I have been looking for a small Bible to have with me on the go but could not find any. Today I dropped by the Walden Book in Westfield Mall and found a very good one. So I bought it. The price at the book store is about $8 higher than on Amazon.

It is an NIV Compact Thinline Bible (Bonded Leather).

NIV Compact Thinline Bible (Bonded Leather)
by Zondervan Publishing (Creator)
ISBN: 0-310-93770-1

As part of the Great Australian Run (which Alan is running in tomorrow) there is a 2km family race for kids aged 3-12.  Ella ran in it this morning.  She had great fun and was so proud to have her own running number!  It was amusing to watch as some parents were taking it way too seriously….

Heading to the race

William & Ella getting in some practice runs

Poppy & Ruby

Fantastic Face-Painting

Pre-Race

Last Minute Preparations

Our Cheeky Tiger

Almost at the Finish – Go Ella!!!!!

Post-Race Proudly displaying their medals (Jenni with William and Alan with Ella)

K

November 26, 2009: Barry Cauchon

LOOKING FOR CIVIL WAR DIARIES, LETTERS, PHOTOGRAPHS, ARTIFACTS AND KEEPSAKES for possible inclusion in our upcoming book and documentary about the Old Arsenal Penitentiary and the Lincoln Conspirators.

Example: Ed Isaacs family has been living in the northeastern United States for several hundred years. Last year Ed’s cousin Pam gave him the diary of his great-great grandfather George Dixon. George was a Civil War Union soldier who was stationed at the Old Arsenal Penitentiary in Washington DC during the incarceration, trial and eventual punishments of the Lincoln conspirators. Amongst other interesting notations found in the diary, George listed the cells used by the prisoners and the guards who watched over them on the last day or two leading up to the executions of four of the conspirators. Ed Isaacs contacted me awhile ago and shared George’s diary with me. We have become friends and are planning on including information about George Dixon and his diary in our upcoming book and documentary. Ed hopes that it will help celebrate his ancestor’s life and we are thrilled to do so. To read the story of George Dixon and his diary as presented by Ed Isaacs, please click on the following link  http://awesometalks.wordpress.com/an-awesometalk-with-ed-isaacs-owner-of-civil-war-diary-from-soldier-who-guarded-the-lincoln-conspirators/).

APPEAL FOR HIDDEN HISTORY: We are appealing to others out there who might have ancestors who were connected directly or indirectly to the Lincoln conspiracy, the Old Arsenal Penitentiary, Washington DC or other Civil War occurences that related to the events that took place between March and August of 1865 in Washington DC and other surrounding areas. Items such as personal diaries, letters, photographs, artifacts, keepsakes and other Civil War related items in your possession could contain valuable historical information of great significance presently unknown to the research community. We would love to include your finds, if historically relevent, in our book and documentary.

So check your attics, basements, the old shed out back, garages, farm houses, barns and even below the floor boards of your old home. Check with your family members about stories that have been passed down from generation to generation. Those conversations may give you a clue as to where your ancestors may have been during the time of the Civil War and the Lincoln assassination and conspiracy. Even if you do not know whether you have something that is important, you should inform us anyway. A name of a buddy or commander found in a diary could be very important. A location mentioned is a possibility. A comment about contemporary events from the time of the assassination may be the perfect thing we are looking for.  You never know what might be important to our projects and the historical community in general. And if you do find something that doesn’t necessarily fit within our research, we will do our best to help direct you where you can go to get more information about your find.

We are looking for genuine historical articles from the time of President Lincoln’s assassination, funeral, conspiracy trial and prisons located in Washington DC (Old Arsenal Penitentiary, District Penitentiary, Washington Penitentiary, Old Capitol Prison, Carrol Annex and Carrol Branch Prison). Items related to the Navy Yards and the ironclad monitors USS Saugus and USS Montauk could all be important clues to help tell the story better. And don’t forget the potential connection to the Confederate Secret Service primarily run out of Montreal, Canada or Lafayette Baker who was the head of the Secret Service for the Union. All great possibilities where hidden history may lie.

WHAT THIS IS NOT

Regretably we are not offering to purchase your family relics or assign a price to them. That is not our specialty and we cannot offer expert advice on an artifact’s value short of its historical significance to the story. As mentioned before, we will do our best to help direct you towards those who might be able to assist you. But no guarantees of course.

If you have an item that you think might be of interest to us, please do not use the comment area below. Instead, write me directly at outreach@awesometalks.com and I will get back to you as soon as I can. Please describe the item (and include a picture if possible). If relevent, please explain why you think this may relate to our research.

As you can see from previous postings on this blog over the past 18 months, we have had a few really cool finds that I’ve been able to share with you. The George Dixon diary, Mr. P’s original fake ‘Lincoln in Death’ photo used in many Lincoln books published over the years and some genuinely great stories from family members from their ancestor’s past.

Give it a try. Everyone has treasures in their family. Share them.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Best

Barry

outreach@awesometalks.com

The dangers of and the reasons for keeping a private diary.

There’s a touching scene at the end of the Bridget Jones movie where Darcy and Bridget have finally declared their love for each other but, just when you think you’re within reach of this long-awaited happy ending,  Darcy chances across Bridget’s diary in which he reads unflattering comments about himself. Horrified, poor Bridget tries to explain that diaries are “full of crap”, and fortunately for her Darcy is wise enough to understand that. He does the gentlemanly thing and buys her a new diary. Cue happy ending. Ahhh!

So,… why does Bridget risk it? Why does she feel the need to commit potentially damaging material to such a notoriously insecure confessional as a paper diary? Does she have a self-destructive streak? Does she enjoy the constant danger that her diary may fall into the wrong hands, or is there something else going on here? Why do people ignore the risk of embarrassment, and keep personal diaries? Are they insane?

All right, I may be insane but I’ve kept a private diary since January 1st 1974. I was fourteen and I can only say my excuse at the time was there’s a lot going on at that age. Your emotions are being pulled in all directions by hormonal changes, and your head suddenly feels like the inside of a pressure cooker. Throw in a mix or two of unrequited love, and a school environment that continues to be incomprehensible, no matter how hard you try to appear normal in it, and sooner or later you’ll end up looking in the mirror and feeling like there’s an alien staring back at you.

Until you write it down.

Writing it down is like opening a safety-valve.

You’re still aware of the mad mix of life, but keeping a diary, at least for me, is a vital means of subduing the occasional demons who seem bent on eating me. It is as if by the simple writing of their names, they are rendered less substantial. Diaries are also where you can explore the incomprehensible by writing down what you think about it – without the inhibitions you might normally feel if you thought someone was going to be reading your words later on and tut-tutting at your stupidity. You put it all down, you write around it from all sides, and even if you never actually get to the bottom of things, the diary has a way of at least clarifying what it is you think about a subject because certain words resonate – they feel right, or they jar awkwardly, and then you know they are wrong, you know you are being stupid.

We explore ourselves in diaries. They are a meditation. They are cathartic. Diaries do not solve our problems, but they do seem to grant us the means of rising above them. If you’re being really clinical and condescending about things you could say diaries are a useful coping mechanism.

