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Got a letter yesterday.
From the Inland Revenue.
They want to "Review my PAYE status"

Does Bulgaria have an extradition treaty with the UK?

Get it right up ye.

It's quiet around here.

I'm sure everyone knows what I'm up to, so won't go into all that.

January is a bad month. I'm glad it's over. All it does is kill time before February, when you can start counting down to the end of winter. Unfortunately I've got lots of family birthdays, so can't really ignore it as it deserves.

So, let's get back to normal business, I want / demand weekly updates from celebrity fat club, get it sorted.

Car toon

It's a strange thing. Usually I have inspiration after an event for a post which contains a bit of humour. This is mainly based on the fact that I find life funny, in a good old Scottish, dark kind of way. This time, however, I'm struggling. It was a straightforward holiday, very enjoyable and all that, but I'm almost having to put together a tour guide.
Right, let's get on with it.
We flew to Belfast first - this was due to the much cheapness of EasyJet, which flies from there to Palma. We were going to Majorca, so that was quite handy. We hung about there for a few hours and met my good friend and partners mum and brother, who live over there, for lunch. It was an easy little jaunt down to the balearic island paradise.
My mum, dad and niece were flying direct from Glasgow, since they'd booked a year in advance, and were landing within 5 minutes of our flight in Palma. This worked perfectly and we met at the airport and all went together to get the hire car. In this particular case I'd hired a 7 seater, it was an Espace although the word 'space' should have been missed out. It was, in it's defense, a big car, and did, indeed seat 7. The bit that was missing was that this left no room at all for anything bigger than a box of matches. We did manage to squeeze everything in though, very precarious, and we only had six passengers (which you'd know if you'd been keeping up).
I jumped into the driver's seat, then jumped back out and round to the other side, which was the real driver' seat and inserted the card. Yup. Card. A slot where the ashtray would be with a button next to it saying 'Start/Stop'. I searched in vain for the handbrake and decided to try starting the engine anyway. I put my foot on the footbrake, just in case, and pressed the button. The engine roared into life and the car didn't shoot forward into the wall. All was going very well so far then. I tried to go into first gear, but the thing wouldn't move. I realised quickly that I hadn't pressed the clutch. It's wierd how you forget how to drive when these little things jump out at you. Anyway, finally got moving, the handbrake light went out and all was well. A pretty uneventful trip later and found the apartment and reverse parked. I say this because I had Dad out guiding me in, but couldn't hear him because of this incessant beeping which had started. It kept getting shorter between beeps until finally it was constant. Yes, it turns out that it's a 'Woman's Parker' which tells you how close to the kerb you are when reversing in. Found out a couple of days later that it was a bus stop I'd parked at, but I'm not giving them 60 euros, so there.
The rest of the week was pool and beach stuff mainly, with a trip to some caves, which were nice.
Only other story was on the way back when Belfast security refused to let the wee man's water guns on board. Big purple and yellow plastic things they were, but the guys were adamant. Of course I did have to say "What am I going to do, break into the cabin and say 'Take me to Cuba or I'll soak you?'", which the junior security guy laughed at, even if the older one looked like he was wanting to shoot me with his real gun.

