Just pulled some ancient, fuzzy photos from my toy phone including one that captures a wonderful notice in a toilet in an unnamed, anonymous, large corporation looking for significant financial savings in Q4.
In 2009, we spent £75,000 unblocking toilets at HQ. Items found included:
- plastic cups
- oranges
- sandwiches
- newspapers
- magazines
- underwear
There were around 250 incidents like this.
I never purchased an orange from that canteen ever again.
Last night, Sky News played audio footage of Raoul Moats last moments. This included detailed analysis of the sounds by an expert of the three ‘gunshots and some idle chit-chat about whether someone was screaming ‘Aaarrgh - my arm (Moat) or ‘Get the firearm (police officers).
No matter what Moat was or what he had done, that was simply a step too far and unacceptable in my opinion.
This broadcast was not in the public interest and breached the standards of normal, common decency.
The media should not have been allowed within 2 miles of the standoff with police, let alone allowed to film and record the final moments of a man's life.
A tragic story is unfolding in the North of England with a gunman on the run after killing one person and seriously injuring two more (his ex-girlfriend and a traffic policeman) following his release from prison last Friday.
Obviously, the police are doing everything to apprehend Raoul Moat safely without any further loss of life. However, as Moat claims he has ‘lost everything' and is determined to ‘wage war on the police', it's not clear this episode will reach a peaceful conclusion.
On Tuesday, the town of Rothbury was locked down; a two mile exclusion zone was put in place, schools were closed and residents were told to stay indoors as Northumbria police thought they were closing in on the armed and dangerous suspect.
However, two days later, Moat is still on the loose so the town of Rothbury has now been reopened with a very visible police presence on the streets.
I'm not sure how I would have felt popping to the corner shop for a newspaper and a pint of milk, to find policemen stood at every corner given Moat's declaration to ‘keep killing police until I am dead'. Far from being reassuring, this police presence would probably scare me even more.
‘Norma, love - you couldn't just pop out and get some milk, could you ? Thanks.'
[ Working title: Torture on a shoestring ]
A couple of weeks ago on a normal, routine Tuesday morning, I did what I do every morning; showered, prepared for work and cleaned my ears out with a cotton wool bud. As I went to leave the bathroom, I swung my arms up and around to put my dressing gown back on for the short trip down the upstairs landing.
[ This requirement to be modestly covered up follows an unfortunate incident in April 2009 when my teenage daughter had a sleepover with three friends staying over. Apparently, one poor girl can not even look at a Chipolata sausage ever again. Needless to say, I conducted my own defence and was acquitted. Again. ]
Anyway, as I simultaneously hoisted both arms up to don my long, flowing, white, silk robe adorned with ‘MUFC - Champions 2008' on the back, I felt pain. A lot of pain. Searing pain that made me feel quite dizzy. I paused for breath and suddenly realised I had inadvertently rammed a cotton wool bud, deep and hard, into my right ear.
It was so painful, I didn't even shout, exclaim or swear. Instinctively, I reached for my right ear and gingerly extracted the cotton wool bud. I felt more pain. I clasped my hand over my ear and half expected my palm to be dripping in blood. Thankfully, there was no blood - just numbing pain.
I gingerly made my way back to my bedroom and sat down as I felt quite faint. After a few minutes, the pain subsided slightly to a constant, painful throb and I was able to get up and get dressed.
I am constantly amazed at the human body's resilience and powers of natural healing so I just waited for the ear to heal. The next few days were quite interesting; the feeling was similar to what I would expect after standing adjacent to a 30 foot Marshall amp stack for the full 3 days of Glastonbury with slight loss of hearing, ringing, dull pain and various popping noises similar to the sensation you get when descending in a aircraft.
Eventually, Norma asked why I was popping Nurofen all day every day so I had to own up. As expected, she took great delight in my agony as she‘d always claimed ears were self-regulating organs and simply do not need to be cleaned daily with a blunt instrument which causes more harm than good. She showed me great sympathy by saying: 'Well, I bet it was absolutely nothing like child birth.'
I pondered on this for a while and concluded she was right - I had merely rammed a very small, narrow foreign object into the human body via a small orifice with great force whereas childbirth consists of ejecting a natural body out of the human body via a, err, slightly larger orifice with moderate force. However, I decided it might be prudent to maintain a dignified silence (in case she slapped me on the ear) and the very thought of childbirth and bodily fluids made me feel slightly queasy again.
