So I bought a new laptop. It's the first one in a long time, so having a new computer that's actually for me and not that I'm just getting ready for someone else is quite a new feeling. Infact, I feel slightly as If I've been kicked out of my home - and been expected to just .. get on with it.
They've given me a new house, though.
"Here you go Mr Parkes," they said - and handed it over. At 6.47 this morning. Because I decided to PAY £13.00 for the privilidge of getting up at 5.55am for it to be delivered.
It looked nice. It had a pretty lid and it had a lovely HP logo, despite being a compaq laptop. It's got stickers all over it - looking brand new because my hands have not caressed them to the point where they fall of - still proudly proclaiming...MADE FOR WINDOWS XP!!!
Like I care.
But once I got inside - everything was still lovely. At first. There was a lovely wardrobe in the corner. It had those little pannels on it - so you could see through, but they were frosted. Looking more closely, something was wrong.
Office 2007.
The wardrobe was full of WOMEN'S CLOTHES.
Nx
You are currently viewing archive for October 2008
PLEASE NOTE: Content prior to April 2010 is a collection of posts from Nic's previous blogs - some of this content may be offensive or may have become inaccurate since the original publication.
It's like I've been kicked out
Daily Nixx Archive | Thursday, 30 October | Respond
Gary has no friends
Daily Nixx Archive | Wednesday, 22 October | Respond
A lot of things have happened with the uprising of Facebook, and social networking. And a lot of things are a lot better because of it. Especially with so many people going away to uni, and moving away from where their friends are - working away. It's a very very important communication tool.
And as much as I love poking people instead of having sex with them, and as much as I love using Facebook Chat to communicate with people who turn out to be myself, because they're actually not online and, in fact, don't have Facebook, it has given birth to a selection of people who believe they can change their little bit of the world.
And how do they intend to change the world? Through the creation of a group. Or a page.
Essentially, a page is something that you create for yourself because you think you're famous enough to have one, or - perhaps - because you're not famous enough, but think that if you tell people you are, you'll become famous as the non-famous person who convinced everyone they were famous. Making the whole story a complete farce, because now you are famous, and you deserve a page on Facebook, the very reason you are famous has been taken from you.
A group is something, it seems, you create when you have lost your phone.
But I know several people who have lost their phones. In fact, I know hundreds of people who have lost their phones. And it's fair to say that almost two of them have a Facebook account.
And neither of them have felt the need to create a group called "please give me your phone numbers, i was silly last night drank a toilet and threw up all over my phone breaking it and lost all my numbers."
By creating a group called "I have lost my phone and need your number in order to continue to text bully you," you evoke something that is within every single young person who has joined Facebook. Or MySpace.
I like to think of this as "The Sheep". You have awoken a sheep. And you aren't even Welsh.
Claiming you have lost your phone is actually a great way to make new friends.
Friends who might not already know what a retard you are, because you have never been anywhere near them.
Friends you can get hooked in - so that by the time they meet you and discover you have toe nails growing on your forehead, and an eye socket on your left buttock, it's too late.
Friends that then can't get rid of you. Ever.
Nx
And as much as I love poking people instead of having sex with them, and as much as I love using Facebook Chat to communicate with people who turn out to be myself, because they're actually not online and, in fact, don't have Facebook, it has given birth to a selection of people who believe they can change their little bit of the world.
And how do they intend to change the world? Through the creation of a group. Or a page.
Essentially, a page is something that you create for yourself because you think you're famous enough to have one, or - perhaps - because you're not famous enough, but think that if you tell people you are, you'll become famous as the non-famous person who convinced everyone they were famous. Making the whole story a complete farce, because now you are famous, and you deserve a page on Facebook, the very reason you are famous has been taken from you.
A group is something, it seems, you create when you have lost your phone.
But I know several people who have lost their phones. In fact, I know hundreds of people who have lost their phones. And it's fair to say that almost two of them have a Facebook account.
And neither of them have felt the need to create a group called "please give me your phone numbers, i was silly last night drank a toilet and threw up all over my phone breaking it and lost all my numbers."