cheap flights @ flightful.com :: find budget flights in europe

cheap flights @ flightful.com :: find budget flights in europe

Kill or Cure

I wanted to use this opportunity to share some thoughts. It's quite common for me to brain dump, as my IT brethern know very well, but I'm feeling my yin and yang in perfect balance and feel I can share knowledge and wisdom rather than rant aimlessly as I am prone to do.
The NHS is pish, I know this due to numerous episodes whereby their assistance has been required over the last number of years, but let me recount this experience for your perusal. You should also understand that towards the end, some advice is given, so it's not just an excuse for a moan, honest.
I had a sore shoulder. No big deal in itself, but it lasted a few days, then I couldn't move on Saturday morning, constant pain and all that. So, cue trip to casualty and usual lack of interest, waiting and eventual dismissal as a muscular strain which would take about a week to go away. Under duress, the Doc finally made good with the drugs, so diathamole, or something like that was dispensed; but the 'piss off unless there's something hanging by the last sinew to your badly maimed body' attitude makes me really annoyed.
Anyway, to the interesting bit. I was then taken to a Chinese medical practice (you know, one of those health shops) and the 'Doctor' agreed to see me immediately. The wee chinese guy could speak two words of Engrish - 'O.K.' and 'Betta?'. He took me into a room and I lay on my good side. Some straps were wrapped and secured around my right arm in three equidistant places, wrist to shoulder and then plugged into the electrical control panel. I was a little concerned at this point. He then brought out some sort of microphone shaped object, with a shiny head. I was a little more concerned at this point. As he touched my shoulder with the mic, it send a shock through my body, tensing the muscles in my shoulder and arm. He then proceeded to work on me for 20 minutes with this instrument. It would pulse these electrical shocks for half a second every 3 seconds or so, which varied between causing a reasonable clench of muscle and some pretty serious pain. I must admit to being close to telling him to stop a few times, and I did admit to the Kennedy shooting.
After all this was fnished, he went for the acupuncture approach and stuck some needles into various places, including my shins. This is all about 'meridian' points all over the body. I've had quite a bit of acupuncture before, so this wasn't too bad.
So, another 20 minutes later I was done. I wish I could say I was ready to give up the Robocop impersonator career, but not quite yet. I was, however, only stiff instead of sore, and had a bit of movement back too.
The 'doctor' then gave me a bottle of black balls (pills), I was to take 8(!) of these 3 times a day. He also gave me a little bottle of (Tree Oil) oil, which I was to rub in to the sore area before bed - "Only three drops, no more", and a packet of plasters, with chinese writing on them. £65 the lot, treatment included.
Ah well, it was worth a try, and I'm sure he'll enjoy the money.
I did take the pellets, then had the oil rubbed in before bed and took one of the plasters and stuck it over the sore area. I noted the plasters did have a bit of a smell, which probably made them worth the £5. After a couple of minutes it all went hot, and stayed hot for the rest of the night.
I woke in the morning to find that most of the pain had gone, almost full movement returned and a spring in my step.
So, as morals are the way forward for these stories, here's the one from this.
Shove yer NHS right up yer bahookie.
update
Wood Lock Oil

Sometimes my pee smells like chicken soup

The cool night drifted into a cold morning. He woke up hungry, not sure where he was and needing to pee. The others snored on, oblivious of his consciousness, dreaming their own dreams. He decided to wait, at least for a while, to see if anyone else would move first.
A single sparrow broke the silence with a high pitched whistle. Summer was almost gone, but autumn still struggled to impose itself on its seasonal rival and could wait until its death throes were over. His bladder started screaming for attention, a spoilt child starting its supermarket tantrum and he knew it would only get worse. He slid a single leg from under the duvet. The air in the room was stale, the same air he'd been breathing all night, but something was wrong. As it caressed his leg he knew that something had happened in the room during the night. The knowledge was absolute and bore no argument. He slid his tired body from the bed and scampered to the bathroom, no longer caring who he disturbed.
The bathroom was dark and he fumbled for the twisted piece of string that would throw it piercing light over the bright white furnishing within. His hand swirled and twisted, trying to find the elusive cord, to no avail. He decided to take his chances in the dark and stepped forward. His foot thumped against a solid object on the floor. He stepped over, cursing whoever had left a wet pile of towels in the middle of the floor. A white ring shone before him, catching what little light was available to advertise its presence. He pulled at the gap in his shorts and fumbled inside. At last he was ready and started to release. The blessed release washed over him and the pain subsided. The tantrum had been averted this time, and he relaxed. He caught a faint whiff of something familiar. At last he placed it, "Chicken Soup" he muttered and collapsed in a pile on the floor.

Millions of games

Millions of games all under one roof, it's called, umm, millions of games.

If these words were people, I would embrace their genocide.

He means you.

Link Fest

Right, just a little experiment - links and only links for humour and knowledge.
Comments welcome, of course....

Freddie

We went out last night. It was really good catching up with the guys, and it's wierd typing this since they all read/write here. So, I'll skip the report, since we were all there. I'm sure Dom can do it more justice anyway.
Only conspicuous absence was Danny boy. (DJ, etc. aren't expected). So Dan has some explaining to do.
Here's to Fredrik Butler, may all his days be long and happy *chink*.

Footnote - I hope Dom doesn't feel cheap and used. Waking in the morning and remembering the things you've done is always hard, but you just put it down to too much drink and the party atmosphere.