When I look back on my first diaries however, I wonder where all the emotion went. The prose is not quite as purple as I remember my thoughts being at the time. My entires were merely suggestive of the emotional turmoil of my life, while being descriptive more of mundane events. None of those names, either heinous or precious to my memory, are mentioned. All is carefully rendered deniable. It is as if I were writing with someone looking over my shoulder. I dared not say what I really thought, or felt. I was devious,… and wise, because paper dairies are not the secure things they ought to be. They are bombs waiting to go off in other people’s faces. And they’ll get you into trouble as well of course because not all peekers at other people’s diaries are as wise and magnanimous as Bridget Jones’ beau.

So,… How can a diary be cathartic if you’re not saying what you feel? It’s a good point: for them to be really useful, you need to be able to express yourself freely, without fear of censure.

In my later teens and twenties, I became more open in what I wrote.  Those diaries were subsequently compromised by individuals who read the crap, saw only the crap, and were hurt by it. I was hurt too, by the break of trust – that someone I trusted, could ever read my diary.

Take my word for it, paper diaries are not safe, unless you lock them in a strong box whenever they’re not actually in your hand. If you keep them under your pillow, you might as well be sharing your most intimate secrets with the whole world. This is a shame, because the confessional nature of the diary allows us a measure of control over our emotions. We write down what we feel: I hate him/her. And then we think: how childish, that’s not true at all, I’m just upset because such and such has happened – I really, really love him/her. However, we don’t always put the good stuff in the diary, because it’s the good stuff we’re looking to get at and carry away with us, so all we leave behind are the dark traces: I hate! I hate! I hate! But even if we do put the good stuff in, the fact that we ever thought or felt the bad stuff is sufficient of itself to hang us.

So, he/she comes along and sneaks a peek at your diary. The darkness shocks them. It morphs into a  spike with a poisoned tip, and springs from the pages to pierce your thought stealer between the eyes. Rest assured, they will never see you in the same light again.Of course it’s not your fault. We all think dark things, silly things, things we don’t really mean. Diaries catch them and keep them safe, that’s all – better in the diary than carrying them around with us all the time! But that’s no comfort when your girlfriend/wife/significant other is heading up the road and your relationship is in tatters on account of something indiscrete, or shall we say “emotionally exploratory”,  that you wrote.

Got kids around? Rest assured they’ll make it their life’s ambition to get a peek at your diary if they know you keep one. Is that something you’d be happy with?

At the risk of repeating myself, that paper diary’s going to hang you. So get rid of it! Burn it. Shred it now! Never keep a paper diary! We are not politicians, we do not write for posterity, nor the future calculated embarrassment of our peers. We’re different. We write only for ourselves.

What about a coded diary then?

Already been there. Samuel Pepys, the seventeenth century diarist wrote in an obscure form of shorthand, which kept his words pretty safe from casual scrutiny. Such codes are easier to master than you might think, and I developed my own, which I still use occasionally in my notebooks. However, while it’s possible to eventually write flowingly in an obscure, self invented code, I found it was far more difficult to casually flick back through entries and read them, and reading them is an important part of the process.

No,… coded diaries are fun, but a laborious thing to peruse and if a coded diary’s discovered, it doesn’t matter what your code is obscuring – it’s all going to be interpreted as dark – otherwise why cover it with a code? Also you should be careful of taking a coded diary abroad, say on holiday, in these terribly paranoid times, as it might get you into trouble at the airport if the security people get hold of it! And you could really do without the embarrassment, or the rubber gloves – right?

So what do you do?

Well, if you’re reading this on my blog, the solution is already at hand. Computers! Computers are ubiquitous and cheap these days. Old ones get thrown away when they’re still useful, or they can be purchased off eBay for very little money at all, and sooner or later they’ll be giving them away free with bags of potatoes at the supermarket. So, write your diary on a computer, but keep it on a memory stick because computers sometimes go wrong and lose everything. Most important of all though is that you get some freeware encryption software off the internet, and secure your diary under a password. Welcome, dear scribbler to the cyber age. Samuel Pepys, would have loved it!

There are, of course, a lot of diary programs you can download, some of them for free, and I’ve experimented with a few, but I find I end up fiddling too much with the software instead of simply writing stuff down. Personally  I prefer a simple Rich Text Format file – along with the encryption software – the simpler to use the better (I like the free Encrypt Files by Pow Tools)

If you’re particularly paranoid and afraid of cyber-snoopers and those dastardly key click capture devices, then don’t write your diary on a computer that’s connected to the internet – though if you’re at this level of paranoia you’re either a conspiracy theorist, or you’ve got something on your computer you really shouldn’t have!

Now  you’ve finally got a diary that’s safe from everyone except perhaps a  state salaried cryptanalyst, so you can write down anything you want, no matter how icky or potentially embarrassing. At last! A private diary you can really trust.

But how do you use it?

Well, that’s up to you of course, and it doesn’t matter, so long as you do use it. I’m a compulsive writer, and perhaps my scribbling habits are different to others, but I’ll describe how I’ve come to use my cyber-diary and where it fits in to the greater scheme of things.

The way I see it the modern scribbler has three levels for self-expression nowadays: We have the private diary, and what we put in here is basically not for human consumption, on account of its occasionally poisonous, unguarded or explosive nature. Then we have the blog, which is a sort of publicly available diary, carefully sanitised and smiley-safe. And then we have the work itself.

The work is the ultimate expression of the cyber scribbler’s imagination. It possesses no personal details. It is informed by the person that you are, but anyone reading it can have no clear idea of the state of your mind, nor the whereabouts of your front door. The work is what you basically do,  what you turn into an e-book, and put up on Lulu or Feedbooks or Smashwords or any of those other means of self publication. The work is the fruit of your labour as a cyber scribbler.

Now we go down a level to the blog:

All right, the blog contains a little crap from time to time, especially if you write it when you’ve been drinking, or within 24 hours of an emotionally upsetting incident. Trust me – never do either of these things! Although sanitised, the blog is a more personal expression of the mind behind the work. It’s a sort of journal – it captures events, or thoughts,… things that catch your eye and which put you in mind of a certain other thing that you feel compelled to share with your mystery reader, but for all of that it is still impersonal. There is no way by reading it can your reader unlock your state of mind, nor again the whereabouts of your front door.

Down another level now, and back to the personal diary.

The diary is the melting pot of your daily experience. It is the confessional, the personal account, the dirty washing, the crucible of your pain, grief and anxiety. It is the repository of the stuff that will hang you, the stuff that will get you into trouble with the girlfriend, neighbour, colleague, boss, policeman, wife and so on. When all else fails and the words won’t come, you will always be able to turn to the diary and write something – even if it’s only that the words would not come today.

Can’t make sense of the story you’re working on?… Maybe you can say something on the blog instead, some wry observation, something that caught your eye that day and made you think. Can’t even blog? Wonder what the hell you’re doing even keeping that blog in the first place? My, aren’t we low today? Don’t despair! Settle down somewhere quiet, brew yourself some coffee or crack open the whiskey bottle,… and dig out the diary.

The diary is your best friend.

It’s always there. You can fill it with crap, and it won’t mind. In return, it will point out your stupidity, and you’ll take it better coming from your diary, than from someone else.

