Sparkster.net

Watching out my flat window last night, I must admit I was disappointed by the poor quality of fireworks and Chinese lantern-thingys this year. After all the fireworks set off throughout the whole of October during the run-up to Bonfire Night, I was expecting explosions of atom bomb proportions this New Years Eve. They were instead pathetic. You let me down. You let yourselves down. You let Kim Jong Il down. For shame ;(

New Years Eve. Meh. I’m not really a fan of the event. I enjoy having fun, but I don’t like fun being forced upon me. “Oooh, do you know what date it is, Sean? It’s New Years Eve. You must go out, enjoy yourself, drink yourself into a coma, before waking up dead. It’s the law, don’t you know.”  Not my cup of tea really.

My disinterest in the New Year’s festivities is probably a good thing, as I haven’t found anyone to spend the evening with. Unsurprisingly, I am not too fussed. I’ve had a good day so far. I spent the afternoon with a fellow Bath City fan, watching local side Chippenham Town slug it out in an enjoyable Southern League game (a blog about this will appear on Sean’s Stories in due course).

It is now the evening. My tea is about to be cooked – a hearty meal of sausages, Aunt Bessie’s roast potatoes and frozen vegetables. A bottle of Thatcher’s cider is also in the fridge, although I may go for one of the many bottles of Bath Gem, I received for Christmas.

Once I have wined and dined, the trusty PlayStation 3 will keep me entertained. Alongside the bottles of real ale in my Crimbo stocking, I was lucky enough to be given a copy of Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3. If I get bored of killing, a recent Amazon delivery has seen me acquire a copy of Sonic Generations.

However, I’m tempted to avoid gaming all together this evening. I have my eye on the Blu Ray copy of The Inbetweeners movie. This will be followed up by Match of the Day, which tonight looks to be even funnier than The Inbetweeners, thanks to this. Happy birthday, Alex – you twat.

On that delightful and heart-warming note, I bid you farewell and a happy new year – although not really, it’s just another day. I’ll just say ‘have a happy Sunday tomorrow’.

So the inevitable has happened. Just a month after announcing I would cease with general interest blogs, I have admitted defeat and will start blogging them again. Why? Mainly because I have been left pissed off on a number of occasions and could think of just two ways in which I could relieve my anger. Option 1 – kill a kitten. Option 2 – blog about it. Sadly, a few cats were killed, but luckily for the feline community, I will now be blogging. The killing has stopped. Mostly.

You will notice the domain has changed to Sparkster.net. Long term visitors to my website will remember this was used pre-2009. It will now be used in 2012 and beyond. Sean’s Stories will remain and be used for all my football talk, which means this blog will contain little sport talk (which will please those of you that hate football).

I have been planning to blog since the Christmas Eve. I was lazy and didn’t. Therefore the first post on my new-old-new blog will be this. An introductory post. What a rip off.

I will blog about Christmas tomorrow after work. Yes, I have to work tomorrow. While all of you are sat at home eating turkey sandwiches, finishing off the remainder of the Quality Streets tin and watching Jurassic Park 3 on ITV2+1, I will be working. How you laugh. I’ll be the last one laughing. When you return to your places of work in the New Year, I’ll be off.

As some of us have to get up, go to work and run the country tomorrow, I had better go to bed now. Goodnight.

Oh, and in case you were wondering why I haven’t update Sean’s Stories in over a week, it’s because the Newport game was called off, so nothing to report there.

Christmas shopping in town. One of the most stressful situations known to man.

The trouble with Christmas shopping is that it has to be done, yet the longer you leave it, the more traumatic it becomes. Shopping in November is upsetting; early December, terrifying; while leaving it until Christmas Eve is enough to drive a man to murder.

That is why I decided to do all mine this week. Most of which took place on a cold, Monday afternoon in Bath.

