wonderful, wonderful injuries that I sustained whilst on said holiday (I bruised my arm and sprained my thumb). I also tried snowboarding and hurt my arse a lot with the sitting and the falling over and the Oh-my-god-I-can't-slow-down.

3) New Year

This was also fun, but I was very drunk and can't remember a thing. Sorry. Although I did wake up, half naked up a tree with a bottle of gin to find most of the cast of Eastenders circled around the base chanting and screaming as an angry mob wielding pitchforks and torches and demanding "Vengeance".

It was a good night, I assume.

The game of life or chips or milk. I don't know.

2005-11-17T18:51:00.001Z

You awaken groggily from a long sleep. For a moment you are unsure where you are then your head clears. You are in a damp cellar. To the north you see iron bars set into a thick stone wall. To the east, you see a metal chamber pot filled with daisies. To the south, you see a crazy old bearded man holding a dead finch. Your hands smell of raspberries and you have the strange feeling you've been here before. What do you do?

> TALK TO OLD MAN

The old man responds by jabbering away noisily in a confused and possibly ancient tongue. He hurls the dead finch at you which bounces ineffectually against your forehead

> PICK UP FINCH

You pick up the dead finch and stuff it in your pocket.

> N

You walk north a bit. You smash into a wall and break your nose. It starts to bleed mightily. What do you do now?

> USE FINCH

You use the dead finch to mop up some of the blood. The bleeding continues. What do you do now?

> USE MAN BEARD

You rip off a chunk of the man's beard and stuff it up your nose. This stems the flow of blood. The man is angry now, and looks violent.

> CALM THE MAN WITH TALES OF THE SEA

You tell the old man tales of the sea. This seems to cause his anger to recede

> USE MAN BEARD

You rip off another chunk of the man's beard for no reason this time. This makes the man even angrier.

> USE FINCH WITH MAN

You thrust the dead, bloodied finch at the man. It strikes him mightily upon the chin. Now he begins to fume and rage. You think he might now try and kill you

> CALM THE MAN WITH TALES OF THE SEA

It doesn't work. He's heard it all before

> CALM THE MAN WITH TALES OF INTRIGUE AND MYSTERY

For a moment, the man's anger recedes and you feel safer. But then the story veers to one involving a dead finch. The man remembers what you did to him and lashes out, striking you mightily and knocking you to the ground.

> USE MAN BEARD

You rip another chunk of the man's beard off. This time, he just stands there weeping silently to himself, his chin bleeding softly.

> USE MAN BEARD

There is no more beard to rip off the man's face. You swipe ineffectually at his wounded face.

> S

You walk south a bit. The chamber pot full of daisies kills you. Start Again?

> HELL NO

Crumbly Adventures Outside Time And Space

2005-11-16T00:44:00.000Z

It all started on a Saturday. Well, I say it "started". It didn't exactly start, so much as explode into existence in a shower of fiery sparks, shrapnel and indigo hued smoke which made my eyes bleed.

"What exactly exploded into existence?", you may ask. Furthermore, you may also ask, where did this explosion occur? Well, for the purposes of futile suspense, I shall spend a couple of sentences telling you that this explosion occured in my living room, about three metres from my television, roughly two feet from the door and more-or-less one yard from my sofa. So yes, in all respects, this explosion was contained firmly within the boundaries of my living room, except that during the course of the explosion, some of these boundaries chose, mostly due to reasons outwith their control (such as an impending explosion) to suddenly be many tens of metres away in my neighbours gardens.

So anyway, now that I have explained the situation and the suspense (futile though it may be) has been built, like some shoddy outhouse which will most likely collapse upon the first unfortunate soul who ventures within, I can tell you that it was an entirely new Universe which exploded into existence on this fateful Saturday.

Now, for most people, this would be an important event. Momentous, even. Stupendous. But no. Not really. I was unphased.

The Universe, as is commonly believed, is a big thing, mostly incomprehensible and full of confusing elements like pastry, Satan worshippers and trumpets. So it's fair to say that it's not something that most people will have to deal with on a daily basis. They don't, it is reasonable to believe, wake up every morning and think to themselves "Oh my! I seem to find myself contained, once more, within a Universe. What are the chances!" before continuing downstairs to feast upon cornflakes and gaze longingly at whatever banal breakfast trite the television is birthing forth. No, the average person will most likely live their entire lives never even giving the fact the the Universe actually exists a single moment's thought. Although they will watch quite a lot of morning television and eat a lot of cornflakes. If a Univsere suddenly appeared right in front of them, more than just a gasp would issue forth from their mouths.

Well, I have a different outlook on life, I do enjoy marvelling at the Universe and cooing over its many intruiging features, such as time and space which I consider to be vastly underrated. So, to find a new one being birthed forth suddenly in my home wasn't quite as surprising as it should have been, myself being aware of the existence of Universes, at least in the singular sense. After the initial explosion, which destroyed most of my house, the Universe seemed to stabilise into a pulsating sphere roughly one meter across and hovered there, silently, like a mad bastard orb.

It seemed to me that the formation of a Universe must be a fairly rare occurence as I couldn't recall ever having seen something of this sort happen before. I scratched my head and thought a little. I figured I had time to spare, staring at this marvel of creation in my battered abode, as the few tasks I had planned for that day could well be thought of as cancelled, as the items that those taks would require (namely one sofa and one television set) had since been obliterated by the cosmic oddity that was, peering closer, actually starting to wobble and bob around the place. Almost inquisitively, it sniffed at a few pieces of charred plasterboard a few inches from my feet.

Well, I imagine it would have been sniffing if it had possessed a nose. Universes, you'd think, wouldn't have a need to smell anything, as anything worth smelling would be contained firmly inside them. It's like if I asked you what your spleen smelled like. You wouldn't know. In fact, you probably wouldn't care. "And why not?" I ask. What sort of gentleman in this day and age knows not what his spleen smells like?