Days passed but the pain and odd sensations didn't so I went to see my Doctor primarily as I had some concerns about flying in a plane with a perforated eardrum.
Inevitably, the consultation with my GP was livened up by me pretending not to hear when she opened up with ‘Now, Mr. Brightside, how can I help you today ?' and I responded with ‘Sorry - what did you say ?', ‘Pardon' and ‘Can you speak up a little ? I have a slight problem with my right ear.'
As I sheepishly confessed to my idiotic, self-inflicted act of stupidity, the Doctor listened attentively and nodded knowingly - 'Don't worry Mr. Brightside. I've seen people who've inserted all sorts of things into all sorts of, err, irregular, places.'
Fair play to the lady GP. She immediately grabbed her menacing ear probe with the triangular metal end and integrated torchlight and responded with ‘OK then, let's have a good look in 'ere' and the odd ‘Ooh - what have we 'ere ?'.
She gently inserted her probe (soft porn SEO keyword search alert) and promptly reported the ear was too inflamed to see whether the ear drum was intact or perforated. She reassured me (sort of) by saying the cabin pressure in a plane wouldn't be an issue if the eardrum was perforated as the air would simply ‘whistle straight through the hole'.
She then asked me if I had any other specific worries or questions and I replied ‘Not really - it's mainly the prospect of flying. Oh and I did want to ask you about the leaking brain fluid…' ‘Brain fluid ?', she interjected in a serious tone. ‘Yes - when I wake up my pillow has all this yellow/brown-ish liquid where my head's been resting and my wife, who is a qualified nurse, told me it was just my 'brain fluid' leaking out.'
‘Well - with respect, I think your wife might be mistaken or having a little joke. I'm pretty sure this is just residual fluid from the inflamed area as the body recovers but I'll prescribe you some antibiotics which will help clear up the infection.'
The ear is now almost completely healed. I have thrown away the bumper pack of 240 ear buds although my right earbud now keeps falling out on when I listen to music on the train.
The memory of the ‘ear drum' incident is now receding but I'm pretty sure intelligence agencies and the military could use this technique to produce a cheaper and much more efficient form of torture. Waterboarding is well publicised and effective but can get very messy and is very wasteful of a precious natural resource.
Imagine, in the next James Bond film, the baddie enters the interrogation cell armed - not with a large belt or a car battery and two electrical diodes - but simply brandishing a single cotton wool bud.
Accidentally.
For the last two weeks, I have been savouring the joys of commuting into the City on South West Trains and the London underground network.
Like most large, densely populated cities, Transport for London has introduced a Smart Card system, known as Oyster, which allows ticketless travel on trains, tubes and buses.
Most modern cities in the developed world have similar smart card technology resulting in a faster, more efficient transport system with cheaper fares for passengers and reduced staffing costs at railway stations.
Not London.
Last Tuesday, I disembarked at Bank underground station following a hot, sweaty, uncomfortable 5 minute journey from Waterloo surrounded by smart, professional merchant bankers wearing trainers and suits. As usual, everyone strode out purposefully to get off the train first, to reach the ticket barrier first, to climb the stairs first, to reach the blissful cool fresh air first and finally, after a interminable 6 minute loss of communication, get a decent mobile phone signal so they can immediately call the office to show how incredibly important they are: 'Will be there in 5. Passenger jumped onto live rail outside Hinchley Wood'.
I ambled slowly along (marvelling yet again at Bryan Devendorf's drumming prowess) behind a gentleman who was rapidly approaching ticket barrier No. 3. I withdrew my Zones 1-5 One Day Travel Card and politely waited for the chap to 'swipe through' (as we Cockney trainspotters call it) and proceed towards the escalators.
Only he didn't proceed because the failure rate on the Oyster card system is high. Astonishingly high. The gentleman in front of me tried to advance by waving his jacket pocket towards the card reader but, inevitably, his Oyster card wasn't recognised and nothing happened.
I was listening to The National and wasn't paying full attention so I didn't immediately notice his quandary until he gave a little yelp. In fact, he may have given two yelps. One as he rammed into a very hard and very stationary, unyielding ticket barrier. And another yelp as I rammed into him from behind with great force.
Once we'd disentangled ourselves, he started to complain that I'd physically assaulted him. I told him he shouldn't buy an Oyster card if he couldn't use the bloody thing. One of the three staff manning the ticket barriers - most countries eliminated all ticket barrier staff whereas London had to triple staff manning the station exits - separated us and a 'revenue protection officer' then rubbed salt in the wound by charging him full fare plus a £10 penalty. I looked disdainfully at his suit and then I looked down even more disdainfully at his trainers.
