Posting Strike

Yeah. Any regular followers of this blog will have noticed that there has been nothing new on here since January 2009. Although if you have been checking regularly since then in the vain hope of coming across some new inane ramblings, then there is probably something a bit wrong with you.

Anyway, during 2009 I have been doing all sorts of other things that haven't involved posting nonsense onto the internet, such as growing my hair, endlessly walking back and forth to work (forth and back, surely?) and shedding my hair. So, this blog is on hiatus until something happens that I deem worth writing about. Watch this space but don't hold your breath. Something almost happened a few months ago, but then it didn't happen. That was the last thing that almost happened. Since then, nothing.

Finally, the much-vaunted late noughties super-group Buried in Pompeii is now sadly no more, due to a lack of interest from the musicians and pretty much the world at large (and also because Steve is selling our synth on ebay because he needs money). We may reform one day, but only when the world is finally ready.

Anyway, until something happens... stay alive, be happy, and try not to cause too much trouble.

Buried in Pomposity is infrequently brought to you by Dan Gregory, disenfranchised synth-player and second-rate citizen.

Shameful advertising

No funny writing today, I'm afraid - but I will try and get a blog up by the end of the week. In the meantime, here's an advert for a gig, happening tomorrow, featuring the much-vaunted Buried in Pompeii. Come see us!

Tales from the Orient Episode 1 - Dan and the Case of the Dire Rear

Well then. Christmas has been summarily despatched with a bullet straight between its dewy little festive eyes, and New Years was last seen being loaded into an ambulance after drinking the stuff under the sink. I hereby pronounce the festive season dead. Hooray!

That done, I suppose I'd better get on with doing a blog of some kind. So I'm going to tell you a story that happened over 2 years ago, to a man very much like me. A man so much like me that even his closest friends would have difficulty telling us apart. Assuming of course, that his closest friends knew me too, which they would have done, seeing as this is actually a story about me and the last few sentences were merely a misjudged attempt at setting the tone. Well done Dan, you ham-fisted dork.

Anyway, the tale I'm about to relate began many miles from here, in a hot and dusty land, on a bus. A sleeper bus, to be precise. Now the first thing you should know about a sleeper bus - especialy a sleeper bus in Kazakhstan (which is where this particular sleeper bus was) - is that they are absolutely impossible to sleep on. They come with bunks, sure, but what if the only bunk left to you and your travel companion was the big quadruple one at the back? What if that bunk already had a large kazakh woman in it? And what if every two minutes the bus went over a pot-hole and catapulted the three of you into the air and then back down on top of each other? What then?

Well, the picture pretty much sums it up. We'd bounce in the air, fall back down, burst out laughing, and repeat. The bus we were on was the direct bus through from Almaty - which is the former capital of Kazakhstan, to Urumqi - which is the largest city in Western China. The journey was scheduled to take about 24 hours, half of which would be on lumpen Kazakh tracks and the other half on lovely smooth Chinese communist roads. Which meant for 12 solid hours we were bouncing into the air, laughing, and accidentally molesting the unfortunate woman on the other bunk (who took it all in very good grace).

Unfortunately, after all this physical exercise, we'd worked up quite an appetite once we'd crossed the border. Not having had the presence of mind to bring any Chinese money with us, we were forced to accept the generous gift of a dubious-looking goat kebab, at a fly-blown rest-stop, from a man with gold front teeth. Now, he was possessed of a generous, 24-carat smile, which is probably the only reason we felt obliged to eat the knobbly, undercooked meat from the skewer. He looked on, occasionally encouraging us wuth the words 'Yum yum', like some terrifying Central Asian gremlin. And we both polished off the whole thing.

I imagine you can guess where this is leading by now.

After a strange half sleep as we clunked through the Chinese night, we awoke at 5.30 in the morning in the middle of Urumqi. Our map was 7 years out of date, neither of us could speak Chinese, and we didnt have a hotel booked. However, all of these problems paled into insignificance when weighed up against the strange churning sensation that we were both experiencing deep down inside.

But the kraken sleepethed - for now anyway - so we set about finding some lodgings. We both knew it was only a matter of time before the tide would turn, so to speak.