By creating a group called "I have lost my phone and need your number in order to continue to text bully you," you evoke something that is within every single young person who has joined Facebook. Or MySpace.
I like to think of this as "The Sheep". You have awoken a sheep. And you aren't even Welsh.
Claiming you have lost your phone is actually a great way to make new friends.
Friends who might not already know what a retard you are, because you have never been anywhere near them.
Friends you can get hooked in - so that by the time they meet you and discover you have toe nails growing on your forehead, and an eye socket on your left buttock, it's too late.
Friends that then can't get rid of you. Ever.
Nx
Ah, now that pasty's got a penis...
Daily Nixx Archive | Tuesday, 21 October | Respond
Have you ever wondered if Gregg's is special? I doubt you have.
But I have been thinking. Gregg's have a significant number of pasties and cakes avaliable to sell.
OK, purchasing a steak bake from Gregg's is more expensive, and contains more salt, than purchasing a bucket of sea salt. And indeed, the taste of said salt means you cannot tell if you have been served a steak bake, ham and cheese bake or the toenail cuttings of Dennis from the Kenilworth store.
But for some, what the label says the pasty contains and is supposed to taste like is important.
So how do the staff, and the company, make sure that what are essentially identical looking rectangles of pastry are correctly identified and dispensed, using only staff extracted from places where little English is spoken, Women grow moustaches, and eating a sausage roll out of anything other than the bag it was sold to you in, especially while not walking around shopping or smacking your children repeatedly, is considered a classy activity.
There are many possible solutions to the problem - not least: not going into a Gregg's store.
But it is my duty to inform you that someone thought it was important to have some form of system in place. And the secret lies in special codes, made only using a baker's knife (does that exist or did I make it up? And is it like a baker's dozen? Does it have two blades and no handle?).
Not even the people who cracked codes used by Germans during the war could calculate that in Gregg's Speak, long waving lines mean steak. And, indeed, bake.
You can see where this idea came from though. A lot of the staff employed in Gregg's that I have visited, and indeed many baker's establishments, are closely related to pack animals.
In these animal worlds, markings on the skin depict whether or not an animal is male or female - and from what breed it comes. Perhaps even the mood it is in.
Some animal specialists prefer to use the genitalia as an indication of sex. I believe this should be introduced next by Gregg's, as they introduce a Linda McCartney version of the lamb and mint bake.
Just an idea.
Nx
DISCLAIMER
Note, this is just humour - and I picked Gregg's meerly because they're a well known brand, etc..etc..etc.. Just laugh and be done. Kthxbye.
But I have been thinking. Gregg's have a significant number of pasties and cakes avaliable to sell.
OK, purchasing a steak bake from Gregg's is more expensive, and contains more salt, than purchasing a bucket of sea salt. And indeed, the taste of said salt means you cannot tell if you have been served a steak bake, ham and cheese bake or the toenail cuttings of Dennis from the Kenilworth store.
But for some, what the label says the pasty contains and is supposed to taste like is important.
So how do the staff, and the company, make sure that what are essentially identical looking rectangles of pastry are correctly identified and dispensed, using only staff extracted from places where little English is spoken, Women grow moustaches, and eating a sausage roll out of anything other than the bag it was sold to you in, especially while not walking around shopping or smacking your children repeatedly, is considered a classy activity.
There are many possible solutions to the problem - not least: not going into a Gregg's store.
But it is my duty to inform you that someone thought it was important to have some form of system in place. And the secret lies in special codes, made only using a baker's knife (does that exist or did I make it up? And is it like a baker's dozen? Does it have two blades and no handle?).
Not even the people who cracked codes used by Germans during the war could calculate that in Gregg's Speak, long waving lines mean steak. And, indeed, bake.
You can see where this idea came from though. A lot of the staff employed in Gregg's that I have visited, and indeed many baker's establishments, are closely related to pack animals.
In these animal worlds, markings on the skin depict whether or not an animal is male or female - and from what breed it comes. Perhaps even the mood it is in.