Oddly, while these thoughts raced around my head, I noticed that this universe did have a nose. It had eyes too. And a mouth! Good lord, the thing was alive. Or at least as alive as anything with a face can be. It spoke:

"Hello. Who are you?"
"I'm Howard Nebulator. Who are you?". It was a silly question to ask a Universe. I felt quite foolish for having asked it. Nonetheless, I got a reply,
"I am The Universe", the Universe rumbled. "Where am I?"
"You're in my living room. Or at least what's left of it"
"Oh my, I'm terribly sorry", the Universe commented. "I appear to have made some sort of terrible mistake. Please forgive me. Please? I didn't mean it, I...". A slight tremble of the lower lip.

The Universe looked sad. I could see that it had a troubled expression now that I realised it posessed a face. A face quite possibly moulded from the creases, ripples, bends and twists in the fabric of whatever spatial dimensions were contained inside, textured with billions of galaxies, trillions of stars and with quite a prominent spot on its nose that could well have been the result of quadrillions of years of work by an advanced enterpreunistic space-faring species, keen to discover what lay at the reaches of their domain, spending aeons, generations building devices and machines to probe the limits of their existence only to find out, after the toils of eternity that the first thing peering back at them was an explosion-battered shabby beige couch.

"What mistake is this then?", I asked the gloomy looking Universe. I thought I saw a tear form at the corner of its star speckled eye.
"Well, what you saw just then - that explosion...". A moment's pause.
"Yes" I said, "Do continue"
"Well, that was my Big Bang"
"Was it? Well, it was quite something! It destroyed my house". I tried to sound enthusiastic but, due to the recent destruction of my property and the fact that, yes, all things considered, it wasn't really all that big of a bang, it came out with something of a sarcastic tone.
"It was NOTHING!", it screamed. I jumped back slightly, this was quite a shift in mood for the sprightly little chap.
"Hey, don't fret. I bet loads of Universes don't get their big break, and end up forming all sorts of places. A garage forecourt, maybe? A branch of Woolworths. Swindon"
"But all the other Universes, they get all the perks. Bloody bastards. They won't stop rubbing it in, you know. 'Look at Little Universe, shaped like a mint, or something'. What shape are mints? I don't know!". The Universe was rambling on a little bit, and sadness had faded only to be replaced with a look of mild insanity.
"I feel used and wasted", the Universe complained. "Can I stay with you for a while? I won't get in the way"
"Well, I don't really think... Y'see...", I couldn't think of a good reason why the Universe couldn't stay. It seemed nice enough, if not a little miserable and prone to mood swings.

Why not indeed? I no longer had a fully functional house (a fully functional house being defined as one which you can live in without wondering daily whether people are going to randomly wander through the 25 foot wide gaping hole that's been ripped into the front of it due to the sudden and unfortunate expansion of a clinically depressed Universe.) but I felt this was pig piffle compared to the potentially fun and slightly interesting situations I might find myself in now that I was friends (on first name terms) with a Universe.

"You can have the spare room upstairs. If it's still intact", I told the celestial blob. I wondered if Universes actually needed sleep and proceeded through to the kitchen to get a cup of tea, via the gaping void in the living room wall. Saturday continued, as Saturdays do. The Universe plodded along behind me, making sniffling noises and wiping its snotty nose on an arm composed from uncountable galaxies and ripped space-time fabric.

--- --- ---

Possibly coming soon - Part 2 of this disturbing saga. Stay tuned!

Jokes

2005-09-03T00:06:00.000Z

A man walks into a doctors waiting room, he goes up to the receptionist and says "I would like to see the doctor". The receptionist says "I'm sorry, you can't see the doctor. He's an invisible man". "Okay", the man says "Tell him I can't see him". Then the doctor comes out of his office and starts doing crazy shit like moving pencils and chairs around and everyone thinks it's a ghost because he's invisible and no-one can see him. Everyone in the crowded waiting room tries to rush for the exit. In the ensuing panic, three people are killed.
---
A man walks into a laundrette and puts some clothes into a washing machine. Because of some faulty wiring, the machine explodes and takes half his face off.
---
A Scotsman, and Englishman and an Irishman are in a library. The Scotsman is really loud and keeps farting. The Englishman asks why he keeps doing this. The Scotsman replies, and screams "I don't know. I don't know why I keep screaming and farting. I can't help it. It terrifies me. I can't sleep at night." Meanwhile, the Irishman lives up to his stereotype and sits in the corner
getting pissed.
---
A nun and a rabbi are in a pub. For some reason the rabbi falls over. He eventually gets up again. The nun looks at him, confused. Then she falls over and is all like "What the hell's going on?". Then the rabbi falls over again. He exclaims "What's happening? Is there something wrong with the gravity in here?". Then for no apparent reason, the pub explodes.
---
Three birds are sitting in a tree. One of the birds explodes for no apparent reason. One of the other birds gets caught up in the flames and catches on fire. The third bird just sits and stares at this gory scene, dumbfounded. Years later, he'll have flashbacks. His life will never be the same again.
---
Q: What's the difference between a rugby team and the cast of Eastenders?
A: Lots and lots of things. I dont think the cast of Eastenders could play rugby, anyway.

Watchdog Fan Fiction

2005-06-01T01:05:00.000Z

Based on the not-terribly-exciting BBC Consumer help programme thing, where Nicky Campbell shouts at people who make washing machines and kitchens and tells them it's really "Just not good enough". Enjoy... If you can.

"Shit! Get it out, get it out!", he squealed. "They're about to switch live to us."
Nicky Campbell's day had not been going well. His coffee had been too hot in the morning, his bagel had burst all over his new gay pink shirt in the afternoon and now this. Some fucker had set him on fire seconds before the cameras were due to go live.