I duly appeared in court yesterday charged with 'Gross indecency in a public place' but, inspired by 'Judge Judy', I conducted my own legal defence, launching a magnificent counter claim of 'Inappropriate use of trainers coupled with a pinstripe suit'.
Thankfully, the judge saw sense and acquitted me after a forensic scientist gave expert testimony that the rectal injuries sustained by the gentleman may have been caused by the insertion of a tightly rolled up copy of 'The Metro' and not sexual assault.
Hi Norman. You and I havent spoken before so please excuse the intrusion. However Sandstone Search & Selection are a specialist recruitment consultancy, focused on the Enterprise Software and Consulting markets. Im keen to find out if youre open minded about your career please let me know. Rupert Smithers-Jones
Hi Rupert. Yes - I am pretty open minded about my career and would consider anything apart from pole dancing. Norman.
Hi Norman. Excellent news ! Ping me when you have 5 minutes free to chat about an exciting opportunity. Rupert
Rupert - I typed 'ping rupert' but my computer reported an error 'rupert is not responding'. Kind regards, Norman
Norman - What would you say to an opening in pre-sales consulting for a major, established blue chip based in London with some international travel ? Rupert
Hey Rupert I don't wish to be rude but I think I'd rather be considered for the 'pole dancing' role. Do you have any such openings for tasteful pole dancing - maybe at corporate events for IT companies. Although I relatively new to the business, I do have a copy of 'The Full Monty' on DVD. Does that help ? Norman
Norman - You're confused. I'm a executive search and selection specialist charged with head hunting the most talented and elite IT professionals for the top FTSE 100 companies in the UK. I don't find temporary jobs for pole dancers. BTW What is your notice period ? Rupert
Rupert - My notice period is one month but I wouldn't be available for any new role until 1 September when I get out of hospital - Norman.
Norman - I don't wish to pry but what is the nature of your medical procedure. It might affect the package I can secure for you - Rupert.
Rupert - Please don't worry - it's just some minor surgery I'm having done in Belarus. It the fourth and final part of my transgender operation. From 1 September, I will be henceforth be known as 'Norma-Jeane'. This will most certainly affect my package and strong pain killers will be required. Do you want an updated CV now to forward to the client ? Thanks, Norman.
Norman - This conversation is now over. Sorry to have troubled you. Rupert. PS. If you know of any colleagues, relatives or numerate pets who might be interested in IT jobs, please let me know. There's a case of 12 bottles of mixed French wine on offer for each successful placement.
Rupert - please don't act like a bear with yellow trousers, red jumper and a sore head. I had a chat with my 'life coach' last night and we decided that the time is ripe for a fresh, new challenge. I need to be excited when I when I go to work. I need to be stretched (but gently). I need to be stimulated again (but gently). Therefore, I am now looking for a Linux system administration role or exotic dancing. Ideally, full time Linux Sys Admin for a charity and part-time dancing at night. The main reason for the transgender process was the increased earning potential available to female strippers. This will enable me to get enough money together for the 'pole dancing' classes. Please let me know - Norman.
Norman - My colleague David is responsible for Linux recruitment. He really likes the look of your CV and is confident he has a fantastic opportunity. Do you have a beard as this would almost certainly secure an interview ?
Yes - but only before 1 September.
Short answer - She was in a meeting. I sent a polite email asking why my MP Susan Kramer failed to vote last night on the third reading of the Digital Economy Bill.
Dear Mrs Kramer
Many thanks for taking the time to send me a long and detailed letter is response to my email inquiry about your stance on the Digital Economy Bill.
You're right - it's a very complex issue and may yet be subject to refinements before it finally becomes law.
However, as you seemed to support the bill but oppose certain clauses, I was curious to find which way you voted last night in Parliament at the bill's third reading.
From reviewing Hansard, it appears you couldn't be bothered to vote at all. Which disgusts me.
You've just lost another vote in the forthcoming general election.
I then received this response
Thank you for all you emails regarding the Digital Economy Bill. Susan has asked me to respond on her behalf and I hope you don't mind my doing so. Please accept my apologies for the group email but we have received so many emails on this issue that it is the only way I will be able to respond to you all today.
First of all let me assure you that this is a very important issue to Susan and the rest of the Parliamentary Lib Dem party and she takes your views very seriously.