My cyber diary goes back to 2002. It’s interesting to read back now over those years, and also to be able to use the search function for finding specific words that haunt me. You’ll be surprised how often things come back at you. You write about them in passing, when they crop up, then forget them, and when they crop up again you have this odd feeling of deja-vous  – well the diary will reveal these things to you, like loops in the code of your life. But the diary’s not a place I go to for inspiration. I think its function is more indirect, more mysterious, and therefore best left alone. Just write things down in it. Flick back through it from time to time. And inbetween times,  keep it encrypted.

An encrypted cyber diary is both useful, and deniable. What diary?

The paper diary is highly visible, vulnerable and potentially damaging.

Get rid of it.

On Remembrance Day, Ian Bell (fresh from a CBC appearance “On The Coast“) joins Dave to read from Grandpa Mark’s diaries written in the trenches in WW1 as a young Canadian. They reflect on the costs and motivations of war, importance friendship and ethereal experience of going over the top as well as discourse on the importance of personal documentation to pass forward to generations.

Sit awhile for Vimy Ridge Diaries on Remembrance Day – Postcard # 61

Featuring:

Geoff Berner – Excerpts from “Maginot Line” Recorded live at the Biltmore Cabaret, Vancouver, BC, Feb. 28, 2009

Various artists (including piper Dave Ahl) – Recorded live at UBC Remembrance Day Ceremony, Nov. 11, 2009

Ian Bell reading from Grandpa Mark’s diaries

William Markle Pecover – Memory of Vimy Ridge

William Markle Pecover – On Being Bombed in Britain

Photo via CDN Veterans Affairs asks How Will you Remember? – Download Canadian historical war time photo and video packs, organized by theme and era, then remix and share via social networks.

More Remembrance Day

White Poppies for Remembrance – podcast series

John Cairney reads Robert Burns on Remembrance Day – podcast

Remembrance Day Events in Vancouver plus Canadian Campaigns

Remembrance Day posts on Ephemeral Feasthouse

Ian Bell on CBC’s On The Coast [note: Real Audio files]

Wednesday November 11 – To commemorate Remembrance Day a Vancouver man has posted excerpts from his great-grandfather’s wartime journals on to his blog. Ian Bell told Stephen why it’s important to him to remember. Listen to the interview.(runs 7:04)

{Bonus} 50 years ago the Vietnam war began. When the war ended many Americans moved to BC. Woody Carmack was one of them and he attempted to help ex-soldiers deal with post-traumatic stress disorder and other problems. Listen to the interview.(runs 8:53)

More Postcards

Subscribe to PfGB Feed
Subscribe in PfGB in iTunes
Dave Olson’s Library at Uncleweed.net
Twitter: @uncleweed

Podcast Gear

I use Koss Sterophones, M-Audio MicroTrack II, M-Audio Solo audio interface, Griffin iMic and Sony Microphone – in case you were wondering.

November 1st 1849 — Rome

While the horses in our caravan wet their lips in the warm sunlight; I am taking the opportunity to record the events of the last day. I feel at ease with the folks who are helping me, and I hope that they will understand when I have to part company with them later this evening. I am indebted to them and to the lady who sent me with them. I honestly believe that if not for the assistance of the Contessa – then I would not have left Rome as a free man.

It was soon after my last diary entry upon departing the library when trouble ensued. My ruse in the library worked splendidly but it was not long after I stepped outside their doors when I was spotted by a soldier on horseback. Running to evade him with tremendous vigor, I was lucky to gain considerable distance through the curving cobblestone streets and narrow alleys. The sounds of the clopping hooves were getting closer as I scanned the area for a proper hiding place. I saw a cemetery to my left and I noticed that it was surrounded by the customary cypress trees. This would work perfectly for me but I had to be nimble in climbing the branches. The needles scratched my face and wrists as I nervously climbed, but I was certain that I was safe. Clearly the advantage was mine as I confidently awaited the approach of the horseman in the shadows of the cypresses.

The horseman passed the grove of cypress trees and did not once look my way – only racing into the square ahead in the distance. As a precaution I held my breath as he passed, much like I have done many times before while running from those in pursuit. My breath heaved mistily into the brush of the trees as I released my exhaustion. As I listened to the sounds beyond my panting, I heard familiar noises. I focused on the chatter and banging and I knew that I was close to the workers at the fountain. In my flight from the soldiers, to my refuge in the library, to the chase to the cemetery – I had come full circle to where I had started my explorations earlier this evening.

Alerts echoed forth from the fountain as the horseman rode round the square issuing warnings of my possible presence. There were shouts and quite a clamor – for the horseman had riled the others into a frenzy. My initial reaction was to climb down the cypress trees and flee the cemetery – getting as far from the fountain as I could, but something made me change my mind. As I climbed down the branches I heard a set of horses clopping towards me – it was a wagon with one man driving the two horses and another man with a broad hat holding an upright rifle in his hands. Still and silent, I was poised in the cypress listening to them converse as they slowly approached.

One spoke in broken English with an Italian accent and the other spoke in American English. I heard the first intelligible utterances from the driver and he mentioned that The Gentleman had not been seen or heard from for the entire night – the workers and soldiers had feared the worst. The rifleman was quick to reply and told the driver that he was not worried in the slightest bit. He explained to the driver that The Gentleman is practically indestructible – no adversary he had seen could best The Gentleman in any form of combat or game of intellect. The rifleman explained that The Gentleman would eventually find his way back to the fountain but until then it was agreed that he (the rifleman) was in charge of the operation. The rifleman continued to explain that The Gentleman would want the cargo in the carriage wagon delivered promptly at dawn as directed by the official orders in the letter sent by Lord Suffington.

I was immediately curious – what could it be that was so important that The Gentleman would be directed to leave Rome to escort the wagon and cargo elsewhere? As I pondered this and once again held my breathe, I heard and then saw a horseman approach the rifleman. The driver halted the two horses and the rifleman called out to the horseman in greeting. The horseman came to a halt and proceeded to tell him that I was somewhere in the vicinity and that the other soldiers were scattering to search for me. The rifleman ordered the horseman to be careful for he said that I was considered by the House of Suffington to be dangerous and that I was expected to be caught alive. The rifleman said that I would probably not get very far with the network of strict checkpoints posted on every route in and out of the city.

I did not hear the rest of what was spoken because I was too flattered to actually be considered dangerous. Yes, enamored I felt for once in my faithful duties in subterfuge of the House of Suffington. I have often perceived myself in this manner but never have I never heard myself described as such. I admit that it pleased me to hear this for once, however time for gloating and prideful reflection would have to come later for I had to act quickly. As the horseman was ordered to carry on with his search and rode away, I silently climbed down the branches. The driver cracked his whip and just as the horses jerked the wagon on its way – I jumped onto the back and climbed onto the top of the wagon. I had found a way out of the city!

I listened as I nestled underneath a canvas cover to the top of the carriage wagon and I could hear that we were riding towards the fountain. Digging had ceased and all I heard were arguments from the obvious tension that results when underlings are left without a clear leader in a dire situation. The arguments ceased as the carriage wagon got closer. Apparently the rifleman spoke the truth for I could hear order resume as the presence of this man gave them comfort and nerve. But he knew as well as I that there was no substitute for their true leader – The Gentleman.

