  Hello followers. Well, I call you followers, but only in the sense that you follow what I put in this Blog. I don't want you to all treat me as God though, that would be really embarrassing. I'd have to start wearing a white sheet, and growing a long beard and sounding really wise. I'm quite happy sounding a bit odd, slightly maniacal and often as if I'm under the influence of some particularly interesting mushrooms growing just outside my office window, you know the ones, they've got the elephants running around on them. Hmmm, having reread that, I think it best if I start again.
Hey Everybody ( Hi Doctor Nick )!! SO, this weekend, I was in that ever-popular summertime destination, Nottingham. Yes, I know, this is the second Blog entry in a row involving Nottingham, but what can I do about it? Everything that is interesting in my life happens up there. I am a boring old git, and it is only the frisson (I'm sure there should be an accent on that somewhere) of Old Git meets Young Hip Town which generates anything even remotely worth reading. Want proof?
Read the first three blog entries. There, how rubbish were they ? Point proven, I think. Anyway, I was in Nottingham and had a rubbish day on Saturday. But before we get to that, I need to fill you in on some background. It was my birthday a short while ago, and one of presents from SESO (Small-Elf Sized One, for all those who didn't read the previous blog entires, you lazy so-and-so's, drop me an email and I'll come to your house scroll your mouse for you to if you want me to) was the Itchy Guide to Nottingham.
The guide is a cool little book which gives a few sentences on some choice venues (bars, clubs, pubs, restaurants) to allow the uninitiated to wander around the town and avoid the real dives. I assumed that since SESO had given me the book, she had already checked it for accuracy and that I could treat it as my Nottingham Bible. That was probably a mistake. So, I am pressurised now to choose an activity because SESO is fed up with having to decide what we're going to do, hence her buying Itchy for me. For Saturday afternoon I chose going to the caves underneath the Broadmarsh centre and so the dire day begins. Apparently they are unique and hand-carved (don't mention Fort Amhurst in Chatham which are also "Hand Carved and Unique!
") and, I quote, "You haven't done Nottingham until you've done the caves!". Understandably, with such a sweeping statement, I was keyed up for the excitement offered by being fifty feet underground. Whooo hooo. Itchy said the caves closed at 5pm on Saturdays, and so we wandered over there at around ten past four, thinking that we would have enough time to mooch round and enjoy the excitement without needing the toilet like a wound-up three year old. It was closed. My world collapsed.
I had carefully read through the entire of Itchy, committing it to memory, having ideas of great evenings in Tantra (which, incidentally, is a really really good place to be), of enjoying the views offered by the Cornerhouse, of boogying on down in Dogma. But alas, my entire belief system, solidly grounded on Itchy, came crumbling down when I discovered that Itchy had got it wrong!!! I was stunned. I was speechless, my head hung low on my shoulders as I tried to comprehend the enormity of the situation. SESO accused me of sulking like the aforementioned three year old. Neerrrr to that.
So, we decided that we didn't care, and instead went to Smiling Sam's. The suggestion was made, the experience was painted vividly in mental pictures of garish lights, token-eating arcade machines, the laughter of happy adults who'd regressed to their childhood. It sounded fantastic. The drive was interminable, especially as I don't know Nottingham very well and was taking directions from SESO. "Are we nearly there yet? " "No.
" "Are we nearly there yet? " "No. " "Where am I going? " "Right (gesturing left). " "This right? The right known by everyone else as...
left? " "Yes. Shut up and stop laughing at me. " And finally, after a few miles of this (and some mild contusions), we cruise past a huge derelict warehouse. I dismiss it; our destination is apparently just down the road from Imperial Tobacco and the area is pretty grim. I assume the warehouse just another part of "Ee, it's grim oop north".
SESO lets out a gasp of horror. "Look! " I glance to where she's indicating, expecting to see a dead body, or part of a dead body, or a dying body. Instead, I see the derelict warehouse. Mild confusion settles on the familiar surroundings of my face. "Smiling Sam's has closed down!
" This was said with the gravitas, the enormity of announcements like, "Elvis is dead. " or "The kidney has been rejected. " There was a wailing and a gnashing of teeth, mainly because for the second time that day I had been deeply, deeply disappointed by Nottingham. Not disappointed in a "Oh, that's a pity" way, more in a "I had the winning lottery ticket where the triple rollover jackpot was £200,000,000, and I gave it to a tramp" kind of way. I was crushed. "Cruel Nottingham, why do you treat me this way?
WHY??? " So we went and watched deer in Woolaton Park instead. E, that were grand. Except when the Iranian tourist held his eighteen-month old child out to stroke the (wild) stag with antlers protruding from his head of sufficient size to be able to find homes for the entire 21-man "Sombrero Sala-men"'s hats. I did say "I really don't think that's a good idea". The kid only got headbutted and was screaming like a good-un, so was probably ok.
Unfortunately, the Dad didn't get gored to death as befits an eedjit harassing a fully-grown deer in the calving season. I dunno, you just don't get as many gorings as you used to. On another note, the weather was actually really nice for the whole weekend and it didn't rain. I had to sit down for five minutes when I realised that. I came over all funny. 