Wish you were here

It's tedious, sitting around, trying to figure out which sites to visit which will kill time without being entirely unprofessional. Given the plethora of web tracking tools, keeping your head below the parapet is another constant consideration. I figure that finding a nice long page of information is the way to go, maybe a big wiki entry or something.
I don't have work to do. I'm either really good at this, or there really is nothing to do. It's difficult to deny the urge to pull out the laptop and play a round on my new golf game.
Anyway, I have a few pastimes that you may be able to help with, or at least kill some of your own time with, if you're in a similar position (i.e. work in I.T.)
1 - Electric Guitar - I need something to start out with, but will be decent enough to use for a while if I enjoy it
2 - Acoustic Strings - Too many out there to count, and want to try a few
3 - Missed TV - I've downloaded the first series of 24, the whole of CSI and series 1 of desperate houswives (for the girl). Anything else I should be focussing on?
4 - Holidays - Something unusual, or something worth doing at the weekend in Scotland
5 - Streaming movies over wireless. New laptop does it...almost but why does it still stall? I'd have thought 2MB/s would be the requirement, so wireless (56MB/s?) shouldn't have a problem

Traffic News

I've been playing around on GMaps since it was released a while back. It's nice, it's got some features I really like.
It was updated a couple of weeks ago to include satellite images, although the level of detail is a bit strange.
The latest thing though, is the publishing of APIs that allow geeks to use the maps to overlay all sorts of information.
Clicking on the title of this post will take you to what I think is the best example of a UK based one that I've found. It shows speed cameras, weather reports, local news and a bundle of other things I don't really understand.
I like it when technology and innovation amaze me, it breaks through my cynical tendencies and makes me smile.

The Heat Is On

Well well, it's quiet in here.