"I'll fucking murder whoever did this. I swear", he screamed as the red light blinked on. Nicky was live on the BBC. Presenter of "Watchdog" and being of Scotness, he was used to this kind of shit. He'd grown up on the streets of Glasgow, or at least he thought he had - he hadn't checked recently - where being set on fire was something you just had to get used to. The corridors of the BBC were no safer. Acts of random arson were commonplace. You brought three changes of clothes to work every day. At least one set would be burnt to fuck come home-time.

"Nicholas! You little shit! Are you traipsing fire int'a the living room again?", his father would have bellowed. "Yes pa. Sorry pa, won't happen again, pa."

Water sprayed into his face, his chest, two of his shoulders and his crotch, extinguishing the blaze. He spoke his lines, presented with years of practice through the fine mist that had now formed around him. "Welcome to Watchdog. The show where you, the consumer, have...", he stopped mid sentence. He raised his eyebrows, listening. The crew were staring at something behind him. He turned slowly to see what the rustling, moving noise was behind him. "Oh Christ, no..."

Julia Bradbury was standing on the desk, naked, swinging her pendulous breasts in full view of Camera 2 while laughing softly to herself. Nicky hung his head and begun to cry.

It's been a while, but... I've been writing Fan Fiction. Yes!

2005-05-12T19:10:00.000Z

Star Wars

"I'm having a big fucking party at my place" Screamed Obi-Wan through the letterbox. "What are all you fuckers doing just sitting around? I can see you through the shitting bleeding window!"
Luke got up from the sofa and shuffled towards the front door where he could see Obi-Wan's fingers holding the letterbox open.
"Jesus christ, man",said Luke "It's just me, Dad and Chewie here, we're having a quiet night in with a couple of pizzas and some beers."
"What, with fucking Darth?", asked Obi-Wan, quite loudly
"Yeah, Darth's here"
"Darth fucking Vader?"
"Yes, Obi, Darth Vader"
"The fucking Darth Vader?"
"Jesus, Obi, yeah, Darth Vader's here. He's family, you know?"
"Darth fucking shitting bleeding Vader?"
"Oh for fuck's sake Obi, piss off"
Obi-wan muttered something under his breath and shuffled around outside for a few minutes in the light of the darkening evening sky. Presently, he returned to the letterbox.
"What are you fuckers doing then? Are you watching a DVD? Without me? Is that fucking 'Die Hard I can hear?' Why wasn't I invited? I love Die Hard", obfusticaded Obi-Wan, now appearing rather angry and a bit pissed.
"Yeah Obi", countered Luke, "We're watching Die Hard and we didn't invite you because you shout constantly all the way through any movie"
"I do not", objected Obi-Wan
"Of course you do, you great fucking bastard", screamed Darth from the living room in his deep breathey voice, "When we went to watch 'Love Actually', you kept calling colin Firth a 'Crazy Fucking Fuck' and made thrusting hip movements whenever a pair of tits were on screen"
"Alright, you complete bastards. But you're missing my party, which is going to be fucking sweet, you know. It's going to be shitting bleeding crazy ass fun. And now you're not invited"
"Goodnight Obi", Luke said, snapping the letterbox shut on Obi-Wan's fingers causing him to fall backwards suddenly. The swearing began again and didn't stop for another fifteen minutes.

Harry Potter

"Look out Harry!" shouted Hermione, pointing towards the darkness of the hallway. Suddenly, and without warning, and with a big farting windy noise, Ron burst into the scene, stumbling and shouting "Uuurms! Ruuurms! I'll fight you! I'll fight you all"
"Oh Ron!", sprouted Harry, "Have you been drinking again?"
"No. Non no noon!", milked Ron, "I've been pouring vinegar into my eyes, because I wanted to see what happens when someone pours vinegar into their eyes"
"Oh Ron, you are a stupid fucker", rinsed Hermione "we can't leave you alone for even a few minutes without you doing something stupid, like filling your ears with acid or hammering rusty
spoons through your arm".
"I CAN'T FUCKING HELP IT", attacked Ron, now delerious from the stinging pain in his eyes, "I'm crazy. I'm wrong in the head. I was born into a rusty pan."
"Oh, Ron! You are a card!" screamed Harry. Hermione interrupted, "Here, push this into your face, it'll make you feel better"
"What the fuck is it? What the fuck?" purpled Ron, "I can't fucking see, you crazy bitch. I just poured vinegar in my eyes"
"It's something to ease the pain. Go on, try it"
Ron grabbed at the thing in Hermiones hand. It was cool and damp, like a bear that's been sitting in a bath of cold vodka for about 20 minutes. Ron smashed it into his face. "Aaaargh! Jesus! What the fuck?". He screamed in pain.
"What the hell, Ron? It's just a damp flannel", spouted Hermione.
"Shit! It's a bear soaked in vodka!" screamed Ron intermittently, now passing in and out of
conciousness due to the huge amount of pain his face was soaking up.
"No it's not, it's just water"
"Aaaauugghwww! Aaaughg!" continued Ron, before passing out in a heap on the floor.

How to have fun.

2005-03-23T01:03:00.000Z

I woke up the other day, woke up all new like, fresh and invigorated. It was a new day. New moments and minutes and seconds presented themselves like so many angry Irishmen, adept at producing sweary nonsense and odd outbursts of paraphrasing. I felt at peace with the world, I felt like all was right and all was as it was meant to be.

I spent a couple of hours pottering around, cleaning up after myself and making small things out of paper and old rag. The morning passed, as mornings are wont to do, and soon it was afternoon. The sun streamed in through the window, leaving golden shapes on my face and the floor and whatever it is that lives in the corner of my kitchen. I dare not ask its name. I count myself lucky that it hasn't tried to kill me yet.