Some animal specialists prefer to use the genitalia as an indication of sex. I believe this should be introduced next by Gregg's, as they introduce a Linda McCartney version of the lamb and mint bake.
Just an idea.
Nx
DISCLAIMER
Note, this is just humour - and I picked Gregg's meerly because they're a well known brand, etc..etc..etc.. Just laugh and be done. Kthxbye.
How do you eat yours?
Daily Nixx Archive | Monday, 20 October | Respond
Jaffa Cakes are often the source of discussion. Are they a cake. Are they a biscuit?
The name suggests that they're a cake. But then, where are they in the supermarket? They're with the biscuits.
It's as if there's some kind of conspiracy theory. I'd blame Ken Morrison, myself. But you're involved too. Yes, you, the one squinting at the screen.
"Me?" - yes, you.
Where are they in your cupboard!
Because I'm gonna be betting they haven't made it into your biscuit barrel and are still in their box - open or not, with the little flaps their only protection. Unless you're a cheapskate, and have bought your Jaffa Cakes from ASDA. Utilising the Smart Price range of foods, in this time of economic struggle where orange-flavoured biscuits aren't at the top of your shopping list, being replaced by little useless things such as bread, milk, cheese and above all: meat.
But I think the cake/biscuit argument isn't the one we need to be having with regards to the orange-goo containing chocolate coated biscuity cake things. Indeed, I'm thinking we're more likely to put Mini Egg into a category of biscuit or cake more deffinately than we can a Jaffa cake. So why not swap the stories - with a how do you eat yours for Jaffa Cakes?
"I used to like Jaffa Cakes when I were a kid," (it's John from Corrie talking, by the way; I haven't just forgotten how to speak southern English) "I used to bite off the chocolate bit all the way around, peel off the top and then I'd just be left with the orange bit, on my tounge."
That part of the story in tonight's episode might have been a little sideline. An attempt to show that John remains intellectual, and deep, and thoughtful despite the fact that he has developed from a school teacher who knows one of the other characters, into a two-faced, psycho taxi-driver with a bad hair cut and a cat. But it reminded me.
Josie's dad, as many of you will know is an excentric. He thinks nothing of popping over the channel for a box of croissant, or pain au chocolat. But, alas, he has identified his one downfall.
"So I'm sat there in my car doing 120MPH (read: 69mph), and I'm biting around the edges and very very carefully eating all of the chocolate from the top."
"And eventually I'm left with just the orange bit. Just the orange bit balanced on my finger."
"And it's at this point that it goes through my mind.....If I crash now, everyone will realise that it was because I was eating a jaffa cake. And do you know how they'll know?"
Of course, you're obliged to say no now, or I won't tell you how you will know that this very exciting incident has an interesting ending.
"Because when they come to investigate the crash, they'll examine my body. And the first thing they'll notice.
"The very first thing - it's the little bit of an orange from a Jaffa Cake stuck to my forehead."
Nx
The name suggests that they're a cake. But then, where are they in the supermarket? They're with the biscuits.
It's as if there's some kind of conspiracy theory. I'd blame Ken Morrison, myself. But you're involved too. Yes, you, the one squinting at the screen.
"Me?" - yes, you.
Where are they in your cupboard!
Because I'm gonna be betting they haven't made it into your biscuit barrel and are still in their box - open or not, with the little flaps their only protection. Unless you're a cheapskate, and have bought your Jaffa Cakes from ASDA. Utilising the Smart Price range of foods, in this time of economic struggle where orange-flavoured biscuits aren't at the top of your shopping list, being replaced by little useless things such as bread, milk, cheese and above all: meat.
But I think the cake/biscuit argument isn't the one we need to be having with regards to the orange-goo containing chocolate coated biscuity cake things. Indeed, I'm thinking we're more likely to put Mini Egg into a category of biscuit or cake more deffinately than we can a Jaffa cake. So why not swap the stories - with a how do you eat yours for Jaffa Cakes?