The rifleman ordered several guards to stay with the carriage and to not touch the cargo under any circumstances. He told them that it would be several hours until dawn and that he would personally undertake an investigation of the tunnels for any sign of The Gentleman. I assumed that he would endeavor to track him to the place where I forced him to plunge into the underground river. This was the last I heard from the man for some time.

For several hours I waited on top of the wagon – as frozen as an icicle, but I was not bothered by my predicament at all. However, I was slightly uncomfortable in my left arm, but nevertheless I laid still. I had thought about making an attempt to steal the cargo when it sounded as though all the soldiers and men had dissipated but they soon returned to within earshot. That plan would have to be undertaken when I was outside of the city limits. I considered many possibilities as I lay there patiently waiting until I heard the third rooster crow in announcing the coming dawn. Perhaps it was to shun the overlap of the beloved dawn with the blight of the moon; but that third crow of the rooster marked the return of the rifleman.

At the same time the rifleman returned, I heard the arrival of the same driver who took his place at the reins. The rifleman shouted orders in French to others in the vicinity and I could feel that we were in motion. The driver asked the rifleman about their heading and he replied that they would meet other armed escorts on horseback at a checkpoint on the northern partition of the city. He also explained that with their assistance that they would be able to travel safely for days on the roads that led to a village in the mountains of Spain.

I remember hearing about that place while I travelled with Percy. It was part of a public works development plan as a joint venture between Gustave St. Denis and Lord Suffington. Knowing what I do about those two supposed philanthropists; I was certain that no good could come from the safe delivery of this cargo. I was incredibly curious about the contents of the cargo but alas I had to remain still and hold my position on top of the carriage. The bumps on the cobblestone streets and the greater speed at which we travelled made it more difficult for me.

At last the horses slowed and halted at the aforementioned checkpoint. I could hear discussion and orders given by the rifleman. His commands were specific concerning the positioning of the accompanying escorts but all I heard from him was drowned out by the whimpering and eventual barking from a hound dog that jumped onto the driver side of the carriage. The carriage wobbled and shook as the dog howled in excitement. I knew that I would be found – there would be no more hiding and concealment from those that hunted me. I had to act fast or be shot on sight and so I gambled on a hard brash surprise.

I pulled my knife as I listened to the soldiers approach the wagon. From below my waist to my heart I ripped through the canvas and I rolled on my back – thrusting my legs high into the air, over my head, and then rolling backwards to topple over the top of the carriage. It was very acrobatic and again it was a gamble – but it worked, mostly. I had the good fortune of kicking the driver in his head and knocking him off of the seat of the coach. The dog charged after me but the driver fell upon his jowls instead of myself. I struggled to claim the whip from the hand of the bewildered driver as I felt the butt of the firearm of the rifleman slam into my shoulder. I was not so foolish as to ignore the best of the bunch; but without control of the horses – I would be captured. I ducked to avoid another strike of the rifle and I raised my arm in blocking. Oddly, the jerk from my blow was enough to take it whip from the driver. The other men were closing in on me and I knew that they held their gunfire only because of my proximity to their superior.

I shouted and with my left hand I cracked the whip on a sideways slant; sending the horses, the rifleman, the cargo, and myself speeding into the rosy glow of dawn on the streets ahead us. I focused primarily on driving the spooked horses; who were not reacting well to the sounds of gunfire from the soldiers. Normally, I would have been frightened, but I somehow I felt differently… I had gambled heavily so far in Rome and I have been lucky all the way. With great confidence I made the decision to push my luck even further when I calmly explained to the rifleman that he could pull the trigger and take the easy route to fulfilling his duties. I reminded him that he would have to live with the disrespect and scorn of The Gentleman. For the rest of his meager life he would know that he was not good enough to beat the spotty-faced lad from Fairsae and far worse for him would be the fact that he had robbed The Gentleman of his opportunity to make an example of me. In essence, I was challenging the man with the barrel of a long firearm aimed at my temple and calling him a coward. I am amazed that it worked and doubly amazed that I am still alive.

The rifleman lowered his firearm and threw his clenched fist towards my jaw. It connected on my chin – again the turbulent ride on the cobblestones helped my cause. As I consider it now, I suppose that he deserved that free shot at me – even though it did little to keep me from causing trouble. I reacted swiftly in blind response to the blow to my head and I steered right down a narrow street where I saw a handful of various vendors setting up their carts for market at the early hours of dawn. The rifleman reeled back while I got off my backside and drove my right boot into his ribcage, sending him off his seat and towards the edge of the carriage. He expected something dangerous from me and now as I reflect upon it, I see that my actions on that carriage were a direct response to The Gentleman’s assessment of me. I wanted to show him that I was truly unpredictable.

The scant vendors on the streets screamed and cursed as we flew up the narrow street. The rifleman clung to the edge of the carriage and I saw that he was lifting his leg to position himself for re-entry towards the seat where I drove the horses. I steered to my right once again and he smashed into a cart. Nevertheless he persisted and clung to the carriage. That man seemed to be a younger, more diluted version of the man known as The Gentleman and he was a serious threat to me at the time. However, I had luck on my side and I cracked the whip and flew as fast as the horses could race while continuing my efforts to press him on the side of the marketplace – hoping to scrape him off of the carriage. I shifted and slid in my seat towards the right and looked behind me. The rifleman still clung but this time at the rear of the carriage. I turned around and looked ahead of me and saw that I was fast approaching a large two tier fountain.

It was possible for me to encircle it if I slowed the horses, made a roundabout pass, and then continued up the hill. The fountain was getting closer as the carriage and horses sped down the cobblestone street and upon seeing it up close I could see something peculiar on the right side of it. At the time I was too preoccupied with the chance of the carriage toppling over as I sped around the fountain to get a proper look but alas I made a successful turn. I peeked back again and I saw my adversary looking angrily at me and I turned to crack the whip to drive the horses up a winding cobblestone hill.

All the while I tried to devise a plan, but everything was happening so fast and I could not conceive of anything worthwhile. Circumstances dictated that I strictly act on instinct and that is exactly what transpired – albeit contrary to my original scheme for the carriage and cargo. Up ahead of me and the two horses I could see a host of The Gentleman’s soldiers on horseback and on foot who were en route to intercepting me on the hill.

I saw that at the midpoint of the upward winding road was a flat clearing with an intersection and that was where I halted the horses. The soldiers were halfway down the upper section of the hill and I had very little time to react. I knew that the rifleman was climbing on top of the carriage and would soon be on top of me within a moment. I could act on one choice – although I could not help but feel the same nagging sting of regret that I felt when I tossed the chest into the underground stream just hours ago. I leapt off the coach and I released both horses from their bonds and hopped upon the horse to my left. I was forced to forsake the battle I started with the protege of The Gentleman and more importantly I had to abandon my hopes in stealing the cargo bound for Spain. It would be the second time in a day where I had to release an artifact related to the mysteries of Fairsae.

As I mounted the horse and turned to look at the rifleman to offer a condescending smirk to my dramatic departure; I saw a bird swoop in close into my field of view. I swung my horse around and looked again but I no longer saw the bird, but I noticed that the carriage was slowly descending over the crest in the hill. The rifleman sneered at me but turned his attention to recovering the cargo inside the carriage and I saw that the carriage would soon be uncontrollably speeding towards the fountain. The peculiarity that I formerly saw only as a blur in passing the fountain was now clear to me and it turned out that it was a lovely lady leaning into the bottom pool of the fountain. I had assumed that the overwhelming sounds from the gushing water had closed her senses off from hearing the imminent danger. She would die if the carriage crashed into her.