Every single person in town that day found a way to piss me off. Every single person. First of all the shop assistants. I must have a look about me which says “Shop lifter”, because upon entering a shop and examining an item, someone working within the store would appear, as if by magic, asking if they could help me. What they were really saying was “Get your hands off that DVD! I know what you’re up to!” I half expected Tubbs from The League of Gentlemen to jump out from behind a cupboard shouting “Don’t touch the precious things!”

A random pair of shoes left in the street. That's one Christmas present sorted.

Then there are the charity muggers or chuggers as some people call them. I have heard other C-words used in their direction too. I make it perfectly clear I don’t wish to engage in conversation with these people, by politely walking a safe distance from them. Why is it then that they proceed to chase me up the high street, past WHSmith, to have a “quick two minute chat” They don’t want a chat. They want my bank account details so they can send five pounds a month to help blind cats. Seriously, how can my money help a cat which can’t see? They’re not exactly going to buy it a guide dog. I have nothing against charity, in fact I made a donation to one that same day. It was for breast cancer – a much more worthy cause than one which helps short-sighted felines get a pair of contact lenses.

The other set of people to ‘grind my gears’, are the shoppers themselves – arrogant, selfish people who live in their own little world where only they exist. Herds of mothers who walk side-by-side, four pushchairs taking up the entire pavement, causing me to walk into the road and nearly get run over by a Morrisson’s lorry. Has nobody taught them such etiquette as single-file walking? We were always told to do that in school when using the corridors. No running either. Or bubble gum.

So annoyed was I by my fellow-shoppers, that I misread the sign

People who walk out of shops, straight onto the street, oblivious to whoever they may crash into also annoy me. I hope one day both they and the pushchair wielding mothers collide. It’ll be a messy scene with lots of blood.

Luckily I got most of the Christmas shopping done. The rest online, courtesy of Play.com and Amazon. This should be on its way in the next day or two, unless the postman nicks it.

QUIZ
Friday evening was the Bath City Quiz Night and Twerton Park. I begrudgingly decided that I sacrifice watching Autumnwatch and go along. Rather noble of me as Autumnwatch is such an interesting show – watching foxes and a badger rummaging through people’s bins live on TV really is fascinating.

The Bath City quizzes are a laugh, although this one was really hard. The first round was political history. They may as well have asked me to translate Shakespeare into Cantonese as I had absolutely no idea. We did educational quizzes like that on Friday afternoon in school, with Mars bars as prizes. However those questions were generally much easier, such as “what colour is a fire engine?” I did get one question right and was apparently the only contestant to do so – “What country does Robbie Fowler currently play in?” The answer being Thailand. If I ever go on Mastermind, my specialist subject will be scouse footballers.

BOGEY SIDES
‘A bogey side’ is a term given to a football club which another club finds impossible to beat. I’ve always found this term confusing and don’t know why it is named after a bogey. To me, a bogey is something that lives up your nose and can normally be released by blowing, or if in your own company, picking it out before enjoying it as a snack (optional). Why is it given to a football club who generally causes annoyance and discomfort? Surely it should be ‘Itchy-scab-on-your-back-which-you-can’t-reach-side’.

Anyway, as a Bath City fan I cant really say we’re anyone’s bogey (or scab-on-your-back) side. Until yesterday. I think we can now safely say that we’re the team that Grimsby Town will never, ever beat. We’re having a rubbish season, were trailing 2-0 to ‘The Mariners’, yet somehow managed to salvage a 2-2 draw.

When I was a kid I could never roller-skate. It was impossible. However hard I tried, I couldn’t get to grips with it. Having wheels on your feet isn’t natural. It shouldn’t happen. I think my failure to roller-skate is very much like Grimsby’s inability to beat Bath City. It’ll never ever happen… ever.

