Bolts? Of lightning or of steel? You see, those two are what we call 'different'...

Ah yes, fans of a moan and a mumble, something life affirming happened today. My grouchiness, eagerness to pick holes in the way things are done and wholehearted sense of what is right and what is wrong about laying out a bookshop by genre all collided in a moment of realisation. An epiphany.

I am not alone.

Get me my wife on the phone!

So it turns out some things are harder work than you'd think. For example, despite being a deputy editor on my uni paper last term I was in absolutely no way ready for (read- did not unserstand) the amount of effort it takes to co-ordinate just one section in one issue. So... I've been getting to grips with it.

That means I have, in my own feeble way, been getting my J. Jonah Jameson on- but not as much as I'd like. I'm too... nice? Keen to be liked? Not confident enough to shout at people or be strongly worded... at least, not yet. But I will be. I will be the cigar chomping, blood-pressure pill popping anger-factory by the end of term. At least... close to it.

What are you waiting for, Chinese New Year?

Does not compute- space still misunderstood, robot overlords march onwards.

Evening all grumble-goons. Recently, you may recall (if you've inflicted any past posts upon yourself) I've been pretty down in the dumps about the fact that I'll (we'll) probably never get to flit between planets and what not. The closest thing most of us will get is on a console, and the elite few who get closer will probably suffer the dichotomy of throwing up and then marvelling at the beads of vom as they spiral through weightlessness. That, and they'll have to thank Branson's wrinkled face for the trouble.



If, by some odd series of events such as realising you possess a life or being distract by a more attractive use of your time such as training yourself for said vom-marvelling you didn't read the overly-long moan, here it is.

If the world has a problem, if no one else is famous enough, and if you can find them, maybe you can hire... The A-Listers. *cue music*

So, generic infamous celebrity female #1 (yes, you with the perky breasts that you whipped out before your blockbuster days- but not, heaven forbid, to get attention from movie bosses), how would you go about solving this here earthquake/ flood/ genocide/ tidal wave/ bout of diptheria? Arrive, wear a shawl and pout? Good answer, but no cigar/ African baby for you this time.

Ah Angelina Jolie. You had a little respect from my corner.

Power-pedestrian blues

I've been walking to work.

There you go, green lovers, that's got to be points to me, right?

And in the heady buzz of the early morning traffic, the haze over the town from Grace Way, the warm shafts of light slicing down through the trees, yadda yadda yadda... well, there are a few things that in a sleep deprived state have got my grumble.