The Government has been intent on forcing through the Digital Economy Bill through the ‘wash up' as they believed it would face less opposition with many MP's having already left Parliament for their constituencies. The Government was so desperate to get this Bill through in fact that they pulled DCMS Minister Ben Bradshaw off his slot on News Night.
Bills going through the wash up are usually done in a more secretive fashion and full parliamentary party attendance is not required or expected. For this reason there were not many MPs there, but Lib Dem Shadow Minister Don Foster was debating on behalf of the Lib Dems. I have been in contact with his office over the course of the past few days passing on messages of concern from a number of constituents.
As many of you may be aware the Liberal Democrats were completely opposed to this Bill going through the wash up and wanted it to come before Parliament when it resumes after the election so that it may be subject to full scrutiny and debate. We were originally intending to table an amendment to clause 43 but decided, in light of fierce opposition to the clause, to oppose it totally. The Tories were planning to support the Government but barely any Tory MPs actually turned up.
We were unaware that there was going to be a vote on the Bill until only an hour beforehand. Susan was at that time in a very important meeting in the Constituency and despite trying, could not make it to Westminster in time. For your assurances, she would have opposed the Bill totally. Thankfully and with the help of some labour rebels and individuals, we managed to oppose the Bill. All Lib Dem MPs in Westminster at the time voted against the 3rd Reading of the Bill.
As I am sure you will now be aware Clause 43 has been totally dropped from the Bill. This is a fantastic result. Furthermore it is doubtful the rest of the Bill will make it onto the Statute books before Dissolution. Hopefully Susan will be re-elected and if so, she has promised to make the future readings of the DEB a priority and will be at future votes to represent your views.
I hope this has been of some interest to you, please do let me know your views when the DEB comes before the next Parliament and do not hesitate to contact me should you have any further concerns on this or any other issue.
Words fail me. We were unaware that there was going to be a vote on the Bill until only an hour beforehand.
Great. That really reassures me that you are on top of things.
Hopefully Susan will be re-elected.
There's more chance of Manchester United winning the Champions League that Susan Kramer securing my vote.
One attraction of my glamorous life as an IT consultant travelling all over Europe is the opportunity to conduct illicit affairs with beautiful lap dancers from Prague (who are definitely not transvestites). For the last three years, I have been secretly engaged in such a liaison with a beautiful young lady called Iris.
Unfortunately, due to Iris' work commitments, our meetings are limited to brief, breathless, stolen trysts in the arrivals and departure halls at the various terminals at London Heathrow.
Originally, like most shy, reserved young ladies being stalked by an aging, overweight business man, Iris played slightly hard to get and actually stood me up on our first date but I wasn't to be deterred and I persevered to win the heart of my beloved.
Eventually, the course of true love prevailed and our relationship blossomed. Iris and I enjoyed furtive, passionate encounters in the toilets at Heathrow with novelty condoms to spice up the relationship.
Whenever I returned to the UK after being abroad, I would positively look forward to meeting Iris and staring into her eyes. In fact, if I didn't stare into her eyes, she would often scold me in her dull, mechanic monotone voice: 'Please stand back a little' or 'Please move to the right'.
However, when I finally got the positioning correct, I was rewarded by an orgasmic moan: 'Ooh - aah. That's right. Ooh - aah Cantona. That's perfect. Just keep it there.' Then, she would part her smoked glass double doors and invite me to enter the gateway to heaven. And baggage reclaim.
Last Friday, I returned from Dusseldorf (near Germany) and returned via Terminal 1. My excitement mounted as I made my way to meet Iris as I hadn't seen her since a short trip to a freezing Helsinki (near Finland) in January.
My heart raced as I finally set eyes on Iris again but I could immediately sense something was wrong. She seemed cold and aloof. She didn't acknowledge my presence in the booth. She didn't look into my eyes. She didn't ask me to move closer. Nor did she ask to me move away.
A stony silence ensued. The tension grew. I moved forward - no reaction. I desperately tried to look Iris in the eyes but nothing. Suddenly, Iris asked me to look into the middle camera unit and I found myself squatting down, desperately trying to catch her eye and get her attention.
The interminable silent treatment from my lover continued. God - this was so embarrassing. I could sense the whole army of arriving passengers staring at Iris and I falling out of love.
Then finally, she came out and said it. She didn't bother with any pleasantries. No long, rambling, tearful conversation starting 'Dear John'. No hesitant 'This isn't about you - it's about me.' Iris just ended our three year relationship - three years filled with laughter, joy and slurping noises - with the immortal words: 'Your data can not be reconciled. Please seek assistance.'