"The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed."
Best.Opening.Line.Ever.
I was reading the latest one of this series of books (exercise for the reader) at the weekend. I was thinking about how the story has emerged and was trying to decide whether the plot had just disappeared up the writer's arse, or whether it was literary genius that I was just too intellectually immature to 'get'. As always, my mind decided it'd had enough of that pretentious nonsense and went off at a tangent. I tried to catch it, honest I did, but it was just too fast.
As always, the thoughts were linked, slowly but determinedly toward where the subconscious wanted the almost-conscious mind to be. I kind of like it when that happens, it feels like the mental equivalent of gravity, all the planets and stars being the thoughts, ideas and emotions swirling around in the immense darkness of our mental universes until the inevitable black hole appears to pull in the nearest ones.
Well, in this particular case, the black hole was pulling in the star that was 1982, with the planets that were my 11th birthday, the vast, alien world that was the move from the highlands of Scotland to the slumlands of Glasgow and the newly discovered world of adult books. Not those kind of adult books you filthy minded minx, the other ones.
My grandparent's (nana and gaga, would you believe) house was full of books. A strange collection of novels from god knows when, combined with large encyclopaedia-like tomes that contained all the wisdom of Victorian Britain about raising and entertaining children. Not in the self-help way that books are these days, more in a "books about children, for children" kind of a way. Obviously written by people with no idea of what children were. There were pages about origami, kite flying, counting raindrops and other such pure and innocent pursuits. I remember the melancholic way I used to read these, already allowing the little descriptions of innocent, happy pastimes supplant the memories of life up North. My recollections of playing in the street at midnight with my friends taking on a shade of brown and my cheap 70's clothing morphing into a Victorian schoolboy's uniform of shorts and blazer, with a little peaked cap. My idealistic memories were doubtlessly fed by the current environment of endless filth, the streets covered in empty crisp packets and cigarette ends, the kids with their dried in, snottery beaks running around and swearing before the inevitable fight broke out between a couple of the sorrowful latch-keys.
I started school after the summer. My parents must have felt sorry for us, or maybe just wanted us out of the way, because they'd shipped of the youngest (which included me) to nana's for most of the 7 week summer. I'd spent that time in the 5 house village of Kentallen, with loch linnhe across the road from the house and endless bracken-covered hills at the back. After a couple of months in Glasgow, it was a welcome release to come back 'home' and feel the sun, and run up the hills with the dogs and not have to worry about the big kids in the street picking on the new kid because of his weird accent and permanently startled look on his face. Reality, however, had to return.
The first day of school, and I was all dressed up with my brown satchel strapped in securely over both shoulders. The uniforms from my old school - which had been a little village one with two classrooms, one for primary 1-4 and one for primary 5-7 - weren't suitable attire for the new school, so I'd been dressed up in black trousers and white shirt in lieu of finding out the proper dress code. I should have sensed the difference immediately as I was being walked to school by mum. All the other kids were strolling down the road alone, some a lot younger than me, dressed in jeans and trainers, with their Nike and Adidas sports bags casually hanging from one shoulder. I was, however, still in startled rabbit mode, and took in none of this and all of this at the same time.
I was introduced to my classmates after registration, where we'd all stood in the sports hall and recited the Lord's Prayer. I stood at the front of the class as instructed by Miss Brown, or White or Turquoise or something, as she told the slack-jawed, uninterested throng of thirty other weans my name and that I was new here, which I'm sure they'd never have guessed if she hadn't mentioned it. I took my red, burning face to my new desk and sat down, hoping against hope that I was done, that I could just disappear into the quiet corners and be forgotten. The teacher was asking about something to do with something. I must have listened at the time, because when she asked me a question about it, I answered. I only did because that was what you did when teachers asked you questions. You did your best to answer in the hope that they didn't tell your mum you were misbehaving the next time she dropped in for a cup of tea on the way to the bus stop. I got the answer right. "Hey, we've got the Brain of Britain here!" exclaimed the helpful teacher, and moved on to a random selection of hard-nosed pupils. My face burned again, not sure whether I'd done well or badly, but sure that the attention was unwelcome and wanting to be left alone.
The fire alarm went. That meant it was 10.30am. That meant the washless throng moved out to the concrete playground for 15 minutes, when another alarm would go off and we'd troop back to the classroom. Just another little difference then, no more head teacher coming out with her church bell in hand, smiling and telling the kids is was 'time to come back in and learn children'.
I stood in the playground, trying to be invisible, as one of my classmates came over, trailed by 3 or 4 more of them. "So, where the fuck are you fucking from then?" he asked. "North Connell" I said meekly. "Where the fuck is that?" asked my new friend. "Up North." I replied. He turned to his friends - "Brain of fucking Britain is from fucking up North.", and turned back to me. "Do you want a square go?” I tried to translate this and failed. "What's that?" I asked politely. One of his friends interjected, "Just fucking deck him Jimmy!” The others joined in with a rhythmic "Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight" chant. The nearest other kids came over to the crowd and joined in. I stood, surrounded, with tears threatening to fall and a bladder desperate to unleash a torrent of hot piss into my new trousers. The boy swung at me, I saw the fist through blurry eyes and swayed a bit so it just glanced across my temple. The rage came upon me and I unleashed a torrent of blows, obviously using my brown leather satchel as my weapon of choice. He fell to the ground after the first couple of shots, as I continued to rain satchel laden terror upon him until a teacher ran over and dragged me away to the headmistress' office. "I hope you're not going to be trouble" she said "We already have enough of that". I answered that I wasn't and I was sorry and she guided me back to class. I sat back at my desk and continued learning, thankful that I had black trousers on, which didn't show the damp patch very well. And anyway, I'd only leaked a little bit, and my pants would have soaked most of that up.
So I started reading books, becoming the hero for a while as I immersed myself in these new worlds. And I read that opening line "The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.", and was hooked. I wanted to be both men. I wanted to run away, but 'flee' just sounded much faster and more honourable. And I wanted to be the gunslinger, standing firm with no emotion in my eyes as I watched the fear in the face of those that had forgotten their father. As always, some middle ground was eventually found. I gave James a few bloody noses and we became friends. I tumbled around with a few other kids and won and lost. I found there were acceptable limits when I picked up the hammer in woodwork to subdue a particularly annoying boy and was sent home for a couple of days on 'suspension'. I never hit him, just scared him a bit. And I peeked over the changing room curtains when Debbie was changing for the end of (primary 7) year school play at which I was receiving the school Dux medal, and saw her rapidly developing breasts. I don't know where the medal is these days, or where Debbie is for that matter, but I know which one is my favourite planet in the Universe of my mind.