MORE FIREWORKS
Getting home from football yesterday was an adventure. Every single house in Bath seemed to be letting off fireworks. There was so much smoke, flashes, bangs and explosions. I felt like Ross Kemp in Afghanistan, although feeling a lot colder and with more hair. I have no problem with Bonfire Night. I accept people want to celebrate the death of a man who tried to kill the Prime Minister, or whatever Guy Fawkes did. My issue is why do people keep letting fireworks off for weeks afterwards? Yesterday was November 5th. Today is November 6th. No more fireworks please. You don’t see people giving out Easter eggs in June.

JURASSIC PARK 2
I didn’t go to any firework displays last night. I went to The Rec in town and saw a display a few years ago. Quite frankly, once you have seen one set of fireworks, you’ve seen them all. Instead I spent the night in. With little to watch on TV, I was left with two choices. Autumnwatch on the iPlayer or Jurassic Park 2: The Lost World on Blu-Ray. I went for the latter. The film was shit on VHS in 1997 and is equally as pooh in 2011 in high definition. Mr. Spielberg, hang your head in shame.

FIREWORKS
Unless you’re that Manchester City player, Mario Balotelli, who lets fireworks off in his bathroom for a laugh, it should be illegal to light fireworks prior to November 5th. For the past two weeks there have been explosions outside my flat all evening. It sounds like I’m living in Kabul.

I don’t really get fireworks anyway. They cost too much. Do those people who light them actually realise they’re basically burning their own money? They’ll argue it’s tradition, celebration or something rubbish like that. My argument is half the neighbourhood is letting them off. You can have your own free firework display just by looking into the sky at someone else’s.

Then you get all the fuss about safety. When I was a kid, there was an advert warning against the perils of picking up old sparklers because they might still be hot. While you’re at it, be careful not to touch the oven, coffee can give you third degree burns and the hot tap in the bath gets a bit warm too. If you’re that scared about your child’s safety, don’t let them hold a thin stick of metal, spitting out flames inches away from their face in the first place!

We were also told never return to a firework once it’s been lit, even if it doesn’t go off. The fireworks we bought were rubbish and most of them didn’t work. Had we followed that rule, there would still be hundreds of old fireworks sitting in the back garden of a house in Bristol somewhere.

Finally, bonfires. If ever you had a bonfire, you had to check to make sure a hedgehog, cat or missing child wasn’t hibernating in the leaves. I grew up in the 1990s. My understanding of hedgehogs was that they were blue, collected rings and were very fast, so would probably be able to escape fire. I kicked a pile of leaves over in a park once looking for animals. An old man, who presumably had spent all afternoon raking them into a neat pile, went ballistic. I tried to explain I was trying to save Sonic, but he was having none if it.

TRICK OR TREAT
The country went absolutely crazy in August during the London riots with many people declaring that any 12-year old found guilty of looting a bag of rice should be hung, before being gutted with their entrails fed to the Queen’s corgis. Those rioters were basically chavs who had drank a bit too much Mountain Dew and went hyper. People hate chavs too – and rightly so.

Why is it then, that on the final day of October every single year, people welcome children behaving like chavs to their front doors, with the promise of sweets and chocolate? Many claim they may look cute dressed up like little vampires, zombies or Pete Burns, but those children who are given handfuls of Skittles will be back years later with a baseball bat demanding your pension book.

Everyone who has been to the seaside has seen the signs asking that visitors refrain from feeding the seagulls. This is because it encourages them to come back for more and become aggressive. The same with trick or treat. Bah humbug!

JURASSIC PARK
I know last week I said I would be boycotting the Jurassic Park Blu-ray boxset until a single disc with just the first movie was released. However, following an online Tesco shop, I was outraged to find the delivery driver had slipped the boxset into my shopping, alongside my Monster Munch and Uncle Ben’s Microwave Rice. I was going to call up and complain. However, while reaching for the telephone, I tripped, accidentally opened the boxset packaging, only for the disc to fall into my PlayStation 3 and start playing. Don’t think I can return it now. Damn you, Tesco!