With my face reddening, I turned to go. To my horror, a lengthy queue of important looking business types (some with BA Executive Gold cards) had slowly gathered behind Iris. Iris already had a stream of 30 handsome suitors queuing up to take my place. As I walked away, crestfallen, I overheard a gentleman mutter 'Idiot - you shouldn't even be allowed to use Iris.' while another said 'I'm going to miss my meeting now, you fool.'
Broken, I walked away and took my place in the queue for conventional passport control. After 25 minutes, the Iris queue had fully dissipated and my paper passport was checked fleetingly by a pretty young lady with auburn hair and a striking figure.
She smiled knowingly: 'Have you just been rejected by Iris ?' 'No - what on earth makes you think that ?' 'Well - I watched you get rejected by Iris earlier, your face is blotchy and I can tell you've been crying.'
'Anyway, forget Iris - let's talk about us. What time do you knock off tonight ?'
[ This whole sorry episode will be screen on 'UK Border Force' on Sky 1 on Thursday April 8 at 20:00 ]
Idea for a new TV series - When Ethernet cables go bad - A fascinating 60 minute documentary into the wide range of issues people have with wireless networks. The program would also include some C list celebrities and a phone/text in competition to win something.
I have had a wireless network in my house for at least four years. Perusing the annals of this blog reveals that while I have experienced various, sporadic issues over this period, by and large, the wireless network has been pretty reliable with three PC's, a laptop and an iTouch device using it without problems.
Most issues could be resolved simply by rebooting the router and cable modem or very occasionally traced to a broader problem with network connectivity from my ISP, Virgin Media.
Recently, my 7x24 Internet monitoring service known as my son came down into the lounge to watch TV. This normally means one thing - the Interweb is down and Call of Duty is missing one of their Lieutenants. And so it proved.
On this occasion, rebooting the router and modem didn't resolve the problem and plugging a laptop into the cable modem proved that the lack of connectivity wasn't due to Virgin Media.
A hard reset to the factory defaults and running an open network worked. For a while. Then the router dropped again. Installing the Linksys firmware to replace the open source and freedom loving Tomato software worked. Briefly. Then it broke again. Stubbornly the router reported 'Could not renew lease.'. No matter how many times, or how hard, I hit the 'Renew Lease' button.
This state of affairs simply could not continue so after investigating a little on the Interweb, I reached the reluctant conclusion that my 5 year old Linksys wireless router was, in technical terms, broken.
Curiously, for me, I spontaneously decided to buy another Linksys router to replace it. A like for like replacement. Subconsciously, despite the unit failing, I still viewed Linksys as reliable and found myself strangely reluctant to try another make and model.
I quickly shopped around and purchased a Linksys WRT54GL and, to my surprise, found it slightly cheaper at ebuyer.com than my usual preference for online purchases - Amazon. The router arrived the next day and I was able to quickly configure the network again as the family gathered expectantly inquiring 'Can I play Call of Duty yet ?', 'When can I check my email ?' and 'Listen - I need to get on Facebook now.'
Everything ran smoothly and everyone was deliriously happy. For 8 days until Norman Junior III came down into the lounge to watch TV again. After a period of 8 full days without watching any TV or speaking to us.
'Is it down again ?' 'Yeah - I rebooted both boxes and my PC can see the router but the router can't access the Internet.'
Back upstairs to stare at the Administration screens and the worryingly familiar 'Can not renew IP address' message. This time, I installed the Tomato firmware which worked briefly. I then reverted to the Linksys firmware as I prepared to raise the problem with Linksys technical support. But I didn't need to as, after resetting to the factory defaults and reconfiguring, it worked. Internet access was restored. Everyone was happy and didn't thank me. For a couple of days.
This loss of connectivity was now a complete mystery and now starting to get very irritating. Brand new router. Sporadically failing. My son and I stared at the blue box with the flashing lights and the contents of the new router box looking for the sentence on 'Troubleshooting'.
Norman Junior broke a rather stony and tense silence: 'What's that blue cable ?' 'Oh - it's just an Ethernet cable that came with the router.' 'Maybe that would work better as it's brand new.' 'It won't be that. These problems are not caused by an Ethernet cable. They either work or they don't.'
'What's the harm in trying it though ? We haven't got any other ideas, have we ?' So I exhaled loudly, sighed, threw in a couple of expletives and switched the original grey Ethernet cable supplied all those years ago by Virgin Media with a shiny, new, slightly shorter blue Ethernet cable.