"I used to like Jaffa Cakes when I were a kid," (it's John from Corrie talking, by the way; I haven't just forgotten how to speak southern English) "I used to bite off the chocolate bit all the way around, peel off the top and then I'd just be left with the orange bit, on my tounge."
That part of the story in tonight's episode might have been a little sideline. An attempt to show that John remains intellectual, and deep, and thoughtful despite the fact that he has developed from a school teacher who knows one of the other characters, into a two-faced, psycho taxi-driver with a bad hair cut and a cat. But it reminded me.
Josie's dad, as many of you will know is an excentric. He thinks nothing of popping over the channel for a box of croissant, or pain au chocolat. But, alas, he has identified his one downfall.
"So I'm sat there in my car doing 120MPH (read: 69mph), and I'm biting around the edges and very very carefully eating all of the chocolate from the top."
"And eventually I'm left with just the orange bit. Just the orange bit balanced on my finger."
"And it's at this point that it goes through my mind.....If I crash now, everyone will realise that it was because I was eating a jaffa cake. And do you know how they'll know?"
Of course, you're obliged to say no now, or I won't tell you how you will know that this very exciting incident has an interesting ending.
"Because when they come to investigate the crash, they'll examine my body. And the first thing they'll notice.
"The very first thing - it's the little bit of an orange from a Jaffa Cake stuck to my forehead."
Nx
Judgement day - not god: blog!
Daily Nixx Archive | Saturday, 18 October | Respond
Today I have spent the day looking into the past. No, I have not uncovered the basics of time travel and no, the world did not end and I was forced by a representitive of God to look back at my life, and be judged. Instead, I revived the old rv:blog and looked through past posts, with the aim of moving some of them back onto here.
And if nothing else, it revealed something to me. I have been writing stuff in this format for such a long time that I can't care to remember. I think I date back almost to 2002, although my original bloggings have long disappeared into cyberspace history, not even being recorded by the mystical and sometimes down-right annoying engima of the WayBackMachine!
Indeed, you can take a look back using the WayBackMachine to when I web-developed using a brick and a small piece of string, or you can take a look back further and find the "FrontPage Days", when Web Development was akin to writing a word document,and when asking me to read HTML, you would have got just a blank stare back, and a small bit of steam out of one of my nostrils as my brain tried to escape from your questionning.
To be honest, you've have had more luck asking me to tie my shoelaces up, while standing upright, and facing the opposite direction to my feet. While I was wearing slip-ons. In fact, what i produced might have been more aesthetically pleasing that way, than producing this blue monstrosity.»
Times soon changed though, and through so so many designs - I eventually spent several hundered hours of work alongside Andy and Dom, and Nathan, producing rv:05 - a design which to this day I still think is quite impressive.» Although the WayBackMachine's issues with storing entire websites is higlighted by this site.
NicParkes.com has suffered similar issues with its design, having never before had a completed site until this weekend! Its predecessor, cinsekrap (my name spelt backwards, for those of you currently applying to work at Lidl, or who already do) had several different formats, eventually merging to become nicparkes.com», before being abandonded and left.
And throughout all of these changes, I was blogging! I even pre-date Dom, in the blogging timeline, although I very much doubt that you could say I had been as down-right consistent as he had, over the years.
But as well as a quick walk down memory lane, and realising how rubbish I have been at maintaining an online presence, and being able to maintain posting daily I've also spotted some of my gems. Not all transfered onto this lovely new system yet, one of my favourites is the blog post named by Tristan Harris off of the Bromsgrove Standard "A Surrey state of affairs...". Take a look at it here ».
So there we go folks. I might not have been quite as funny as I intend to be when I write these posts, but now I'm back for good, in a permenant home and with things to write about, a deffinate writing style and a small boy to poke me with a red hot stick if I fail to post once a day, and write enough, you can enjoy my past.
And yes, that was a hint that if you've got a blog - you should mention that I'm back, and I'm here. And if you don't....Well, who knows what might happen to you when you're next walking down the street alone? ;)
And for those of you after even more of a nostalgia hit, there's a bit of history here ».