CRAPTOP
My laptop is crap. It is old. Far too old. If it was a human it would have died of natural causes a long time ago, been burnt and be sitting in an urn next to my telly and Freeview box. Instead it is still going. Being kept alive by an AC power supply. I installed the latest version of AVG antivirus on it yesterday. The software basically put the laptop into a coma. It wouldn’t do anything. I’ve taken AVG off now and am running it without any protection, which is a bit scary. Anything could happen. The laptop could become pregnant or catch crabs. I think it’s time to get a new laptop and make the one I am blogging on now go the way of Sir Jimmy Savile… too soon?

THE CURSE OF BATH CITY
I’m seriously considering not going to watch Bath City away any more. Not because they’re having a crap season, but because I am a jinx. I have been to loads of away games this season and haven’t seen one win. I felt ill on Saturday, so missed the FA Cup game away to Dover. In my absence, Bath City won. I suspect my intimidating presence on the terraces must put the players off their game and cause them to lose. Either that or I could be inadvertently cursing them like a gypsy. I don’t think I’m a gypsy. Saying that, I do like the smell of heather and have always held a secret desire to own a caravan. I could be a gypsy and not even know it. Who else have I cursed? The next away game is also in the FA Cup – Dagenham & Redbridge. The only thing I know about Dagenham is that Stacey Solomon comes from there, so suspect all the fans to be very bubbly, sing a lot and eat jungle insets.

I had a 3 day weekend. Saturday was a break from football. Instead I went up to Walsall to see Claire.

I experienced the joys of train journeys. It wasn’t too bad to be honest. During the trip up to the Midlands, I was sat on a carriage full of Bristol Rovers fans. While the Gas Heads drank Natch cider and raved about their chances of promotion, some child played a game on his dad’s iPad. I have no idea what the game was, although it was very loud and very annoying. I was tempted to pick it up and throw it out of the train window (the iPad, not the child). A scary looking notice on the train wall, warning of a £500 fixed penalty fare for anyone throwing anything out of the window was enough to put me off. That notice may have frightened me, but not as much as the one on the escalators – “You will be fined £200 if you stop the escalators for a non-emergency”. The big red button looked so tempting to press!

The trip back was surprisingly easier, despite being warned of the perils of Sunday travel by Simon. There was free WiFi on the train, so I just sat back and streamed the Man United/Man City game on my iPhone. The free internet was the only thing that was free. Even the toilets at Birmingham New Street cost money to get into. 30p! That’s right, thirty pence to have a piss – whatever happened to the phrase “spend a penny”. I would sooner wet myself. Judging by the state of the platform, it looked like a few people already had. Apparently there’s no fine for that.

Today was my day off work. After getting up late, I went into town. Big mistake. It was the half time holiday and every single child from Bath was there with their mothers. My God, they were annoying. They either seemed to be extremely posh and arrogant, or the other extreme and more chavvy than a scouse druggie with 20 kids on The Jeremy Kyle Show.

I was also annoyed during my visit to HMV. I really wanted to buy Jurassic Park on Blu Ray although was unable to find it for sale without the two sequels. Like the follow-ups to Jaws, I like to pretend The Lost World and Jurassic Park 3 don’t exist. If anyone knows where I can buy a copy of the original Jurassic Park movie on Blu Ray, without forking out for the shit spin-offs, please let me know.

After being terrorised by of minors, their parents and HMV sales assistants trying (and failing) to sell my crap dinosaur movies, I treated myself by visiting Krispy Kreme. Those who have visited the place will know how amazing it is. Those who have not haven’t lived. Krispy Kreme sell doughnuts. Not just ordinary doughnuts, the best doughnuts in the entire world. They make all other doughnuts taste like dog poo – they’re THAT good. I enjoyed a ‘Chocolate Sprinkles’ doughnut and a coffee (the hot drinks are also excellent). Another also found its way into my bag, which I ate when I got home.

It’s back to work tomorrow, so I suppose I had better get myself to bed. Hopefully I’ll dream about watching Jurassic Park in high definition while eating at Krispy Kreme; although I‘ll probably have a nightmare about watching The Lost World in a station toilet with football fans and being charged 30p for the privilege.