Fortunately, we were aided in our search by a man who wore pinstriped trousers, pointy shoes, and bounded up to us demanding to know whether we were American. We told him that we weren't, and he warmed to us immediately. We both came to the conclusion that he was either a used-car dealer, a pimp, or both, so we sensibly got into the taxi that he hailed for us and went with him to find a hotel. And not a moment too soon.

I would estimate that from this point, me and David (my travel companion) expunged our bowels regularly every ten minutes for two entire days. Occasionally Dos (the pointly shoed car-saleman pimp who turned out to be neither - just a truly nice person) would come to our room and stop in for a chat, and more regularly one of the hotel's numerous prostitutes would try to muscle in to give us a 'massage'. Dave took it upon himself to remove these bodily and place them protesting outside the door, while they ran their fingers over his blond eyebrows and I desperately tried to stop myself pooing the bed.

Eventually the flood abated, leaving Dave with no ill effects, and me with two large, rather painful hemorrhoids.

This is not a story that shows me in a particularly flattering light.

It was at this point that I became concerned. I hadn't been very concerned before, when I was pooing, because I knew how that went and was pretty certain it would stop. But now I was in over my head. I couldn't go around with these... things, irritating me indefinitely. So I did what any sane man does. I decided to go to a pharmacy and get something to fix them.

This is where I ran into a snag. All the nearby pharmacies were Chinese. In fact, there wasn't a non-Chinese pharmacy for hundreds of miles, because I was in China, which I was soon to find out is the home of the Chinese pharmacy. So the pharmacies were Chinese and I was clearly not. All the pharmacists spoke Chinese, and I did not. This, it seemed to me, would make ordering pile cream pretty damn difficult.

But then I hit upon an idea. And this is really what the whole story has been leading up to. I decided to draw some cartoons. Some simple doodles which would explain my predicament in a language so universal I couldn't help but be understood. And while I was going through some of my stuff the other day, I found them.

So, here for you, in a cut-out-and-keep fashion, are Dan's 5 Must-have Cartoons for Ordering Hemorrhoid Cream in a Foreign Country.

#1 - The Basic Strip

A simple one, this. Lack of artistic skill notwithstanding, even an idiot could clearly see what I need from this simple cartoon. Frame 1 depicts the cream, frame 2 indicates the area of my discontent, frame 3 demonstrates the correct way to administer the cream, and frame 4 depicts my resulting mood.

But, I thought, I'd better have a few more to fall back on if for some peculiar reason this one didn't do the trick. Which brings us to...

#2 - The 'Flaming Obvious'

Again, pretty easy to tell what is needed here. If you're a young Chinese girl working in a pharmacy and a foreign man thrusts this at you, you will surely infer that he is suffering from a 'hot and fiery' backside and requires some cream to ease his pain. You will also take the smiley at the bottom in the way it is intended - as the grateful scrawlings of a desperate man.

You couldn't possibly take this to be some kind of peculiar or obscene come-on, could you? No, of course not. But, to be safe...

#3 - The Empathic Tube

Ok, even I agree that this one is a bit weird. What I was trying to convey was a tube of cream 'thinking' about the purpose for which it is intended. In this case, the tube is thinking of a person, and the arrows indicate the region of the person that the tube is particularly keen to visit. However, to ensure that the pharmacist didn't think I was after a concoction for my cock or a balm for my balls, you can see that I have expertly drawn a nice rounded bottom on the stick man to clear up any confusion.

Ok, thought not. How about...

#4 - The Happy Arse

Look at it. It's as clear as the nose on your face. Angry fire-breathing bottom is calmed by tube of cream and replaced by smiling posterior of joy. The only problem being that I will never be able to hand this to a stranger, Chinese or not, for fear that they would call the authorities.

So, it's all down to this one...

#5 - The 'WTF?'

Right, I'll walk you through it. In the first frame, that's me talking to the pharmacist. I'm the smiling one, she has a question mark of her head (and who can blame her).

In the second frame, I am handing her this cartoon (in a sort of art-imitating-life kind of way), and you can see my discomfort from my frowny expression and exploding undercrackers.

In the third frame, I am imagining a tube of cream. Arrows and explosions indicate the problem region, as in most medical handbooks.