Till next time,
Nx
And if nothing else, it revealed something to me. I have been writing stuff in this format for such a long time that I can't care to remember. I think I date back almost to 2002, although my original bloggings have long disappeared into cyberspace history, not even being recorded by the mystical and sometimes down-right annoying engima of the WayBackMachine!
Indeed, you can take a look back using the WayBackMachine to when I web-developed using a brick and a small piece of string, or you can take a look back further and find the "FrontPage Days", when Web Development was akin to writing a word document,and when asking me to read HTML, you would have got just a blank stare back, and a small bit of steam out of one of my nostrils as my brain tried to escape from your questionning.
To be honest, you've have had more luck asking me to tie my shoelaces up, while standing upright, and facing the opposite direction to my feet. While I was wearing slip-ons. In fact, what i produced might have been more aesthetically pleasing that way, than producing this blue monstrosity.»
Times soon changed though, and through so so many designs - I eventually spent several hundered hours of work alongside Andy and Dom, and Nathan, producing rv:05 - a design which to this day I still think is quite impressive.» Although the WayBackMachine's issues with storing entire websites is higlighted by this site.
NicParkes.com has suffered similar issues with its design, having never before had a completed site until this weekend! Its predecessor, cinsekrap (my name spelt backwards, for those of you currently applying to work at Lidl, or who already do) had several different formats, eventually merging to become nicparkes.com», before being abandonded and left.
And throughout all of these changes, I was blogging! I even pre-date Dom, in the blogging timeline, although I very much doubt that you could say I had been as down-right consistent as he had, over the years.
But as well as a quick walk down memory lane, and realising how rubbish I have been at maintaining an online presence, and being able to maintain posting daily I've also spotted some of my gems. Not all transfered onto this lovely new system yet, one of my favourites is the blog post named by Tristan Harris off of the Bromsgrove Standard "A Surrey state of affairs...". Take a look at it here ».
So there we go folks. I might not have been quite as funny as I intend to be when I write these posts, but now I'm back for good, in a permenant home and with things to write about, a deffinate writing style and a small boy to poke me with a red hot stick if I fail to post once a day, and write enough, you can enjoy my past.
And yes, that was a hint that if you've got a blog - you should mention that I'm back, and I'm here. And if you don't....Well, who knows what might happen to you when you're next walking down the street alone? ;)
And for those of you after even more of a nostalgia hit, there's a bit of history here ».
Till next time,
Nx
You gonna read it then?
Daily Nixx Archive | Friday, 17 October | Respond
Customers have a lot of things to answer for. Anyone who has ever worked with people will tell you they are the worst thing you could ever be asked to talk to, move around, give things to, or ask questions of.
And yet they never seem to notice that their attitude is somewhat similar to Hitler's approach to a Jewish child, who has just eaten a printed copy of the Nazi flag.
The problem is that when we're a customer we forget that the person the opposite side of the counter, behind the bullet-proof glass or inside the inflatable costume is in fact a human, who is just getting paid to do the job that you're telling them they're doing badly.
We all assume that without our two british pounds that their business would never survive - that they'd have to eat cat food and live in a box somewhere just off the M6, possibly even in Telford. And to a certain extent that is true - if every single customer is as bad, as picky and as insistant on being given exactly what they want, irrelevent of anything else, as we are being.
"So are you going to warm it up then?" The customer has plonked her baby's bottle on my counter and has stared at me for a few moments before she uttered her so called request.
"I can do - have to do it behind the counter though, is that ok?"
Complete silence. A silence that is not only big enough to put anything in, have a shower and re-do my hair, but one that lasted long enough that the baby's bottle full of milk had actually become a victim of global warming, and was now aproximately 94*C anyway.
Not wishing to wait any longer, and needing to collect my pension - I took the bottle and placed it in some hot water. The woman continued to stand at the counter, blank faced, staring at me. Presumably, she was waiting for the extinction of human life so that she could over-throw the mutants that were now ruiling the earth and become Queen.
A short couple of centuries passed before she spoke once more: "Is it done yet?"