A few more hours passed. I realised I had been staring into space. Or, at least, I would have been staring into space if it wasn't for the fact I was looking downwards and Space, if you take "Space" to be that infinite and seemingly empty void that stretches on and on as far as the eye can see in any direction you choose from our lovely little planet, was located roughly 50,000 kilometres along my line of sight through solid rock.

I was bored. Really bored. Things weren't happening. Everything was too good. Everything was just hunky-dory. Everything was, well, apple shaped. As opposed to pear shaped. Which still, in the grand scheme of things isn't a bad shape to be, really. My life had become something to be content about, something to wallow in, something to be at peace with. But it was oh so terribly dull.

It was at that moment that I had a revelation. I knew how to make things interesting again. I knew how I should proceed with my existence on this small and round-shaped chunk of rock in the outer arm of the galaxy known to some as "Jim" but to others as "That Milky Waaaaay"

I was going to have a midlife crisis. It seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea. Fair enough, I was only 24, I had many years to go before the time, date or location that would be known as a "Midlife crisis" arrived on my doorstep. And yes, even when that day came, I would only regard it as a minor nuisance and waste my valuable "Crisis" by doing things such as "Having fun" and "Really not caring" but still, I was bored, there was nothing to do so I sat down and started having a midlife crisis.

But then it dawned on me. I had no idea how to have a midlife crisis. It was all terribly new to me. I'd heard tales, of course. I'd seen the sitcoms and the hilariously inventive ways in which middle-aged men took out their rage and frustrations upon an increasingly confusing and oddly-shaped world.

I tried to emulate a few of the things I'd seen. Then I remembered that I couldn't remember any of the things which, if they were written in a book would have been collectively known as "How to Have a Mid Life Crisis"

I made up a list, which if I ever got round to it, I would publish in a book :

How to Have a MidLife crisis (Oddly capitalised For Added impact)
by Howard Nebulator

Basically, go a little crazy. But not too crazy. Otherwise people will think you're insane, rather than simply "Having a crisis"

Ways in which this can be achieved are as follows...
- Spread some jam on a duck
- Go walking round and round your garden at night singing Simply Red songs. Don't do this naked. That would be odd.
- Start watching "A Question of Sport". Whilst wrapped in cling film.
- Become either a being of pure energy, a Bhuddist monk or Peter Mandelson. But not all three. That would also be odd.
- Start a fight with yourself.

And there you go. By now, it was nearly dinner time, so I got up and proceeded to fight the thing that lives in the corner of my kitchen for the right to get into my pantry. This was always a lot of fun and never failed to brighten up a dull day.

A snippet from the local news...

2005-02-20T19:11:00.000Z

Local Man Attacked by Small, Stupid Aliens.
by Andrea G. Eisenhower "Bacon For Breakfast" Smith (Snr.)

A local man (Who is also a farmer. Man) is recovering in hospital last night after alledgedly being attacked by aliens, he says. Small and stupid ones at that! Jacob Nazi-Failure, 43, of Lower Upshot, Kent (Also is a farmer) has reportedly uttered words that when written on paper, or other word-recording medium, look something like this:

"They came down, you see. Came right down. Middle of the night. Lights as large as your fist. (?) No, not your fist. Maybe his (Man points at man). They arrived in my garden in a shiny saucer, as large as your fist (points again) and proceeded to pour Hydrochloric acid all over my barn. I could tell it was Hydrochloric acid because I was in three wars, you see. Do you see? I don't think you do.

Then they came into my house and proceeded to beat me up and hit me with shards of metal and pieces of wool wrapped around shards of metal and shards of plastic which had been painted with silver paint to make it seem like they were shards of metal. They also hit me with their fists, which were as large as your fist (man points again, this time with enthusiasm). Then they left, without even saying goodbye. I wonder if I'll ever see them again".

Jacob is recovering well and some doctors say he should make a full recovery, although he'll probably just end up dying fairly soon.

New Shoooooes?

2005-02-15T23:35:00.000Z

I was in a shoe shop today. This is not a rare occurence as I can often be found in shoe shops, but I do not grace the shoe shop with my presence to achieve what many would consider the ultimate goal of entering a shoe shop, and that is to buy shoes.

No, I go into shoe shops to try and buy shoes. You see, no matter how hard I try, however many attempts I make and however often I hold a particular brand of footwear up to my face to peer eagerly at it's fine stitching and emblazoned logo to at least try and fool others into thinking that I know what I'm looking for, I fail to make a purchase. Every time.

My attention wanders, you see. I think about anything - everything in fact, that has nothing to do with shoes. I can be happily staring into the space roughly half a metre past the Doc Martins I hold in my grasp while I think about popcorn, or cats, or cats with popcorn glued to their ears, or microwave ovens that are friendly and talk to you in the morning. Nothing can distract me from this. Not even the shoe shop assistant, so eager to help, can wrench my gaze from whatever it is I'm not looking at to inform me that the shop is closing and I've been standing there for roughly forty-five minutes.

Today, for example, I went into the shop, I sat down and was offered a pair of size 10 shoes to try on (for that is the size of feet that I possess - you learn something new every day!) and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't think of anything but this -

In the Super Mario series of games, Mario somehow has the ability to pick things up without the use of his hands. Not even that, but he seems to offer no obvious method by which items are procured. Coins, power-up mushrooms, invincibility stars. All that these things require to be taken from their lofty perch atop an almost equally imporbable floaty block is to be walked into.

What if this happened all the time in real life? Objects would randomly disappear upon collision with a human body, only to reappear as nothing more than a number in the corner of your vision, or a curious after effect - possibly causing the unfortunate victim to grow to the size of a large oak tree.

As I held the shoe in my hand, I found myself perplexed by this. I tried touching the shoe a few times to see if I could "pick it up", but alas, nothing happened. I placed the shoe on the ground, stood up and walked out. I'd forgotten what I'd come in for.