Shelving, a beginner's guide

I'm home again. Not that I was away too far, but was skipping around catching up with West coast people, and praying quite a lot.
For some strange reason, I expected to have a flurry of free time due to finishing somewhat prematurely my last contract. This didn't happen. I also expected to feel an elevated sense of wellbeing due to escaping the clutches of corporate America, umm, UK. This somewhat happened.
It's very strange, no matter how long I do this contracting thing, I think I'll always feel a bit strange when one ends. I always go through the same doubts over whether I'll ever work again, should I just take the first job that comes along, even if it's bar work? This usually lasts for a week or two, then the blissful realization that I don't need to get dressed in the morning kicks in and I smile.
I've been putting up shelves. I bought some power tools, as I felt I was sufficiently mature enough to use a jigsaw without losing too many fingers. So far, so good with that one. I also got an angle grinder, as I felt it was my duty as a man to have a least one power tool which I had no idea what it was for.
I've also discovered the pleasure of Cash & Carry shopping. My mum goes to these places for a little shop business to pick up stuff to sell. Now, I always thought these places meant buying things by the hundred, which isn't true. She wanted to go to one, and I said I'd take her. This was obviously a ruse to get on her good side and a hint of self flagellation by suffering a shop. Once we got in though, I was like a kid in a candy store, and not even the good candy, the one I like. All the tat you see in markets starts it's (retail) life here. You pick up those toy guns that shoot little balls for a couple of quid, and they sell for a tenner at the market. This allows you to easily buy 20 and hand them out to all the kids in the street while starting a sweep with the neighbours over the number of permanent injuries that will occur within a set period of time.
Anyway, I now have a compass in my car and can tell you at any given time which direction I'm going (£2.50).
So, not much else happening - was at a first communion on Sunday, am off to Ireland this weekend, then another communion next weekend. One would imagine that I am being turned to the dark side of the force with all these goings on, but I can assure you that my reaction to certain religious events on Sunday afternoon would prove that all the bluebells are still blue.

No shitting in the toilet

So, early morning alarm call. Roughly 6am, to get the 0750 flight from
EDI (Note the technical travel speak). Quick taxi to airport, no queue
at check in, all is well with the world. Then the announcement came.
"Due to technical problems, flight globespan xyz will be delayed for
an hour". No big deal, let's go get breakfast. 12 hours later flight
globespan xyz finally left the ground, 0200 we get to the apartment in
Majorca (Puerto Pollensa), which is nice.
Apparently you can claim something from your insurance company for
this, but I haven't really looked into that yet.
Anyway, awake the next morning and open the curtains for a look, it'll
be nice to see the sunshine after a long Scottish winter. It was
pissing down. No, I mean it, real rain hammering from the bleak, dark
skies and bouncing off the pavement below. "Better pop out for milk
and water and stuff then", I think cheerfully. The town (village?) is
pretty small, and a lovely place. Nice harbour and waterfront and
little squares and thing of that ilk. We're a little out of the
centre, with an apartment facing the beach. Three bedrooms, living
area, dining area, kitchen, couple of bathrooms and a balcony both
back and front. This is great, but a lot of heating when the weather
is poor. So, we grab a car for 3 days, only 60 euros to tour the
island and enjoy the horn beeping drivers that prove their masculinity
by showing how they can be aggressive with a couple of tons underneath
them.
The sun came out on Wednesday. I liked that. We went to the beach, and
I dug a really deep hole for the wee man, who fought a bit, but
eventually I managed to drag him out to see it. Four hours well spent
then.
Obviously I got my back burnt. It hurt. Now it itches. A lot.
So, back to the airport on Friday. Flight was delayed.
Saw a sign on the wall though - apparently the EU say that if you're
delayed for 5 hours you should get a bonus payment and the people from
the flying company need to come to your house and shower you with rose
petals. Or something. I was tired.

A brief history of time

I've been thinking. Not very hard or anything, I've got a hangover to
support after all.
While reading a random blog entry somewhere, there was something in it
about checking out and old school website. This set me thinking about
my old schools. These didn't have any of those new fangled website
gizmos, and both primary and secondary school have been demolished in
the last few years to make space for houses. I finished both primary
and secondary school as dux, which didn't really
mean anything to me at the time, being used to such plaudits. Now,
however, it seems that I'd left my mark (albeit simply my name and a
date on a board in the assembly hall) and now that it's gone, it
actually saddens me a little.

ps This posting is by "The Mighty Al^TM", but he had problems posting it due to him being an iknternet light weight (as mentioned in a previous posting of mine) - so I had to post it on his behalf.

gmail

I seem to have the proverbial 'hunners' of gmail invites, if there's
anyone out there still looking.....

auto erotic fixations

I'm looking for a new car. Oh wait, the first thing is - Dom has been
moaning at me for not putting anything up here. It's not been a lack
of interest, honestly, it's just been a busy old time and I'm a bit
tired and lazy. Right, the options appear to be -
Mazda RX-8
Audi A4 S-line
Jaguar X-Type
These are very different cars, so I chose them specifically to get a
feel for what I felt was important to me in a car. Only thing I
learned after a weekend of dealers was that I amd tired and lazy. So
there.

