I hate BT

Just got off the phone with BT. They piss me off like no other. Awhile back I had serious problems with them. First it was trying to get broadband swapped over. Then it was them taking quarterly payments out while I was out the country. Then billing me for payments when I try to close an account. Now they hae upped my direct debit because they bill me in advance. Its ridiculous. What other company bills you in advance. Do you go into a restaurant and pay then decide what you want to eat? Do you go buy clothes by handing over you cash when you go walk in the door, then go see I there is anything you like? No. It really pisses me off. I'm ropeable at the moment. Grrrrrrrrrrrr. Bastards.

Changes

It's been a pretty full on time of late round these parts.

I was just starting to see my way clear of the stagnant time I have had since Xmas. So close to being on my feet again, and then my Granny passed away. My dad flew over from NZ and I quickly made my way to Glasgow. My dad and I had a fuckup at the airport, and ended up paying through the nose for tickets, which stung a lot. What followed was 2 and a half weeks of arkward times, far too much to drink and way too many fry ups.

The funeral was quite hard to be honest, and death, well for me anyway is a very reflective time. I went through a lot of things in my head to do with my own mortality, and how I treat myself. I learned a lot in those few weeks. I fell out with my Dad a few times in those couple of weeks, as I can't stand the lectures that usually come after spending time with him. The funny thing is, and I know my Dad thinks this is rubbish, but some of what he told me has started to rub off.

There is now a sense of normalcy in my life and a good sense of well being. All I have done is quit partying for awhile, curbed the booze and fags and started eating well at regular times and going to bed early. Believe me it's an odd feeling to be bright as a button at 8.00am. So much more time in the day. I've been exploring the commons a`nd parks around my house on my bike and I've started doing filopino stickfighting once a week for confidence, self defence and general fitness. I can't begin to tell you how much fun it is! I'm hooked. Things are started to look up. I even have a second interview next week at a job, that I'm dying to get. Fingers are crossed.

Here's to you Granny Reilly, wherever you may be now. x

The Klepto Boys

Things are looking up. I've had a few weeks work, and a number of windfalls recently. Not money, mind you, but things which I have found. Now I kinda collect stuff. Those who know me, have seen this silly habit a lot. I tend to collect random objects and act like a extra on whose line is it anyway. Well in the last two weeks my pal George and I have found 2 random objects that actually have some use. The first was an empty keg of beer discarded on the side of the road. We lugged it home. The next morning we set to it, turning it into a bbq. It kind of looks like this. I know what you guys are saying. It's cold outside. Who cares. BBQ meat tastes great, and considering my recent fascination for Jerk chicken and all things Jamican, it kind of has to be done this summer. We have a good back garden, a ton of dub and reggae records and a penchant for a few jazz ciggies and cold beer, once the summer kicks in, our homemade jerk pit will be wafting sweet smells of bbq jerk chicken all over South London. It'll be Notting Hill Carnival with out the pickpockets. Excellent. Next thing you know I'll be getting all nostalgic and trying to dig a kiwi hangi through the patio. Lets hope that don't happen.





The next item we found was this. It's a ECKO Stereogram, probably from the sixties. It's in PERFECT WORKING ORDER. It even had the legs and brackets and the original paper slipmat and price sticker on the turntable. It's got a valve amp that produces the a warm sound that is simply brilliant. The cones are getting a little brittle, but that's all thats might need replacing, and maybe a new needle. It's basically in mint condition, and yes, my klepto buddy George and I found it in the fucking street. Cool eh?

It was the centrepiece of our whole flat's combined birthday party/bbq last Saturday night. Everyone went gaga over it. We have a good record collection at our place, which got a good bashing on the night. It was a fantastic night, but it went by too quick, and in a moment of "relaxation" I burnt my jerk chicken on the bbq. It also took three days to get over the hangover properly. It's no real surprise however. I am getting older. I surprised myself by tapping my foot to James Taylor and Neil Young and Cat Stevens on the ol' Stereogram, and actually liking it. My pal George are on the eye out for some nice bunnets, and started calling each other Jack & Victor. Roll on Summer, to thaw out my tired bones.

Happy St Pats Day.

Originally uploaded by LIFE OF REILLY.

Three cheers for liver damage!

Ricky Gervais Vs Natwest.

I was almost late today for my first scrap of work in ages. Thanks a lot Natwest, Brixton.

This bank teller in Brixton really pissed me off today. I felt like giving her a 100 paper cuts with the bloody cheque she wouldn't cash for me. What really grinds me is the fact that I had gone into the bank 2 weeks earlier and done the exact same thing. She didn't like to be told this fact. She started to get quite shitty with me, as they tend to do being protected by glass. I'm wondering if the vacant pram next to me would be strong enough to smash the glass and lunge at her with a paper cut assault. She was probably pissed off about me telling her about her job, but I think the main reason bank tellers get so irate so quickly is because they can't seem to count. Surely not you say. Trust me, I think bank tellers can't count nothing. To prove my point do this. Go into any bank and join the massive queue to get served. Hmmm you think this is going to take a good ten minutes. Why is that you ask?

Because there is ONLY 3 FUCKING TELLERS ON WITH 6 AVAILABLE BOOTHS. The stupid tellers are getting irate because on average people are waiting to be served for a lifetime. You usually have better things to do than stand around waiting for some pleb to push some buttons and take your money, or whatever.

What makes is worse is the the tellers get up out of thier chair and fuck off with some bit of paper out the back, to have a fag, cup of tea or chat about Eastenders or some other worthless topic. It's the safety of the glass panels that makes them so smug. See how smug they look when we, the great unwashed send glass flying everywhere with a barrage of empty prams. Just look at thier faces when single mums, workers, pensioners jump the counter, not to steal anything mind, but to just give the tellers a nice slap, tell them to put more staff on when it's busy, and not to be so condescending to the public, because if we didn't have to use the stupid bank, they wouldn't have their stupid job.