There was no other choice for me. I kicked the horse and raced the carriage down the hill. At one point I looked the rifleman in the eyes as I sped past him. Naturally, I gave him the finest boyish grin that I could muster; after all – I was known as the spotty-faced lad from Fairsae. I charged ahead as I faintly heard him curse me. The carriage rolled slightly to the left and a bit to the right as it rolled down the hill on a course towards the lady searching the fountain pool. In a feat of the most impeccable timing; I drove the horse ahead of the carriage and leaned to my right while I hooked my arm and gripped the horse with my tightened legs. I scooped the lady by her hips and raised her up to safety just a moment before the carriage crashed into the fountain.

As I prodded the horse to run faster in fleeing the oncoming soldiers, I felt a hard clunk on my forehead followed by an elbow thrown at my nose. Loud and rambling curses were bombarded at me by the bewildered lady. I ignored her for the moment and focused on getting us up the hill that I previously rode down in the carriage. The faint shouts of the rifleman could be heard beneath the continued complaints and objections of the lady who at the time must have thought she was being abducted. I was too occupied to taunt the rifleman one last time for the lady I had saved was becoming too much of a burden with her aggravated struggling.

The lady finally looked behind her to see the identity of the one who had taken her. Her lovely eyes were terribly angry but they widened like a child when she caught a glimpse of the spots on my face. Her jaw dropped at the sight of it and I simply grinned, nodded politely to her, and gestured towards the demolished carriage at the fountain site where she leaned into the pool. She noticed the damage and she calmly turned away, thanked me, and instructed me to turn right at the street ahead of us.

With great fortune and the fortitude of that horse; we evaded the soldiers in pursuit of us and found refuge on the outskirts of city in the villa of the lady whom I saved. We were greeted by two of her servants who were curtly ordered by the lady to make appropriate preparations. The lady directed me towards the wash room and to meet her for breakfast. As I waited for her to return I looked around her home. I noticed that it was relatively modest in size but extravagantly rich in decor. It seemed as though the lady was a collector of fine art and antiquities. Many of the sculptural pieces in the collection looked familiar to me. I was astonished to see some of the floral patterns that I saw in the underground chamber where I found the sarcophagus of Alsymius the Younger.

We sat at the table to partake in a hot cup of coffee along with assorted breads, cheeses, and fruits. The lady had changed into an exquisite dress and her demeanor was distinctly hospitable. She introduced herself as Alessandra di Corvoli the Contessa of Rocca di Rosa. I was famished but I always mind my manners and etiquette and so I introduced myself before breaking bread. The Contessa asked me why I was being chased and I told her with all of my Wellesly charm, and a half-full mouth of bread that I was racing the other soldiers to win her heart.

She blushed and smiled at my humorous remark along with my successful side-step of the bitter truth, but then she shifted her attitude in the blink of an eye. The Contessa’s eyes misted and her voice quivered when she began to give her unsolicited explanation of her visit to the fountain. She reached for her neck and brought forth a locket and asked me if I saw it. I nodded solemnly and examined the locket – I knew that it was this locket that hit my forehead when we fled the fountain. She turned it around and showed me a crack on the back face of it and she explained that she had thrown it in the fountain and damaged it. It was her anniversary present and although she was livid; she felt regret in dispensing with it and incidentally she was in the process of retrieving the locket when I scooped her away. A tear streamed down her cheek and she wiped it away while telling me that she had rode all the way from Milan to Rome to meet her husband for their second wedding anniversary. Instead of being greeted lovingly by him – she was coldly met by his personal servant. This servant handed her a letter from her husband with an extravagant apology which explained that he was bound by duty to accompany his friend; the Captain of The Augustina, and act as his first mate on their maiden voyage. He departed earlier in the day on his mission towards finding the best route through the Northwest Passage – and it left her heartbroken.

Her sorrow quickly turned to anger and I noticed that she was clenching her locket as she carelessly placed her demitasse on the table. My eyes widened and she observed her apparent break from etiquette and grace. The Contessa took a moment to shout at one of her servants while looking away from me at an arrangement of decaying flowers in a vase. The servant rushed into the dining hall and took it away. It was an obvious distraction but it allowed her to gain her composure and she resumed sipping her coffee. She continued her story and told me that her husband Count Silvio di Corvoli – had promised to start a family with her and to stay at home for a long time. He had broken his promise on their special day. She smiled uncomfortably and studied me for several moments while I absorbed all I heard and considered the polite response in this situation; but I struggled and could not find the right words.

Luckily she changed the subject and thanked me again for saving her while looking at me affectionately. She told me that she did not need to know why the soldiers were after me – the less she knew was better. The Contessa explained that upon her return to Rome on the previous day; she encountered many soldiers at a checkpoint. She told me that the soldiers would be after me and I would never get out of the city – only with her help could I hope to escape. Luckily for me, the Contessa promised to return one good deed for another.

The Contessa explained that her husband was a very important and successful businessman despite acting like a jackass. Her husband had scheduled shipments and deliveries that were a constant part of his work while he stayed in Rome. She told me that she would hide me inside a shipment of her husband’s cargo in a caravan that would take the roads to Milan. I was told that she would personally accompany the caravan to the checkpoint with papers signed by her husband. As soon as I opened my mouth to offer gratitude or ask her why she seemed so familiar to me; she reached across the table to bring her forefinger to my lips. She shook her head and told me again that the less she knew was better for all.

Orders were shouted and her servants bustled into action, and within moments I was whisked away by two servants. I never saw the Contessa again. However, I heard her as we rode out towards the checkpoint. Inside one of the wagons, I was locked inside a crate that was interspersed with various glassware and carpets. At the checkpoint I heard the Contessa arguing with one of the soldiers in command of the checkpoint. She yelled at him severely while I heard the rustle of papers being presented. I also heard a bit of laughter from other soldiers and members of the caravan – I assumed that she had insulted the commanding officer. After viewing the official documents presented personally by an aristocrat, the officer had no choice but to allow the caravan to pass unchecked. The officer and the Contessa said no more and all I could hear as I was carried away to safety was the clopping of hooves and the dying laughter.

That was several hours ago and until we arrived at the pool in the stream, I stayed hidden in the wagon. Now, as I sit here and recall my past two days; I feel as though I may have encountered a potential crew member. It is this Contessa – I recall her from my dreams but only vaguely remember her image from the tattoos of the Hermit. I don’t know why I was led to meet this beautiful lady but somehow I know that I will see her again. I sure hope I do for I cannot stop thinking of her. I know that she is married but I can honestly admit that she has made an amorous impression on me. As for the Gentleman; when I meet him again, I am sure that he will never regard me again as the spotty faced lad from Fairsae,; but most likely as his equal…

Internet relationships are not real /
Your heart people steal but identities conceal /
So here’s a tale of warning for girls and boys /
Laptop computers can be dangerous toys
“Internet Relationships (Are Not Real Relationships)” – MC Lars

Back in 2009 after our brief trip to a decade previous this past eight days. And what have I learned from it? Well, ostensibly never to try anything like this ever again.