In the fourth frame, comprehension has dawned and she is handing me my cream, while from out-of-frame a giant three-fingered hand has zoomed in to give the whole performance a resounding thumbs-up.

So there it is - five geniune cartoons by my own fair hand, from my days in the orient. The almost unbelievable thing is that I did eventually manage to procure some cream for my maladjusted bottom. But this was after some more adventures, involving horses, nomads and icy-cold mountain streams, and I will have to leave this story for another time. Preferably another life.

In the meantime, watch what you eat!

Buried in Pomposity is written by Dan. He shouldn't be allowed to leave the house, let alone the country.

Journalisn't

Hi. I have for you below two completely different newspaper clippings. One is from top-selling British tabloid The Sun, and one is from the Hindustan Times, an Indian national broadsheet. They are both straight outta 2006.

Here is the Sun's journalistic offering.

So, this is from a paper which has a circulation of 3 million in a country of 60 million people. A paper which is arguably the most popular tabloid in the UK. And a paper that doesn't know how many pennies there are in a pound.

Now allow me to demonstrate why Indian journalism is the best in the world.

The Hindustan Times costs a sixth as much as the Sun, and its circulation is proportionally 36 times smaller. However, if I had a choice between the two, I'd go with the Times every time.

From the joyous headline - 'Cops in a Tizzy', to the first paragraph's hilarious closing sentence - 'The incident had top cops a-flutter for several hours', this article is one of the most cheering things I've ever read in my life.

I'm going to transcribe verbatim the central section of this article, as description doesn't do justice to its sheer brilliance. This leads on from the bottom of the picture.

'When he returned, his heart was in his mouth. The car was gone.

Nervousness soon turned to panic, and Haldar approached a nearby traffic constable. "What? A red-beaconed army car has been stolen? Quickly report the matter to the nearby Hare Street station," the constable said.

The Hare Street police initially suspected that Haldar had a hand in the theft and so they grilled him. But when they realised that the driver was innocent, they thought it prudent to inform the higher-ups. Soon, the home department, the CID, the detective department and senior officers of the special branch all sprang to their feet.'

If only all English news articles were written in such a pleasing prosaic manner, maybe I'd stop seeing newspapers merely as uncomfortably-scratchy emergency toilet paper.

But hang on, that gives me an idea! What's the BBC's top news story today...? Ah yes.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/business/7787904.stm

Now, all I have to do is channel the power of Indian journalism, and we will transform this dusty, figure-laden borefest into a vibrant piece of reporting poesy! Here goes...

Woolworths Shutting Up Shop

Top bods at Woolworths were crestfallen to announce that come January 5th, every one of their stores would shut its doors for the last time.

Over a thousand-score employees are set to come a cropper if no benefactor can be found. The first shops will close on the 27th December.

Those in the know have mentioned that there's been some interest in the ailing firm, but all agree that no single buyer is clamouring for a slice of the pie.

Businesses specialising in scoff, togs and bargains are all sniffing around, eager to take over the leases of the 300-odd ex-Woolworths. Measures will be taken to keep old staff members out of a pickle by re-employing them in these new outlets.

Creditors and suppliers reportedly kicked up a furore when they found out that they would not receive full recompense for their services.

And there has been a hullabaloo on the high streets as people flocked to the stores nationwide, hoping to snaffle a bargian as Woolworths enters its final death-thoes.

I could go on, but you get the general idea. Despite my best efforts, I'm completely incapable of replicating the pleasing, archaic style of English-language Indian newspaper. Which is a shame, because if all news were reported in this way - with the elegance of Dickens and the language of Austin - nobody would need to buy a book ever again.

Oh, hey, also... come to our gig on Friday in Felixstowe. Hooray!

Buried in Pomposity is the product of Dan. He is not a journalist, and can barely be described as a writer. He is 6 feet long.

Gin 'n' Moronic

Today's blog is a little different, as it foregoes all the usual silliness that I like to smudge all over my small slice of internet. Yes, this entry is 100% SCIENTIFIC AND ENTIRELY WITHOUT RIDICULOUS. Allow me to explain.