No work today. I had a training course to go to. It was a bit of a disaster in all honesty. The course was fine. It was everything that happened before and after which gave me a headache.

First of all, the outward bus journey. I boarded the bus. It was full of students. There were no seats left and loads of people standing. It was like a cattle transporter and I was a cow.

As I stood, clinging onto a bus rail for dear life as the X39 sped down the Keynsham bypass, I overheard some stupidly posh and annoying students discussing life. I have nothing against students. Using an excuse borrowed from a racist Daily Mail reader, “some of my best friends are students” However this particular bunch of college-goers was very annoying…

“How old is Tarquin?” one asked their friend, who responded “I dunno. I guess we should ask people”. Quite frankly, I couldn’t give a shiny turd how old their posh friend was. I doubt anybody else on the bus did either. Another removed their iPod earphones to join in the drivel “I think I’ll change my birth date on Facebook every month – that way I can get presents throughout the year”, before breaking into an eruption of laughter and snorts.

I considered praying for a fatal bus crash. There would be broken, severed limbs everywhere. OK, I would be dead too, but I wouldn’t have to listen to their shit.

The bus didn’t crash. Instead it stopped outside a college. The bus emptied. I stayed onboard. When I did get off it started to rain. I had to make the rest of the journey on foot. I got wet. A great start to the day – already I was wet, pissed off and had wished death upon a group of teenagers.

The course went well.

Home time. The route to the centre where my training took place was hard to find. Therefore in the morning, I walked along an embankment, next to a busy road. This was mainly due to the fact it was raining and I didn’t have the time or patience to work out a safer course. Coming back however, I found the footpath – down some steps behind Tesco. Then I became lost. After walking for ages down a small lane, being careful to look out for drug addicts and chavs who would no doubt try to steal my iPhone and rape me, I found my way back onto the main road. Trouble was, it wasn’t the main road I was on this morning. I was lost in Bristol. All I wanted to do was go home, crawl into a ball and cry. Eventually, thanks to the GPS on my phone, I did find my way home, which is where I am blogging from now. Oh, and in case you were wondering, there were students on the bus ride back, but no annoying ones, so I did not have to force the driver to crash into the river.

It is a sad day in Château de Sean. I lost one of my pet fish. When I say I lost it, I didn’t lose it like a friend of mine did to his fish when we were in school. That fish jumped out the bowl, fell behind the cabinet and was missing for days. No, I lost my fish in the same sense that the music world lost Michael Jackson. OK, bad example, the fish didn’t die of an overdose. What I am trying to say, through much sadness, is my fish is dead. He will no longer be sleeping with the fishes.

What’s more, I think it was one of the original fish I bought back in 2006 and not one of the replacements which followed in more recent years. This fish was purchased during the 2006 World Cup. I seem to remember I originally bought five and named them all after members of the England squad. One died on the first day. Probably crocked all along. Serves me right for calling him Michael Owen.

In all fairness, today’s death came as no surprise. This fish had been ill for sometime. It’s was lying on its back for weeks. The fact it kept going for so long, lead me to believe it was just being lazy, which is strange as I don’t remember naming any of the fish after Dimitar Berbatov. Anyway, turns out it must have been dying, which is sad. Still, I did all I could for it and gave it a proper burial *flush*

I should probably stop blogging now and go to bed. A full week of work lies in wait for me tomorrow and I am tired. I always seem to get more tired during the autumn. Sometimes I wish I was a bear or a squirrel – that way I could hibernate. I’ve seen the nature shows, I know how it’s done. All I would need to do is live off McDonalds throughout the whole of the summer, gaining 10 stone and enough fat to see me through the harsh winter. Then just go to bed and sleep until April, awaking to the news that Bath City have won The Conference. I think that may be something to try next year. I’ll ask my boss if I can be given the time off work.