The Neighbour

2005-02-03T01:16:00.000Z

Robert Kilroy-Silk has moved in next door. He's an extraordinarily disagreeable fellow.

Only a day after he had moved in, he painted his front door Dyno-Rod orange. A week later and he had covered his entire house in the stuff. He sneaks round to my doorstep early in the morning and pisses on my newspaper. He is insiting that I change the name of my pet cat to "Veritas". The fact that I do not own a pet cat seems to have passed him by.

I don't think we'll be friends.

Holidays!

2005-01-31T23:45:00.000Z

I've been away on holiday for the past week or so. It was a very relaxing vacation, mostly a family affair with a few distant relatives who I have no recollection of ever having met. None of my family had ever met them either, so it was assumed that they were extremely distant. Six degrees of seperation and all that.

Where did we go, you ask? We went to Gibraltar. It's a lovely place, the moon was very bright due to random and arbitrary equatorial effects and the natives were very friendly, bestowing us with gifts and assorted poisons all throughout our stay in the local hotel. During the day, we would wander the streets, tripping over discarded corpses and shooting bison with our hip-mounted airguns. At night, we would resume the consumption of various intoxicating substances, and Great Auntie Nebulator would dance the Dance of a Thousand Suns before collapsing into a heap on the floor and falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

There is much to do in Gibraltar, including the Running of the Taps - a traditional event where several taps are left running for a few minutes while the locals run away from them - Fishing with Microwaves which is a lot of fun, especially under the influence of alcohol and Spanners and Fights, a charming theme park which embodies many of the customs and past-times of this wonderful place.

The only real disappointment of the vacation came at the end, in Gibraltar airport, when we left Great Auntie Nebulator unattended for a few minutes and she was destroyed in a controlled explosion.

Return of the Nap Star

2005-01-19T13:39:00.000Z

I awoke this morning to find a note on my kitchen table. It appeared to have been penned by the hand of The Napster

"Dear Sir/Madam/Dave Lee Travis,

It has come to my attention that you have a toaster. I've recently decided that I don't like people making toast as they may develop a strong liking for it and therefore buy fewer pre-packed sandwiches. I am therefore making toasting illegal. You can still own a toaster, just don't use it for anything that might get you in trouble.

I also notice that you enjoy reading words and sentences. I am also very disappointed to learn that you have been reading words and sentences that haven't been officially authorised by myself. The only words you can read are the words on this piece of paper, and any words contained within my official weekly newsletter - "The Napster, The Ultimate Good Thing". Please refrain from reading any other words, or I shall have to sue you and then steal all your furniture.

Thank you for not only co-operating, but also for believing that the service I offer is good value because, well, I say it is.

The Napster"

I had previously recieved news that the new service from Napster - Napster-To-Go - is based upon some sort of technological gizmoid that lets you listen to as much music as you want (but apparently only the limited tracks that they let you), for a monthly subscription but, get this, only while you continue that subscription.

Yes, lets all go out now and find another seemingly culturally important and necessary aspect of our lives like, say, music, re-package it and sell it back to the masses in bite-size chunks.

/rant

Howard Nebulator is currently angry. Normal service will resume shortly

Attack of the Nap Star

2005-01-17T13:06:00.000Z

It was just last night. Or I suppose it could have been any night, it's not terribly important.

I was listening to one of my favourite albums. For the sake of argument, let's say it was "Bodysong" by Jonny Greenwood (he of Radiohead fame) which is oh so good with it's "Chhk-nng-nng" and "Ba-dum Ba-dum-Ba dum" and crazy drum rythyms that make me jump up and dance like so many strands of animated spaghetti.

This album had been purchased some while back from a quaint little music shop on the other side of town. This music outlet only stocked about 40,000 albums, so I did find making a choice fairly difficult, but I found what I wanted and paid my hard-earned moolah to the lovely person behind the cash desk (At least I think it was a person. It could have been a cat, but that's unlikely).

Upon returning to my warm, festering abode, I unleashed the CD from its wrapping and hurled it with gusto into a nearby CD player and set it going. It was good, and I was happy.

Many days passed. I decided to once again listen to my lovely little disc of musicy CD-ness. It was late at night and the wind was blowing. No sooner had I pressed play and the dulcet sounds of Greenwood's tortured electronic rythyms had started, when I heard a rap-tap-tapping from the direction of the window. I turned to face said window and to my shock and/or horror, I saw a face staring back at me. It looked a bit like a cat, but it was also wearing some sort of crudely drawn headphones. Realization dawned slowly upon mine face as I realised what it was I was looking at.

"It's", I gasped, "...The Napster!"

Suddenly, and without warning, The Napster burst through the window, sending glass and wood and sealant putty and small pieces of metal flying here there and everywhere. It leapt over to my CD player and hurled it to the ground smashing it into lots of little pieces.

"What the...", I said, as a standard stock response to any event that is both shocking and strange.
"I am here to stop you from listening to music which I dont want you to listen to because I'm some sort of strange corporate cat logo from a big company that cares not one jot about its consumers and is only interested in maintaining healthy profit margins!". I found The Napsters statement shocking, not least because it was quite lazily constructed and could have been strung out over several paragraphs had the writer of said sentence not been eager to finish writing this dross so he could go off and make a bacon sandwich.
"But why?", I asked.
"Because I can. Mwa-ha-ha!". The Napster seemed like he was enjoying this
"But I bought this CD, with my hard earned moolah, from a shop, with the windows and the floorspace and the lovely, lovely DVD displays".
"That matters not a jot! We have decided that from henceforth, music is only legal and good if it is purchased from our online ItunesNapster store and has sufficient measures installed to prevent it from being copied to another device more than no times, to prevent it from being anywhere near the quality of the original CD and to prevent it from actually being listened to!!"
I was shocked. And appalled. "But who's this we?", I asked?.