It may be fine to look back on days of yore when contented and happy with your lot years later but that’s just not me. I’m a depressive, I’ve spent more of the decade single than with anybody, I’m still stuck in the same town and I don’t seem to have learnt anything from my eighteen year old idiocy.

Of course, I am aware of what a whining bore I sound here but when I started the ‘project’ I genuinely had no idea how miserable it would make me feel. Even with pithy italicised sub-notes it still made me feel incredibly alone, not just for lost love but not taking advantage of so many avenues open at the time.

Then again, I find the relationships I’ve cultivated best and for the longest time over the last ten years have been those folks I’ve met and gotten to know online – something simply not really possible in my world ten years ago. Indeed, of my Facebook contacts over 70% are folks I met first on the internet – something my parents have always been bemused by.

It’s not that I’m horrifically anti-social and loathe human contact, I just feel that I’m a very hard person to like and I suffer fools appallingly despite being one myself. At least four of my very best friends I first met online – one based in London, another in Liverpool and the other two from…oh some fucking place or other down there. (Lincolntham or something. Granthshire?) There’s also the giant in Wigan, the hippie in another part of London, the writer from Wolverhampton (and his lovely other half), them two chaps who live together in an even further part of London and of course, you. Whoever you are.

Told ten years back that this would be the case, I would have been incredibly sceptical despite being a firm supporter of the internet (where would it have been without me, eh?) in 1999 when it only really started to become a viable means of communication in my world.

Then again, saying all that I think I keep in contact with my entire remaining group of hometown friends via Twitter and Facebook anyway, both of which have slowly brought what I’d laughably call “normal” people round to the idea of “internet relationships”. Maybe things have changed for the better. Maybe not.

But internet relationships ARE bloody real relationships, MC Lars. Just dont send them a photo of your cock. Well, not too soon anyway…

BBC News website readers have been sending us their comments on the latest City Diaries…. From BBC News. Full story

This site may contain information about: belize city. The blog is also related to: city capitals.

BBC News website readers have been sending us their comments on the latest City Diaries…. From BBC News. Full story

This site may contain information about: city state. For a different topic see here. The blog is also related to: city furniture.

Been to Pondicherry? (Pawn – the – sherrreee! as the French say it!) Then you need no introduction to colonial architecture, quaint streets and beautiful people. The peace, the restful ambiance, the calm that prevails all across the town is enough to stop the traffic of thoughts in your head. But what’s quite interesting is the shopping experience here! Yes the shopaholic that Iam, I had to discover my own stores and buy things for myself and others and know what’s good where et al. So here is my list! Now on something called the Suffren street is Cre’art (I have blogged about this one before and it turned out to better than I expected. Awesome stuff!) Nirvana and Fab India. Cre’art has three separate rooms and you can walk from one to another as you browse through everything from bags to belts, dresses to diaries, kiddie clothes to kool stationery, stoles and silk outfits. There is a lot kitschy stuff, boho outfits, tie-up kurtas, puff sleeved tops, knee-length kurtas that can double up as dresses and all this comes at an awesome price! The place also has a cafe and wi-fi so you can sit there and sip coffee and watch the brightly light and beautifully designed store. Nirvana next door is like the king of kitsch – bollywood and tollywood is all you find on everything from cushion covers to pouches, beads, tops, tees. I wasn’t quite pleased with the things here – well nothing very unique but worth a look nevertheless. The two treasures of Pondi shopping after Cre’art are 1- Casabalanca and Kalki – lucky for you they are both opposite to each other on one of the main shopping streets of Pondi. The former is a Hidesign boutique and has clothes, jewelery, bags, accessories for men and women. Lots of choice for women – I did manage to pick up a skirt and some nice chic jewelery to go with my outfits and even a couple of hair accessories. Kalki is more exotic in-terms of the stuff available. Here you find accessories that you will perhaps team up with a flowy gown you wear on a beach or a resort vacation – lots of paper, thread and cloth accessories – beautiful silk jackets, some bright chappals and lovely handbags to go with your attire! I came back with my handful and pockets empty and I cant wait to back there again! (I think I may have discovered my new shopping paradise! Yay!

As has been told in previous tales, my girlfriend and I have two female cats. Cat #1 has been around since 2005, and Cat #2 came on the scene a year or so later. They lived in small apartments together and even survived several moves to new homes without killing each other. They weren’t the types of felines that you see on the sickeningly adorable calendars that cuddle together as they sleep. It was more of a sleep with one eye open relationship that they shared. Four months ago they were split apart when my girlfriend moved to her own apartment in order to be closer to her job, taking Cat #2 with her. Cat #1 stayed with me, and suddenly they were each happier than they’d been in years. We often wondered and discussed what would happen if they ever had to live under the same roof again.

Yesterday, they were reunited.
Today, the world is still reeling from this catastrophe.

Just eight hours ago my girlfriend got on a plane to go to Germany for her job and I had volunteered to take care of Cat #2 in my home while she was away. Moments after this reunification took place I knew that it was in my best interest to keep a diary for the next week in order to detail the carnage.

DAY ONE – Sunday

Today, Cat #2 was brought over in the typical pet taxi fashion. I had just experienced a forty-five minute car ride with her continuously hollering off beat to the music that was playing so I was ready for some peace and quiet. I didn’t make it more than two feet in the door of my apartment when the creatures made eye contact with one another. Cat #1 began to hiss and showed fangs that up until now, I had thought only existed in vampire movies. The cat carrier began to shake violently as though a wounded rhinoceros was being held captive within. When the carrier was opened, Cat #2 bolted from her plastic prison while Cat #1 was immediately locked away in the bedroom for the season. I headed out the apartment door to get the remaining luggage from the car and Cat #2 bolted out behind me, and decided to head for the hills. She ran towards the parking lot, but due to excess body fat and a full fur coat, paired with the pressures of a rather unintelligent animal experiencing sheer panic and terror, she didn’t make it far before realizing that she had no idea where she was going in the first place. Thank goodness cats don’t have GPS devices or she may have made it all the way to Reno before I caught up with her.

The rest of the day was spent watching the two cats throw icy glares back and forth while listening to a series of guttural growling, hissing, and spitting. It was a lot like watching teenage girls interact during my high school years. Cat #1 didn’t sleep in the bed that night as usual. She stayed stationed on the computer desk, fully alert and ready to protect her home from the intruder. I assume that she was expecting some sort of sneak attack that never came. To make up for this, she took out her aggression on my Venetian window blinds. May they rest in peace.

DAY TWO – Monday

I awoke this morning to the dulcet tones of two felines attempting to rip the hides off of each other. My girlfriend slept soundly through this racket while I risked life and limb to separate the animals. I crept quietly into the bathroom to get ready for the trip to the airport and Cat #1 entered behind me, completing her usual morning routine of getting in my way. Without warning, Cat #2 also wandered in to join the party. Suddenly realizing that they were mere inches from one another, both cats jumped in shock and attempted to turn themselves inside out. Cat #2 fled the room while Cat #1 fled into a wall. Eventually we headed to the airport and the whole trip I silently prayed that I would not return to the apartment to find a cat corpse. I didn’t think I had it in me to host a cat funeral before the day was over.