Taking the bottle and handing it to her, she spoke once more: "Are you going to give me a napkin?". I obeyed her request, before realising that despite spending about 10 minutes stood at the till, she had not actually purchased a single item, or paid anything for that service.
Quickly, I retired to the kitchen and prepared the banking. Running off to Natwest, I ensured that my only words to the little Thunderbird-like character behind the counter were: "You going to pay it in then?"
I'm going to take this woman's approach to everything. She seems to have developed a method for getting things without paying for them. I like it.
And yet they never seem to notice that their attitude is somewhat similar to Hitler's approach to a Jewish child, who has just eaten a printed copy of the Nazi flag.
The problem is that when we're a customer we forget that the person the opposite side of the counter, behind the bullet-proof glass or inside the inflatable costume is in fact a human, who is just getting paid to do the job that you're telling them they're doing badly.
We all assume that without our two british pounds that their business would never survive - that they'd have to eat cat food and live in a box somewhere just off the M6, possibly even in Telford. And to a certain extent that is true - if every single customer is as bad, as picky and as insistant on being given exactly what they want, irrelevent of anything else, as we are being.
"So are you going to warm it up then?" The customer has plonked her baby's bottle on my counter and has stared at me for a few moments before she uttered her so called request.
"I can do - have to do it behind the counter though, is that ok?"
Complete silence. A silence that is not only big enough to put anything in, have a shower and re-do my hair, but one that lasted long enough that the baby's bottle full of milk had actually become a victim of global warming, and was now aproximately 94*C anyway.
Not wishing to wait any longer, and needing to collect my pension - I took the bottle and placed it in some hot water. The woman continued to stand at the counter, blank faced, staring at me. Presumably, she was waiting for the extinction of human life so that she could over-throw the mutants that were now ruiling the earth and become Queen.
A short couple of centuries passed before she spoke once more: "Is it done yet?"
Taking the bottle and handing it to her, she spoke once more: "Are you going to give me a napkin?". I obeyed her request, before realising that despite spending about 10 minutes stood at the till, she had not actually purchased a single item, or paid anything for that service.
Quickly, I retired to the kitchen and prepared the banking. Running off to Natwest, I ensured that my only words to the little Thunderbird-like character behind the counter were: "You going to pay it in then?"
I'm going to take this woman's approach to everything. She seems to have developed a method for getting things without paying for them. I like it.
He’s just a bloody nutter
Daily Nixx Archive | Saturday, 04 October | Respond
So, the day after I talk about 129mph on a dual carriageway being totally unacceptable, and nothing to do with the driver himself with Pingu, I pick up the Daily Mail ( I know, I had a shower straight afterwards) and read about a Police officer who took his hands off the wheel and waved at a front-facing speed camera, while he responded to emergency calls.
A lark, imo. Maybe he should have kept one hand on the wheel, though? He got banned for careless driving and is now facing perhaps losing his job.
But it was a chance for BREAK! to reel out a statement. I wonder which one it could be?
(a) Young drivers should be limited to 4mph and push bikes for their first 30 years of driving.
(b) Speed kills under all circumstances, and even 1mph is highly dangerous
It was the case of either/or, to be honest.
On the lighter note of things though, the guy who claimed to have achieved 129mph in his Citroen C1 1.0 did kind of mess up his claim.
“Mine only goes up to 110mph”
“Your speedo?”
“Oh, right!”
Nx
A lark, imo. Maybe he should have kept one hand on the wheel, though? He got banned for careless driving and is now facing perhaps losing his job.
But it was a chance for BREAK! to reel out a statement. I wonder which one it could be?
(a) Young drivers should be limited to 4mph and push bikes for their first 30 years of driving.
(b) Speed kills under all circumstances, and even 1mph is highly dangerous
It was the case of either/or, to be honest.
On the lighter note of things though, the guy who claimed to have achieved 129mph in his Citroen C1 1.0 did kind of mess up his claim.
“Mine only goes up to 110mph”
“Your speedo?”
“Oh, right!”
Nx