From out of the shadows stepped a figure, at first glance it appeared he was dressed all in black, but in actuality, he was dressed in pure white, the brightness of which stopped my eyes from working briefly. It was Steve Jobs. Apple Man of Mystery and maker of shiny gadgets that are inordinately expensive but which look so nice and huggable that they override people's innate sense of not-wanting-to-buy-them. I was overwhelmed with an urge to go out and buy three hundred Imacs, but I fought the impulse.

"Steve Jobs!", I shouted, "You have no place here. I am immune to your corporate jargons and your shiny white surfaces that while looking crisp and clean against the white background of your advertising campaigns appear somewhat stupid amongst the clutter on my desk! Begone back to the filth-pit from whence you spawned".

I rushed over to where he was standing and smacked him in the face with a big pan. He promptly vanished and I was left once again speaking to The Napster.

"Ha! Without Jobs you are nothing! You will never succeed in this world where people demand music that is cheap and easily accessible. Your crazy schemes to turn music into something that is so easily obtainable yet so annoyingly expensive and hard to use, infuriating many and pleasing none will never work."
"We shall see...", replied the Napster. "Just wait for Napster-to-Go, it sounds fantastic but its bound to be full of as many pitfalls and difficulties as everything else!"
The Napster disappeared suddenly up its own arsehole, and I was left standing with a smashed CD player and a vague sense of unease. This was only the beginning, I thought to myself, and went off to make a bacon sandwich.

Audioscrobbling

2005-01-14T01:03:00.000Z

I've been Audioscrobbling, it's a lot of fun. Basically, it means you can look at all the tunes I've been listening to and how often I listen to them. Look, here, satify your curiosity why dont you?

And here's how it works : Magic.

Everything's magic these days. Bread, swimming pools, kitchens, dinosaurs, mountains, oxygen. All of these things are magic and completely incomprehensible.

I'm going to bed, it's late and I'm starting to get a little bit crazy...

NINJA!

2005-01-11T03:35:00.000Z

Sleeping in

2005-01-09T16:31:00.000Z

I've been in bed for the last three weeks. Any posts that have appeared on this page have either been written from the confines of my cosy den or are simply hallucinations of my dreaming mind, brought to life by the digital voodoo of the Internet.

Why have I been in bed for so long? Am I ill? Am I John Lennon? Is my entire world a bed and therefore impossible to get out of? No, no and no respectively. I have been in bed for this long, simply because I am waiting for something good to come on TV.

I love nothing more than getting up in the morning, or afternoon, or whenever and strolling downstairs to watch something good on TV. So far though, nothing seems to have piqued my interest.

I think I may remain here for a very long time.

The Gravity Gun

2005-01-05T01:26:00.000Z

It arrived in the post last Tuesday. I hadn't gotten around to opening the parcel and using it because I was scared of exactly how awesome this thing was going to be. Turns out this Gravity Gun I ordered over the Internet is so awesome it'll make your socks explode.

The first thing I did with it was to pick up the postman. He didn't seem too happy about the whole thing though, so I switched the gun to "Repel" and sent him flying at a ridiculous velocity across the early morning rooftops of the sleepy suburb where I live. A few seconds later I heard a muffled crash. A car alarm went off. "The postman has landed", I thought to myself and headed back indoors.

The Gravity Gun is a marvellous thing. Invented by the creators of Half Life 2 and built in reality from a few pieces of string and some orange peel, it is capable of grasping an object firmly within its strong, directional gravitational field and then, if so desired, hurling said object many miles in a given direction.

It was almost 11am - around the time when I would head down to the local supermarket to pick up some bits and pieces for lunch. I stood up and decided that, in the pale light of my kitchen, the fridge would look better a couple of feet further left. I hoisted the Gravity Gun and gently picked up the fridge using my carefully harnessed gravitational field. Unfortunately, I had gotten confused with the shoddy labelling on the "Repel" and "Release" switches. After mistakenly pressing the "Repel" switch, I watched with a mixture of awe and disbelief as my fridge moved suddenly a few hundred feet or so east, taking with it several pieces of fridge shaped masonry from my house and the other houses in my neighbourhood which it had chosen to move through at an astounding speed.

Vaguely bewildered, I walked out of my back door towards the supermarket from which I was still determined to purchase various items, Gravity Gun still in my grasp. I noticed that someone had parked their car ever so slightly too far out in front of my drive. This would not be tolerated so, taking suggestions from my increasingly psychotic mind, I hoisted it into the air with the Gravity Gun and, unsure whether or not it was yet another genuine mistake or because I actually found it incredibly funny, pressed the "Repel" switch once again. I had been pointing the car skywards when I hit the switch so, with nary a sound, the vehicle hurtled into the atmosphere at a speed which I had now started to call "Close to a billion feet per three seconds" because, as I have already mentioned, this day was proving somewhat harmful to my mental wellbeing and I was becoming more psychotic with every passing second.

Laughing quietly to myself, I wandered into the supermarket. By this point, a couple of people had noticed my lunacy and had followed me discretely but, because I was slowly becoming a grade A mentalist, my ever-alert mind picked up on their treachery. I hurled myself around and aimed the Gravity Gun at them, picking them up with the merest of effort on my part.

"No!", they pleaded, "Leave us out of your lunacy, we have done nothing to upset you". One of them started crying but I, yes I, the King with the Big Awesome Gravity Gun heeded not their words of mercy, but hit once again the "Repel" switch that sent them spinning into what I think was the moon, but it could have been anything. I really wasn't thinking too clearly.