I ended up storming out the bank, shooting "fuck you" looks at the Natwest hydra behind the glass and bolted to the tube for my assignment.

One hour later.

I'm expecting Ricky Gervais to walk round the corner and give me a motivational introduction any second. My first freelance job of the year has landed me on the set of "The Office". It's surreal. I can't keep my eyes off a huge sweaty guy with nhs glasses, a bald patch ala Phil Collins with a little greasy ponytail. In a suit no less which is spilling out over his 15 pints of ale a day belly. Riveting stuff.

The guy I'm supposed to be working for is in a meeting and running late, which is par for the course in the industry I work in. Suits me fine. I can wait all day if the meter's running. The big drawback is where this assignment is. It's in Cockfosters. For the benefit of international readers, that's about an hour on a tube from the "urban safety" of Brixton. It's where livestock roam the streets, people drive combine harvesters and from looking around this office it looks like there's a few flocks of sheep grazing in several cubicles. Though the assignment I'm gonna get isn't gonna rock my world, and the people here seem somewhat normal in a suburban way, I'm kind of glad I got some money coming in at last.

Spooky

I couldn't help myself with these two.

One guy is a political puppet of Hamas in the Middle East, and the other is a political puppet acting undercover as a CIA agent in the Middle East.

My last day in Vietnam

I was watching the news today on the box and noticed a familiar looking face on the telly going to prision in Vietnam for a spell. It reminds me of a story that I must tell you all.

It all started when I was travelling in July 2004. I had been all through Vietnam for about a month and I had made may way to a tiny border village called Chao Duc to stay for a night before floating up the river and across into Cambodia.

It had been a typical pain in the ass journey in a cramped mini bus packed to the gunnels with an old grannie and her doting entourage, a pockmarked corrupt looking sweaty cop, and some shit tour guide who couldn't be arsed talking. Which suited myself and 2 pals, who couldn't be arsed listening. The trip was in typical Vietnamese fashion. Bumpy roads, the most god awful Chinese version of westlife playing on a tinny stereo system which just so happened to postioned just above my head. To add insult to injury I had a seriously sprained knee that I had some how mysteriously acquired the night before while out "socialising."

Anyway we arrived at Chao Duc, and I was not much of a happy camper by this stage. Hopping (literally) out the minivan I was quickly surrounded by about 20 guys all with horse drawn carts and no horses, all screaming at me to pick them to take me to the local guesthouse. I was in no mood for anyone screaming at me, and I uncharacteriscally lost it and started screaming back at them. Dumb idea. All I got back was a lot of "oohs" and "ahhs" and some girlish sniggering. Typical. To cut a long story short, I got on the back of the cart, and watched the horse/boy take me 2 minutes down a road to what turned out to be the only guesthouse in the whole godforsaken town.

My friends and I settled into to our rooms and decided to get some food. No luck, however as everything was shut. However there was an older English looking guy sitting on the porch with a tray of bread, cheeses and fruit, and most noticably a few bottles of red wine. You don't see this type of spectacle very much Vietnam. He invited us to join him, and we all started getting into the wine and food.

He seemed a well read, interesting chap. He knew about New Zealand, commenting that he was in the play version of the Rocky Horror Picture show playing none other than Dr. Frank-N-Furter. Impressive. He then started tell us about crazy times in Bali in the 70's where he was in rickety beach shacks with local prostitutes and been startled by huge geckos running over his bare ass while I suppose being on the job. He was full of stories. We all commented that he should write a book about it all. He told us that he had. We kept on asking his name, and he kept on saying his name was Paul. Something was nagging in the back of my head. This guy was famous, but for what ever ever reason, I couldn't put my finger on it. He eventually leaned forward to us all and lowered his glasses and said, "my names Paul, but some people call me Gary."

The penny dropped. We we're sitting across the table getting sloshed on vino, in the middle of nowhere with Gary fucking Glitter. Now that his secret was out of the bag, he started to tell us what had been really going on with him. He was on the run from Cambodia, where the President had been trying to kick him out for the last 2 years. Turns out the President used to fly over his rather palatial grounds every 2 days in a helicopter trying to get a glimpse of what was going on in there. I shudder to think what that was. He then said he was staying illegally in this border town, trying to get his immigration sorted out. A likely story. He was bummed out (no pun intended) that he couldn't go back to Cambodia and that he couldn't show us his pad in Phnom pen, or put us up there. Yeah right. Could you imagine it. Try saying that to anyone.

• Fellow Traveller: "Where did you stay in Phnom pen Reilly?"
• Me: "Oh, at Gary Glitters place?"
• Awkward silence for about a minute.
• Fellow Traveller: "Hey dude, I think I might get my own room, instead of sharing"
• Fellow Traveller: Mutters under breath "Pervert"

That would be about the sum of it, really. The rest of the night, he was holding court with his fantastic stories, plying us all with wine and trying to get hold of his "18 year old Girlfriend" who was out getting drunk with people her own age and from what I gathered was trying to avoid him.

It's a weird feeling where you are genuinly interested in this guys storytelling and seemingly charming manner, but at the same time just want break a wine bottle on his bald head and yell at him "You fuck kids, don't ya." It's a very strange headspace to be in. Eventually I needed to sleep and had enough of his wine and food. I shook hands with him, felt instantly replused and managed to force a smile and scurry off to my room. I bolted the door, had a drunken shower and washed my hands about 5 times. The next day we left early, my pals and I quite stunned by the whole event and happy in the fact that we were going up the river and well erm... not up the Gary.

Lost

The whole month of February was an entire waste of space. I don't even want to get into the subject, it's so boring.