Me and my friend Stephen were discoursing on scholarly matters the other night, when we came to the conclusion that Friday nights are boring. They always involve the same melange of drinking beer, joking with friends and staring at unobtainable women in a succession of increasingly dingy nightspots until it's time to stagger home alone.

This, we decided, HAD TO CHANGE. So we chose to make this Friday night into something of an experiment. It started when I idly said 'What do you think would happen if we drunk something that neither of us ever drink for the entire evening, like, I dunno, Gin?'

In that moment, the Friday Ginstravaganza was born. And the idea didn't really evolve at all, until Stephen suggested that he could definitely drink more gin than I could. So, here follows an hour-by-hour, blow-by-blow, Gordons-byGordons account of our Gin adventure. But first, the rules...

• Nothing must be drunk apart from Gin, with tonic if necessary. Ice may be appended, but only if both participants agree to the addition.
• Measures must be identical, and drunk at the same time and the same rate.
• Cigarettes may be smoked, because they make you look cool.
• The first person to drink a different drink, or refuse to drink any more Gin, will be declared the loser.

The time right now is bang on 6pm. I have drunk half a glass of delicious, refreshing Gin and Tonic. Stephen has done the same. Updates on the health, mental wellbeing and amount of Gin imbibed will follow at hourly intervals. Let the gays begin!

7PM
Gin drunk - 120ml per person (5 shots)

At 7 o' clock, I find myself at the end of cooking a rather delicious Chilli con Carne for Stephen, myself, and also Tom, who has chosen to act as an independant adjudicator.

The Gin has made me feel a little sleepy, as well as mildly indisposed towards Stephen. I'm beginning to resent his mindless trivial asides, as well as his excellent bone structure and refusal to help in the kitchen. I also notice that I have spelt Gin with a capital G throughout this article - something that I wish to continue to do.

I'm going to continue with half hourly reports. To summarise my 7pm feelings...
Drunken level 2/10, sleepyness level 3/10, delicious level 11/10.

7.42pm
Gin drunk - 155ml per person (just over 6 shots)

Stephen is hilarious. He hasn't said anything funny, but he exudes an aroma of hilarious that is strangely infectious. Tom, in stark contrast, is rather dull and has said nothing of any note. Only one of these men has drunk Gin. Coincidence?

Query. Is Gin the best thing ever? Find out in roughly 3 hours.

Also. My Chilli. Was incredible. Seriously. I'm so talented I wish there was another one of me, so there were two Dans and both could congratulate each other on how talented the two of them truly are.

8.42pm
Gin drunk - 190ml (almost 8 shots worth)

I got a little sidetracked for the last hour, because I was playing a popular football simulation against Stephen on the PS3. Stephen thinks he's so much better at football than I am, but actually I know for a fact that I am far more adept. The match ended 3-1 to him, but I don't believe that this was an accurate reflection of our performances. Also, he cheats. Oddly, we both hate football in real life.

He is hugging me now. Maybe because I shouted at him, maybe because he has sexual feelings for me - who can know for sure. He just kissed me on the head and then announced 'I'm just going for a dump. The door's open ok, so do not fucking walk in on me.' His words, not mine.

I'm not sure where the night is going to go from here. The Gin has brought out a lethargic, languid, mildly depressive side of my personality that I am unfamiliar with. I think that myself and Stephen are both keen on the idea of going out and having intimate relations with a consenting female adult (one each, I mean. We do not wish to share. Well, he wishes, but I do not wish). But then again, it could quite easily go the other way - with me deciding to go and walk in on Stephen having a dump.

9.23pm
Gin drunk -225ml (9 shots)

Hello, Stephen here.

I'd like to point out that tonights idea has not only been quite pathetic buit it has also left me feeling a tiddlly drunk. For all of those out there who know me, you'll know i'm not much of writer like the boy Danny. (aka my password is angelfire for blogspot). So, I tend to write as i think. So, my feedback so far. Gin is fucking miserable and sharing this occasion with a miserable bastard who just played me the blues on the guitar is the top event of the nght. bravo Dan. Lets make it better from now on shall we...


Shut up Stephen. You will not hijack my blog. You are not a train robber. Or a blog robber. A blobber? No.

Gin is really depressing. Lets drink more.