I turned upon my heel and announced to the supermarket that I was there to purchase some milk, some bread and some ham so I could make some sandwiches. I announced this last part about my intent to create sandwiches with a booming voice, so it would be extra clear. I decided that, since I was now an all powerful being who could perform herculean tasks with the flip of a switch, I had no need of the trivialities of daily life such as actually "walking round the supermarket". I aimed the gun at what I calculated to be the center of the store and thought about the milk, bread and ham that I wished to retrieve.

The gravitational field converged about a metre in front of the Gun and, since it was directional in nature, affected pretty much everything within twenty metres of the point where I was standing. Although this material probably contained milk, bread and ham, it also contained a lot of masonry, some shelving units, checkout staff, checkouts and a large portion of the rear wall which, I assume was a supporting structure. Experimental results, i.e. the ripping out of said wall with my Gravity Gun, proved me correct and the rear portion of the supermarket collapsed in upon itself.

I turned around to retreat from the carnage and reaslied that I still had contained within the confines of a gravitational prison, several tons of rock, metal, complaining employees and food produce. Having nothing better to do, I fired it in the direction of the sun, knowing full well that it wouldn't actually get there and instead fall upon the home of some poor ususpecting fool, and turned to face whatever challenge life would see fit to present me with next.

Half Life dreams

2004-12-26T16:06:00.000Z

I keep having dreams about Half-Life 2. They're not dreams about the fact that I want to own the game, although I would like to get hold of it. My computer's not really up to running it, but I'd probably buy it anyway.

My dreams have been more about being in Half-Life 2. I become Gordon Freeman and run around doing stuff. One dream involved climbing around on a lot of pipes, and that was pretty much it. It was great though, I was climbing all over these pipes and grabbing onto other ones and swinging over to them and I was amazed at this. Its was like the best pipe-climbing simulator thing ever.

Another dream involved me running around telling everyone that I was Gordon Freeman. This was also a lot of fun, although I can't remember exactly why. I've had a few more dreams about the game, but they're rather vague and fuzzy in my memory. In another dream, I was quite possibly the actual Half-Life 2 game and I have a vague recollection of how thrilling it was to be sold at a phenomenal rate.

My dreams are a lot of fun.

On second thoughts, I might not get the game now. It probably won't live up to my expectations.

What I want for Christmas

2004-12-24T15:16:00.000Z

Well, I'm not normally one to get all unreasonably hyper about waking up on Christmas morning and ripping wrapping paper asunder to uncover the goodies hidden beneath, but this year I'm hoping for something very special. It's the Special Edition, Extended version of my Life.

Yes, that right. It includes a directors commentary - I can listen in on all the creative insights that go into my daily actions - a deleted scenes feature - most probably showcasing all the brilliantly hilarious things I do when drunk and then subsequently don't remember - and most importantly, an extra 1 year, 43 days and 7 minutes worth of extra footage. Most of this is stuff that didn't make the final cut, like my numerous exciting adventures to, in no specific order, the Moon, Egypt, Alpha Centauri and the Swindon branch of Woolworths, my numerous exotic girlfriends and most interestingly, the time I ended up posing as a Columbian drug baron intent on world domination for three weeks to win a bet.

I wouldn't reccomend the standard edition. It gets fairly tedious after a while.

Birthing a Web Design Company (and the problems inherent to this task)

2004-12-24T13:11:00.000Z

I came to a decision recently. It was a rather good decision too. The basis of this decision was that I'm fed up of sitting perfectly still doing nothing while I wait for the world to arrive at my doorstep with interesting sweetmeats and job opportunities. Daily I see life go "Sch'w'pinggggg" past my window and down the street where it interacts with some hip young thing and gets jiggy with a goup of "down with it" kids.

I've decided to start up my own web design company. Or rather, I'm going to be a freelance website designer. Which sounds better - and which will go on my business card - I have no idea.

Mostly, it's going swell. I'm fairly awesome, which is a good thing to be when designing websites. I'm also fairly creative, at least in a rather uncontrolled and destructive fashion. In much the same way as a nuclear bomb is "creative", I too cause chaos, noise and light to form where previously there was only stillness and a rather offputting sense that "everything is allright. There is nothing to fear"

The one main problem I have come across is naming the bastard. I hadn't realised just how many websites there are out there with cool names. Initially, I was going to name it after myself, then I thought "No". I have to appear as if I'm some sort of supercharged infromation aware intra-communi-net-tek-e-commerce-viable company with its finger on the digital pulse of the world and a heartbeat which pounds at gigahertz frequencies. Then I realised that all the cool things in the world are called "Liquid" and "Electric" and "Design". So I combined those three words and a few other cool sounding ones into company names and, lo and behold, every single one of the fuckers I found already existed as a company. "ElectricBlue" - no spaces - that sounds good. What's the first thing that comes up during a search for the aforementioned word-phrase? Thats right, a web design company. "LiquidDesign"? Google it... Oooh, at least three of the gits. "ChaosDesign". That sounds hip and upbeat, like some deluded rapper child with aspirations of greatness, bastardising the english language for use in his inane and pointless lyrics, but nooo. It's some sort of fucking e-commerce website.

From henceforth, I shall endeavour to name my company in the most nonsensical way possible. Perhaps I shall be known at some future point as www.hanramnaramnaramnamanaram.com. Shit, it's been taken.

Any ideas?

I like Christmas.

2004-12-19T15:46:00.000Z

No, really. I do. It's just all the crass commercialism and product placement that would make me physically nauseous if it wasnt for the fact that I've spent the last 24 years of my life being bombarded daily with an increasing number of adverts and promotions.

The act of creation

2004-12-18T18:11:00.000Z

I've been building websites. This is something I've been doing for a long, long time. Since the dawn of time itself. That is, of course, if you assume that time began at some arbitrary point on a Friday afternoon sometime during late November, 2002.

