Something to kill the time

Samorost will probably be a bit of a download on non-broadband connections, but it’s worth it. Lovely European animation and some simple puzzles to solve.

A smaller download, but trickier to solve is Takagi’s Crimson Room.

I’ve done both, so if you get stuck email me! Oh, and they both require >Flash in case you don’t have it.

Samorost | Crimson Room | Flash

Let’s All Laugh At Sunderland

I’ve ripped this from NUFC.COM, though to be fair, they nicked it from Monday’s Telegraph:

From the Telegraph Newspaper on Monday in response to an FA Cup crowd at the Stadium of Plight on Saturday of 24,966:

Sixty seconds of silence for the late Bob Stokoe provided oodles of time to consider The Great North-East Football Tradition. Er . . . what tradition? Dear old Bob was the last guy to collect any domestic silverware on behalf of either Sunderland or Newcastle. At Wembley in 1955 as a player with United and again in 1973 when he famously ran on to the pitch to mob Jim Montgomery after Sunderland had pulled off the biggest FA Cup final upset of all times.

“What’s that shiny thing?” queried supporters as Montgomery paraded the trophy around the Stadium of Light before Saturday’s fifth-round tie with Birmingham City. It should remind Wearsiders how insubstantial their pedigree really is. What they do have here when you boil it down is a great tradition of watching football and waiting for something to happen. I would never say it to their faces because life is cruel enough when a citizenry once world-renowned for building battleships is now forced to assemble Japanese cars.

The fans are fickle. Whereas the Toon Army would happily watch 11 donkeys dressed in black and white, these folk want blood. Live television coverage would not have reduced a Newcastle Cup crowd to 25,000 as it did at the Stadium of Light on Saturday. The truth is that despite an apparent metropolitan yearning for football, most of Sunderland’s support comes from the old mining areas of County Durham. The city fails to pull its weight. I think I know why. Red and white stripes. Sporting and sartorial death. It has finally dawned on a population of 280,000 that there’s no future in the outfit. It’s seaside rock. Signal toothpaste. Passe.

You could get away with it in the Thirties when Sunderland last looked menacing but you could get away with canvas bathing tents on Seaburn beach then. History shows us that no team in this unfortunate livery are likely to graduate beyond the also-rans’ enclosure. Lincoln City, Sheffield United, Atletico Madrid – you name ’em, they’ve made up the numbers. Why do you think Gordon Strachan is leaving Southampton?

A painstaking dossier produced by Sunderland’s under-cover historian, Rob Mason, reveals that with the exception of Red Star Belgrade, PSV Eindhoven and River Plate of Buenos Aires, red and white stripes have been a recipe for mediocrity. To make matters worse, Sunderland have been indirectly responsible for exporting the virus to Spain. Like many of his colleagues, a 19th Century stevedore called Arthur Pentland did a shipbuilding stint in Bilbao. In between thumping home rivets, Arthur co-founded Athletic Bilbao and ordered their costumes. The Basques not only played in a replica red-and-white-striped kit, but loaned a spare set of vests to the emerging Atletico Madrid, who have laboured in Real’s shadow ever since.

Civic leaders on Wearside take note. Bilbao only built the Guggenheim to divert attention from its failings in La Liga. If you go for the red-and-white sympathy vote, fellas, you might get a museum out of this.

I should be self-employed…

Well, if I could get the pay-rate I get for doing overtime, it’d be an easy ride. Dis-counting travel time, the job I did today took 30 minutes from arrival on site to leaving. As it’s a Saturday, I was paid overtime at a flat rate. Of course, the company I work for were paid more for the day(and I’m assuming the increase from standard rate will have been more than the amount I’m siphoning off), but still… £300 an hour. Not bad.

Shame about being made to stand like a lemon in someone’s office until the ignorant sod decided he had time to deal with me yesterday. By foisting me off on one of his co-workers (who was really helpful, thankfully). End result was leaving Derby so late that I hit the M25 (that’s the big motorway/car park round London) at rush hour. And then some silly sod had an accident just on the other side of the Dartford Crossing, so I was crawling for a whopping 3½ hours. I had cramp in my accelerator pedal foot by the time I got to my hotel.

Never mind. If that’s the worst that happened to me on Friday 13th, then I’m a happy man. And I got paid for it.

Now I’m back home and have to study. Again. Panicking about the OU stuff as I’m way behind many people. Perhaps taking on two courses and a project in one year was a little ambitious.

Blackburn 1 – 1 NUFC

And another 2 points chucked away within minutes of the end of a game. Mind, Blackburn were worth their goal, despite trying to send Bellamy back to the operating table.

Massive credit goes to Dwight Yorke, who although not taking direct part in the game raised great merriment amongst the visiting supporters and took it all with a great big grin and a wave. Great sport! I think he managed more chants for one player than anyone else there:

“She got shagged in the jungle”

“There’s only one Peter Andre”


“Where’s your Jordan now?”

Thanks, Dwight. I can honestly say I’ve not laughed so much in ages, and you took it with the sense of humour with which it was intended. Good away contingent – shame our performance didn’t match it.

Oh, for those not in the know… The UK recently had a new series of one of those grud-awful “reality” shows on. This one called “I’m A Celebrity – Get Me Out Of Here” where various z-list “famous” people are bunged into the Australian outback and have to avoid getting voted out. One of the recent contestants was Dwight Yorke’s ex-girlfriend (and mother of his child), pneumatic-chested model Jordan. Model what, I’m not exactly sure. During the series, she flirted with pop-failure Peter Andre. Hence the chants. Hope that’s cleared a few things up.

Today’s Peeve

I need a word for these people. Something Liff-ish (dig out Douglas Adams’ Meaning of Liff if you don’t know what I mean).

OK, the people I mean. The ones who drive in front of you normally, usually nicely within the speed limit… but slow down as they approach a green light, seemingly in the hope it’ll turn red and they’ll have to stop.

What is it with these people? Do they have to stop to finish breakfast or put on their makeup? Or do they have a fetish for playing with the handbrake that they can’t do at speed?

Rant over. Go back to your business, people.