9.55pm
Din Grunk - 330ml (13 shots)

Right! That seems to have done the job! Stephen is thinking that he needs to change his jumper for a sexier model. I concur. I also suggest that he change his body for sexier model. Stephen suggests that Dan gets a life and doesn't sit around with a bad-tempered Irish guy, making him drink a drink that he doesn't like. Dan doesn't think that this comment was very funny and resents the finger power he used to type it.

The IT crowd is on very shortly, which I will enjoy. My face seems oddly warm. I am also amazed that I can still form such eloquent and well balanced sentences when at this moderately advanced state of inebriation. I guess that is what comes of being fairly gifted in a field that will get me no financial gain or social standing (drunken blogging). But I care not, for Mr Gordon is still almost half full and I will sup from his green teat a little more.

10.38pm
Gin - 400mls apiece (that's 16 shots)

Right. Yeah. Gin. It gets you drunk. This experiment is in danger of deteriorating into some kind of drunken 'let yourself go' fest. Let yourself go. That's the soundbite/jingle from some advert. I forget which, but I'm praying to god it's Tena Lady.

Ok, so the plan now is to head out into town where we will continue to drink the juniper juice, but at vastly inflated pub prices. hooray. Stephen, i have no feelings about either way. He's a man-shaped sack of friend, but I am a friend of his sack, so that's nonsense. Well done Dan. You excel.

Tom wants also to go out - he has returned fresh faced and moist-buttocked as ever. This keyboard is treacherous. There are gaps between the keys. GAPS! Imagine if you fell in... would you ever escape?

Tom informs me that I am wittering bollocks. If only I were located on the left of a world map, then I would be West Wittering bollocks. West Wittering is a place. But its flagship bollocks are owned by another man. This makes me sad.

Tom may have a point. I love him. And his odd face and beard and haircut and choice of clothes and personal hygeine malfunctions and usage of the phrase 'sprouting bollocks'. He's a great great man.

I'm going out now. Wish me luck (except its too late cos I'm posting this on Saturday. Posthumously. Or post-humorously, as Tom would have it. Cos he's such a fucking hilarity.)

2.35am
Gin. lots. 600ml. I kept count. That's 24 shots.

I don;t want to see another glasss of Gin for all my days in china. Apparently, Steve is getting me another one. This is not to my approval.

Gin 635ml.

No. I will not be well. This is what I say. That took me about 2 minutes to write. I am not welll. Steve will take over...

Hello everyone! I'm still swimming in glory. i love G+t. what's the fuss about? jebus fucking creezy. Dan has now settled into a pile of absolue misreable dogshit of misery. Conclusion: Gin is fucking depressing. This is something many of us have already decided and many of us have already done but hey, we're noobies and we wanted to test it out. Try it out folks, i'm sure you already have and you're reading this and thinking "jezus you fcuking panzies, it's fuckin ggin and tonic!" Well to that i (we) say fuck you. It's a drepressing fucking drink. Dan is now on my bed (no) and drinking his remainders.....I think I'll beat him but...we'll see. Stay tuned. PUBLISH.

Actually, i've been given the glory of publishing this. However, we have a indpendant advisory consultant who now has is opinion....

*judge* oh, dear. we have a casualty. man down. can you guess who it is?..... was it worth asking? Of course, it's only our blogonomist. Can i just say this may have been the most depressing night of my life. I've heard stories of breaking up with exes (ex's, exs), hmm spelling to be decided on, career goals we could have made, how ladies prefer skinny jean guys over, you know, us duuuuuudes that like to spend our time writing blogs on our drinking habits, and not only stories but the sound of vomiting too.

As you can tell i've had a marvellous night. i hope you've had a marvellous morning/afternoon/evening/ night reading this.

toodles.

Dan's Final Thoughts

Right. It is yours truly back at the wheel, guiding this blog back home through difficult tides. So I may have expelled some of my innards. So, Steve may have proven he is the more talented drinker. So, Tom has decided upon going to bed rather than, you know, not. But I think we can SCIENTIFICALLY AND NOT RIDICULOUSLY conclude that Gin is, well, alcoholic. Yes.

I need to go and lay down in the recovery position for a while. The time is bang on 3am. I love you all very much.