Building websites is fun and rewarding and I hope at some point in the future to make money from my skills because, though I am not normally the egotistical type, I must say that I am rather good at it. Wisdom is not something, as was once muttered by a greek philosopher*, to be hoarded however and so I shall now take it upon myself to impart upon you, humble reader, the knowledge of the web building. Let me start by explaining Cascading Style Sheets (CSS)

CSS is exactly what it sounds like. Style Sheets that Cascade. Much like a waterfall cascades over rocks and down into a valley, so too does CSS. Yes.

The syntax of CSS is, even at its most basic, extremely complicated and so I will endeavour to keep this as simple as possible. To start with, you must have a file. These can be purchased at most hardware shops for tuppence and thrupenny and will come in one of many sizes: big, small, large, long, flat, seven. The list is almost endless. Into this file you must place rules and statements which explain to the internet how the Style Sheet will Cascade. Yes.

A rule goes something like this...

.egg {
amount-of-egg : lots;
polyglot : maybe;
with-bacon : yes;
height : eggs have no height. They are two-dimensional;
}

This rule will be applied within an HTML document (Heavy Tractor Modulation Language) to specify exactly where, when, how and why an element will be placed.

Thusly..

HTML = draw eggs on the monitor. Then cook the eggs. Then goto 10.

This is called an HTML-ite. It is called an HTML-ite because it is. There is no other reason for it. Like the Universe, God and Harold Bishop it has existed for eternity and therefore doesn't need explaining.

Got all that? Good. Now go and make a webpage and have it on my desk by nine o'clock Moonday morn. I shall leave you now as I have pie in the oven and tea on the stove. Go and sit in the corner and think about what you have learned.

*it's fairly safe to assume that, because the Ancient Greeks and such were around for a long time and there were a lot of them, they said a lot of things, not all of them as wise as would be assumed.

The New Things.

2004-12-14T17:39:00.000Z

Today I got a new keyboard, shaped differently from my old one. Not in any major way, just enough to make it feel different. It's a little bit disconcerting, because all the keys seem to be in the wrong place. I find things like this to be terribly exciting and view them as a welcome change to my daily routine.

Another exciting thing happened today when I was watching daytime television. Now, normally, I am not one to be found lazing infront of the TV on a Tuesday afternoon, stuffing my face with cheese, cakes and/or mercury, but this day was different. I have no idea how it was different, it just was.

Anyway, during the advert break for some hilariously bad talk show/detective drama/news bulletin, I found myself staring with eager eyes at the garishly animated dancing corporate logo of some Loans Company PLC. Incorporated & Sons. This horrible dancing logo - I think it was a talking phone with wheels, or an exploding foetus or something - was extolling unto me the virtues of taking out up to £25,000 to buy myself something really, really nice that I probably didn't want, will never need and am no doubt allergic to (I am allergic to many things including things shaped like peanuts, mercury, the music of Jethro Tull and the sky).

Being the suggestible type that I am, certain parts of my brain immediately snapped into action. "You really want that loan, really really really really".
"Yes I do", I aggreed.

I called the number that the talking wheeled baby-monster told me to call and was greeted almost immediately by a cheerful young woman who introduced herself as Foona. I have never known anyone called Foona and I don't think it's even a real name. This didn't seem important at the time.
"Hello, Foona", I said, "I would like a loan, post haste, pronto pronto". I never take any nonsense from call center types and find that this is a good way of achieving an instant rapport with them.
"Ten of your thousand pounds should do nicely". She then took my details, including my name, address, credit card number, date of birth, underwear colour, marmoset breeding license number and fax number.
"Ha! I do not own a fax machine, never have and never will. Your attempts have been thwarted". Quite what I had thwarted I have no idea. I hung up the phone none the richer but wiser, thanks to my exciting adventure on the phone and proceeded back through to the living room where I placed myself, one again, infront of the TV and awaited further instruction from animated talking dustbin logos or whatever.

Time and Crunishment

2004-12-07T14:00:00.000Z

Daily, it seems, I sense the sands of time are slipping through my fingers. This is not a bad thing and, I should explain, nothing to do with being pessimistic about the future or 'owt like that. No, quite simply, I am attempting to use the power of metaphor to construct a nice little sandy cove in my back garden, complete with panoramic views of the emerald sea and cool atlantic breeze. (I need a holiday but money is tight) No such luck yet though.

All my relationships seems to roil and boil like the turbulent waves of the ocean...

Big Chief Mine'sAPint

2004-12-07T02:51:00.000Z

I wish I was some sort of tribal Chieftain. The sort that wears big feather hats and dances naked around fires singing to the god of rain or fire or plastics or chicken teryaki. It would make for interesting conversation down the pub of an evening.

"So, Chieftain", the others would begin as I and my chums gather around the bar to sup upon finest ales, "how's life treating you?". To this I would reply, "Very well, I thank you. I spend my days mostly naked whilst dancing round a fire singing songs of yore and telling tales so tall they would make the sky seem close. As the sun nears the horizon, I retire to my teepee, or wigwam if you will - in reality, my fourth floor flat, but lets skip the technicalities - to smoke upon the pipe of truth and to mull over the lessons that the days dancing (naked or otherwise) has laid upon me."

These simple utterances from the mouth of one who is held in such high regard are like rays of golden sunlight upon the face of a sleeping monkey. The pleasure which is emparted unto those who listen is something fine indeed. Like vintage Merlot, or the smell of cut grass on a warm Summer's eve, the words fill the minds of those held captivated by the Chieftain's tales and cause joy to blossom where before there was only a vague sense of longing.

Alas, I am not a strongly worded Chieftain. I am but a mild-mannered creature who toils by day and at night can be found loitering inside the local drinking establishment, shouting coarse words at any who fall within earshot and angering the patrons whenever a feather falls from my crudely fashioned Indian head-dress into their fiercley guarded pints.