During my lunch break I went home only to find cat vomit all over the floor with the five o’clock news playing in the background. I had left the television on in an attempt to distract them from trying to murder each other, hoping that the mundane daytime television would put them to sleep like it always does with me. While cleaning up the mess, I wondered what had caused the illness. Part of me figured that Cat #1 was so stressed out by the invader that she couldn’t keep her food down while another part of me suspected that maybe the Tyra Banks show had come on the television while I was away.

Upon returning home from work, it was another night of scowling and hissing on their part while I attempted to decompress for the day. I tried brushing Cat #1 to bring her stress levels down a bit, but the more I caressed her, the angrier she appeared to get. I quickly gave up on that mission and headed into another room. On my way out, the brush clattered to floor behind me. I wondered if maybe Cat #1 had thrown it at me as payback for inconveniencing her usual routine of sleeping and shedding all over my clothes. Even if she had tossed it, I probably just would have been impressed since she doesn’t have thumbs.

DAY THREE – Tuesday

Imagine my delight when I woke this morning to the sound of my alarm clocking instead of the howls of feral felines. I felt refreshed and hoped that whatever had cat drama had existed the night prior had been put solved in a civil manner that involved a lot of licking. I got out of bed and made my way to the bathroom for a shower. Like usual, I pulled open the cupboard below the sink to grab a towel and was greeted with a flurry of claws and spittle as Cat #1 lunged towards my face. At some point during the night, she had created herself a bunker within the cabinet in order to hide from the intruder cat. Having clearly activated the defense system that she had put into place, I reflexively slammed the door closed and heard the thump of her body smacking into the wooden barrier that now stood between us.

Shower complete, I headed into the kitchen for some coffee. Cat #2 sat nonchalantly on the couch. She glanced over at me and gave a look as if to say “when is that Cat in the cabinet just going to get over it?” I silently commiserated with her while heading out the door to work.

Upon my return home tonight I found the floor covered in a fluffy gray substance that looked an awful lot like cat hair, but I’m not one to jump to conclusions. Cat #1 is mostly gray in color and the sheer amount of fluff that now covered the living room floor led me to consider the possibility that she had recently exploded in that general area. After a quick walk around and finding the cats hiding out on polar opposite sides of the apartment I returned to the living area to ponder today’s mess.

I sat down on the couch to think a moment and soon realized that what I was staring at weren’t actually the remains of an animal or the scene of a recent brawl, but rather the remains of the throw pillow that would normally be situated beside me. I began to wonder the costs I would incur from having to eventually replace the majority of my household items. Seeing the mangled mass of fabric and stuffing also made me fear for what they might do to me in my sleep.

DAY FOUR – Wednesday

This morning was a peaceful one. Due to the peacefulness I experience upon waking, I suspected that the civil unrest might have ended. I only thought this way because it was the first time that I had been awake for more than thirty seconds without a feline making an attempt on my life. Cat #2 was noisily bathing herself on the kitchen floor while Cat #1 was once again hidden away in her cabinet bunker, possibly building a small nuclear arsenal.

When I arrived home from work, I found that Cat #1 had relocated and was now sitting atop the refrigerator glaring across the desolate plane that is my apartment. Her eyes met mine and shared a look that told me she was now staging a sit-in until the interloper was forced to leave. I attempted to give her a return look that would explain that sitting very still in one place is pretty much her normal day-to-day activity and thus I couldn’t take her threat seriously. She never moved, so I’m not sure if the message got across, but then again, how would ever I know?

DAY FIVE – Thursday

The events of this morning led me to believe that perhaps the cats had finally settled their differences and had bonded together to fight the common enemy holding them captive: me. At some point during their late night scheming session, it was decided that some sort of chemical warfare was the best way to combat me.

Both cats have made a hobby out of heavily shedding their fur. They shed when they’re hungry, they shed when they’re bored, and they shed whenever they are within radius of whatever I am eating or drinking. I hadn’t been awake for five minutes when I realized that both the entire bed and myself were covered in a pelt of cat hair. This fluffy yet durable substance acted like a primitive net, making it difficult for me to get out of the bed.

After escaping their trap before they could do horrible, four-toed deeds to me, I noticed that the cat dander in the air was downright palpable. With every breath, I inhaled more of their bio-weapon and soon I was down on my hands and knees gasping for air. I was able to crawl over to the air purifier in the corner and switched it on, cranking it up to the highest setting. I then did what any other allergy sufferer would do and tore off the filter apparatus on the back and attempted to stick my head inside of it in hopes that it would suck the tiny spore attackers from my body. In the minutes following the vacuuming of my lungs I went to work pulling individual cat hairs from my nose and mouth region. What I removed from my nasal cavity alone created a furry ball of hair roughly the size of another housecat.

I moved towards the porch door in an attempt to flee to fresher air not noticing the minefield of feline excrement that paved the way. After one squishy step I realized that they had bested me yet again and it was becoming apparent that they had the upper hand in this war. I fled toward the shower to cleanse myself of the defeat and began to barricade the bathroom door behind me with random toiletries. It appeared that I was no longer the master of the house.

DAY SIX – Friday

As quick as they were to lash out at one another, they were even quicker to bond together when one of them had the epiphany that if they both meowed simultaneously then their food bowls would fill up twice as fast. This synchronized hollering also worked to get them fresh water, treats, a clean litter box, and table scraps. When I disappointed them they were quick to squeal and scratch and bite. The only way to soothe the savages was to brush them, however they were not happy with the fact that I only owned one grooming tool. This got me a set of claw marks on my forearm. As the racket went on, following me around the apartment I wore myself out attempting to please them. It was becoming increasingly obvious that these cats now owned my soul.

DAY SEVEN – Saturday

After a sleepless night full of meowing and thunderous purring I decided that the best way to deal with the cats was simply to not be at home. I looked for any reason to be away from my apartment. After inviting myself to my best friends’ nieces birthday for some cake and games (I’d never met that side of the family before) and becoming a third wheel on another friends first date to catch a movie (he probably won’t be seeing her again), I began to tire and soon returned to my apartment to find my entertainment center slightly askew, the ceiling high bookcase knocked over, and the contents of both cats stomachs greeting me. I realized that my girlfriend’s flight was about to come in, so as quickly as I’d arrived, I took off for the airport hoping that one cat might figure out how to turn on the gas stove and another might figure out how to light a match, and the problem might just kind of take care of itself.