I've been watching the news a bit recently. It's mainly been arguments
about what constitutes genecide and whether it'll hurt someone's
feelings if you accuse them of genocide and, in actual fact, they're
only guilty of mass murder. I remember I was once in trouble for being
in a fight when I had actually just been bullying the boy and kicked
his head in for no reason. I would have termed that as assault, rather
than a fight, and I was hurt by the implication.*
* none of that was true, obviously, just an anecdote to help the point get over.

Our good friend Air disappeared from the project a month back. He's
left a gap and I'd hoped to catch up with him at the weekend, but he's
off skiing. I'm really busy for the next few weeks too, so it'll be a
while. I need to spend more time catching up with friends, I know
that, but I just don't have the time/energy.

So, that's why I haven't been writing, dear reader. It's not you, it's
me, I just need a bit of space...

Is there a doctor in the house?

My appointment was 9.05. In the morning.
This would seem a logical time, for so many reasons. Firstly, it means a quick detour before going to work, minimising the time away from the tedious, mortgage paying nonsense. Secondaly, first thing in the morning means the Doc has little time to overrun his alloted time from previous patients, so should be just about on time, right?
So, I arrive at 9, knowing his time is valuable and not wanting to be the first cause of overrun, so that everyone else can be saved from waiting in the, umm, waiting room amongst the single mothers and pensioners who are only there to pass the time and stink out the place with their deep scent of depression and hopelessness.
As a sidenote, for the technical people amongst us, the practice (why is it called a 'practice' anyway, I want to go to one that's called the 'perfect') has a new system installed. To save valuable time and resources, the doctor no longer buzzes reception to let them know he's ready for a patient. He now clicks on his EDS supplied GUI, which is connected to one of those long, red LED display boards. The main purpose of this is to waste a few seconds, then phone reception, explaining how his computer thing has 'crashed' again and allowing the IT expert behind the desk to show her technical prowess by telling him to 'go out, and then back in again'. A couple of minutes later the buzzer goes and a name appears on the screen. Good job we've got these advancements going in to save time.
Anyway, as 9.10 appears and leaves, a body passes me from the front door and proceeds directly into the doctor's office. "Wait a minute, that's a bit unfair." is my initial thought, before realising it was, in fact, the doctor. So, he's late. Fantastic. I get a little peeved that I make sure I'm not holding anyone up, and realise that he can sometimes be held back through working on a more serious problem on someone else, but I'm not sure not getting his arse out of bed in time to neck his first half-bottle of whisky of the day counts as unavoidable.
Oh, there goes the buzzer. My buttocks strain from the anti-ergonomic chair in anticipation, as someone else's name appears on the screen. Great, now I need to wait on the old boy trundling into the doctor's room and straining to supply a piss-sample from his wrinkly old tadger. So, have to wait another 15 minutes before going in to get a course of antibiotics for the sore throat.
He doesn't write prescriptions any more. He clicks on his EDS SuperDoc system, which prints it out and he just has to sign. Or doesn't. He pulls out his old-fashioned pad and fills it out. "Have you tried coming out and going back in?", asks I, helpfully.

Quizzes are bad, m'kay?

Oh dear. I'm not feeling so good.
The Company had a quiz night last night. A few of us went along.
I think the rest is pretty obvious, but I'll labour the point for the bored amongst us.
Free drink (first three, terms and conditions apply), free food (unidentifiable foodstuffs, tasteless) and a bundle of questions. 160 people, teams of six.
My team sucked. It's not that we were stupid, we just didn't know the name of Britney Spears' husband. We had a decent mix of ages, but no girls, so the Sex in the City questions were a waste of time too. To cut to the chase, we finished about 13th out of, umm, 160/6. This was made worse by the other half of our department, who were sitting right in front of us, taking the lead before being pipped by 1 point in the very last round.
Highlights - The team that took the sheet asking for the phonetic alphabet and filling in "ay, bee, cee, dee, eff, jee,etc". One of our team mates answering the "heart of midlothian" author question with "William Wallace", then arguing his case by mentioning the Wallace Monument.
Sample questions -
Next line of the song required....
There were voices down the corridor, thought I heard them say...
I want to reach out and touch the flame...

Who was the architect of the Scottish Parliment?
Name 5 inert gases.

That'll need to do, I'm tired.