And lo and behold, the blue Ethernet cable worked. Access to the wireless was restored. The bloody Internet worked. Perfectly. For 3 weeks, 4 days and 17 hours and counting. Rock solid.
He's a bloody genius, my son.
And the elephant in the room - the original 'failed' Linksys WRT54G router sitting up on top of the wardrobe, taunting me, calling to me, nagging away at me like a dripping tap. The temptation to switch back to the original router and try it with the blue Ethernet cable is one I have been able to resist. So far.
Working title: the dangers of Facebook, online dating, stranger danger and gross stupidity.
The (now defunct) Chameleons remain one of my favourite bands but were responsible for the most embarrassing night of my life.
After the band reformed, I went to their London gigs and occasionally frequented the (now defunct) Wishville forums for discussion about the band, concert reviews, banter about football, discovering new bands - all the usual stuff we did before Twitter and Last.fm came along.
In November 2002. The Chameleons played a single date in London before a German tour. As I had struck up a friendship with a like minded individual on Wishville (liked footy, liked The Chameleons, liked a laugh) and exchanged messages with him, we arranged to meet up for a drink in Camden before going on to the gig.
Mark Burgess is a City fan, so he'd arranged the gig deliberately to clash with United playing Bayer Leverkeusen in the Champions League so I'd hoped to see most of the game before going to the venue.
Anyway, we exchanged mobile phone numbers, exchanged descriptions and arranged to meet in an Irish pub (public bar) that was showing the football. I didn't tell my Mummy in case she was worried about me meeting a strange man I'd recently met on the Interweb.
Inevitably, something screwed up on the night mainly because we are blokes. I can't recall precisely what happened but someone had a flat battery, lost their phone or told their Mummy so I arrived at this hostelry and furtively tried to identify this gentleman from a (Wedding) photo he'd shown me.
To cut a long story short, I couldn't find him and he couldn't find me. Worse, the footy wasn't been shown in the Irish pub or rather, I think Arsenal was being shown instead of United, so I went elsewhere to watch the game.
After a few beers and United taking a 2-0 lead, I made my way to Dingwalls. Now, there was no way I was going to make contact with my 'Internet acquaintance' in a packed venue so I was quite prepared to enjoy the support (Brian Glancy), soak up the pre-match atmosphere, drinking overpriced lager while watching the technicians twiddle buttons on amps, place guitars on stands and say 'One Two - One Two' into microphones while waiting for The Chameleons to take the stage.
Unfortunately, as always, alcohol intervened and as I watched Glancy performing, I happened to see a young lady who was also a regular on Wishville. This young lady spent every spare minute and every spare quid on watching bands and had traipsed around Germany and the States following The Chameleons on tour.
Unfortunately, I only knew 'Cath' by reputation and only recognised her by virtue of her distinctive dyed red hair. While I enjoyed her superb gig reviews, we'd never communicated directly so I didn't know her and she certainly didn't know me.
I should have just left it well alone but for some reason I didn't and I approached a complete stranger (a female one at that) and memorably opened with: 'Hi Cath. Do you know where Joe is ?'
Cath Aubergine (for that was her rather unusual name) broke off her conversation with her mate, turned to me and replied: 'Sorry - what ? Joe who ? Who are you ?'. There may have been the odd expletive thrown in for good measure.
'Joe - I arranged to meet him here but....'
Blank stare. Her mate is also now looking at me with a similar blank stare. 27.4 seconds left before the 6'2" boyfriend returns from the bar with their drinks.
'Look - you know. Joe - Mr. Moto. Have you seen him ?'
'Oh Mister Moto - why didn't you say ? But what's your name ?'
'Andy.'
'Sorry - did you say 'Andy' ?' Another piercing, blank, suspicious stare. Times two.
'Look. I'm RomanTotaleXVII on the forums but my real name's Andy, alright'. Christ - the embarrassment levels were now excruciating as we were having to shout this conversation above the noise of Bryan Glancy's set.
'Oh so you're RomanTotaleXVII but hang on - you're not RomanTotaleXVII any more. You are now...'
'Yeah, yeah I know. I'm now FieryJack.'
'Yeah - you're the guy who names himself after The Fall characters. Well why didn't you just say so ?'
And so it came to pass - Cath Aubergine led me to the bar area and introduced me to Mr. Moto (aka Joe Donellan).
'Hey Joe - I've got someone who wants to meet you. Here he is - RomanTotaleXVII'.