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فديو, فيديو كليب انا بيه ورومانسى من فلم, فيلم البيه الرومانسىافلام لك تحميل من

شاهد فديو, فيديو كليب انا بيه ورومانسى من فلم, فيلم البيه رومانسى – سعد الصغير 2009
تحمل وتنزيل فديو, فيديو كليب سعد الصغير من فلم, فيلم البيه رومانسى انا بيه ورومانسى

لمشاهدة وتحميل الفديو, فيديو كليب …

شاهد فديو, فيديو كليب اغنية سعد الصغير انا بيه ورومانسى من فلم, فيلم البيه رومانسى
يو, فيديو كليب سعد الصغير من فلم, فيلم البية الرومانسى – انا بيه ورومانسى

اضغط هنا لمشاهدة الكليب

|اغانى|فديو, فيديو كليب|مقطع|هدف|مسلسل|اعلان|فلم, فيلم|برنامج|حلقة|شاهد|مشاهدة|اون لاين|سرعة عالية |بدون
تحميل|اغانى|عربى|اجنبى|MP3, mp3, ام بي ثري|البوم|
2009|سينجل|نغمات|تنزيل|نزل|شعبي|راب|حمل|موسيقى|MP3, mp3, ام بي ثري

|افراح|فديو, فيديو كليب|راديو||اون لاين|بدون تحميل|مجانا|بدون اشتراك|2010

فديو, فيديو كليب انا بيه ورومانسى من فلم, فيلم البيه الرومانسىافلام لك تحميل من

شاهد فديو, فيديو كليب انا بيه ورومانسى من فلم, فيلم البيه رومانسى – سعد الصغير 2009
تحمل وتنزيل فديو, فيديو كليب سعد الصغير من فلم, فيلم البيه رومانسى انا بيه ورومانسى

لمشاهدة وتحميل الفديو, فيديو كليب …

شاهد فديو, فيديو كليب اغنية سعد الصغير انا بيه ورومانسى من فلم, فيلم البيه رومانسى
يو, فيديو كليب سعد الصغير من فلم, فيلم البية الرومانسى – انا بيه ورومانسى

اضغط هنا لمشاهدة الكليب

|اغانى|فديو, فيديو كليب|مقطع|هدف|مسلسل|اعلان|فلم, فيلم|برنامج|حلقة|شاهد|مشاهدة|اون لاين|سرعة عالية |بدون
تحميل|اغانى|عربى|اجنبى|MP3, mp3, ام بي ثري|البوم|
2009|سينجل|نغمات|تنزيل|نزل|شعبي|راب|حمل|موسيقى|MP3, mp3, ام بي ثري

|افراح|فديو, فيديو كليب|راديو||اون لاين|بدون تحميل|مجانا|بدون اشتراك|2010

THE STORY SO FAR – Exams are looming and Ben needs to make some tough decisions about his future, not to mention his increasingly serious long-term relationship. And does he? Does he bollocks…

July 3rd 1999
Went to Sam’s for a barbeque but in the end, just grilled food indoors. Watched Crash [The original car crash grim sex drama]. A load of shite in my opinion.

July 4th 1999 Breeze Festival
Ok but poo bands really. Rosita were good as were Sugar Daddy and Bellatrix. Missed Bis though! Grr! E-17 headlined and were pelted with everything! HA HA

July 10th 1999 Mark [Clare’s uncle] and Louise’s Wedding
Clare looked beautiful as she left this morning, very Snow White. I went for the night do where her family and their friends were nice to me and we had a pop trivia quiz. [One bloke in particular wouldn’t let it go which got a bit heated and nearly came to blows over bloody Wham! Of all bands…]

July 11th 1999
I got a mobile phone! I got a mobile phone! Wherever I lay my phone that’s my home, I got a mobile phooooooooooooooooooone! An Orange Pay As You Go one too, thanks to a pub promotion [Ironically, my Dad didn’t want it as he felt they were unnecessary. He soon changed his tune - now he doesn’t even have a landline!]

July 12th 1999
Bought Ricky Martin (Livin’ La Vida Loca) – sad but I love it. Daz found out his new girlfriend who we thought was 17 is actually 27. I think she might be a man too (never met the poor bitch) [Nor did we ever – a lot of chinny reckon here I think] Clare went to her old school’s [I think it says “femday” – any ideas?] and won me a Rude Dog toy (as in the Dweebs! Class!)

July 17th 1999
Bought Belle and Sebastian’s “Tigermilk”. Fantastico. 9/10. Love it to pieces! [And indeed it remains my favourite album of all time]

July 19th 1999
Watched Star Wars Episode One. Was okay. [It bloody wasn't]

July 25th 1999
Went to Garden Centre where I saw snakes. Boo!

July 28th 1999
Got mega job / future lecture from Dad. Fucked off but deservedly. I NEED A JOB! Applied Our Price, Jack Fultons, Newsagents, Body Shop and In-Step.

[I don’t think it was deservedly. I was a lazy tosser who made no idea attempt to hide the fact. As for now…um…shut up…]

August 11th 1999

August 17th 1999
Clare sulked cos I went to town without her and I don’t know where she’s gone now. Bought new “A” LP. Played cards.

August 25th 1999
Got a job!!!! Walkers Leisure Bingo Hall. Start 27th Sept 1999 as general dogsbody / fuckhound [I initially went as a joke to fill their “Bingo Caller” position. Didn’t get it but the owner took a shine to me so gave me a job anyway. As for the rest we’ll get to it in time…]

August 26th 1999
Whittam brought a vid – Moyles and Mark and Lard. Stayed up til 3am watching! [He had UK Play with its myriad of cheap shows featuring Radio 1 disc jockeys. How exciting it was back then!]

August 30th 1999
Worked a karaoke night and sang Breakfast at Tiffany’s and Don’t Go Breaking My Heart with Sam. Will use my money to buy new Feeder and Divine Comedy albums!

September 1st 1999
Won £40 on the fruit machine so went to see 10 Things I Hate About You at the cinema. S’fine! 7/10 [WHAT? I consider this to be one of my favourite all-time flicks now so god knows why I gave it a One Life Left score.]

[Another large gap with little to no entries bar the oh so important “3 Colours Red split!!!!” on September 16th. Weird as the fortnight between the 10th and 24th my parents went on holiday leaving me in charge for the first time. Did well, made some money, had a surprise visit by my old school-friend Peter who’d gone to live in Newcastle and started an A-Level English course at the local college. Apparently none of this as worth mentioning…]

September 25th 1999
Went to Blackpool with all the money we’d made – went on the Big One [hated it], 2p machines, too many boozehounds, hiding from ‘nakes, Big Dipper [hated it], Odie [I won three Odie toys from a grabber machine], Waltzers, ace, Clare [loved it].

September 26th 1999
Start new job. Given absolutely no training and left doing the wrong jobs alone.

September 27th 1999
I hate my assistant manager Anne Marie. I hate this job. Half the staff seem to hate me too.

October 2nd 1999
Left job.

[Yeah, I lasted a week but it was a horrible job in which I was fucked about something rotten and treated like crap. I was so down my parents themselves actually told me to resign, which I promptly did that Saturday night. £3.60 an hour! The bingo hall shut down less than six months after I left and is now half of a Wetherspoons. Good fucking riddance.]

October 5th 1999
Futurama and Family Guy on Sky tonight! Cant wait!

And that’s it! The final diary entry from 1999 ends with a fizzle rather than a bang but then again did you expect anything else? In case you’re wondering, myself and Clare lasted another year before splitting up – just long enough for me to put off going to university, which was a terrible mistake. We remained friends for many years (as hard as it was for me) and I’m actually presently living in what used to be her house. Still, who wants to know that old shit when you can find out my Top 10 Albums of the Year 1999…!?!?

Tigermilk there. My favourite album ever. But not quite as good as 3 Colours Red or Feeder. I do genuinely still love all those albums so maybe they were the happiest days of my life after all. At the very least, they were the randiest. And now the bit you’ve all been waiting for – my in depth yearly self-assessment accounting figures…

Or maybe not…

It could’ve been a brilliant career…