Excess jeanage.

A little random. A discarded pair of jeans by the fire assembly point.

Had a near-death experience brought two colleagues together in the heat of passion (and a massive office fire)?
Had they cast aside their clothes with gay (or straight) abandon to share the joy of survival only to dress hurriedly and not-quite-completely afterwards?

I, for one, would notice if I had neglected to put my strides on, but smoke inhalation and post-coital endorphins can do funny things to the best of us.

Stevenage Leisure Park: wrong side of the tracks.

I was looking for an image of Stevenage Leisure Park and I found this, courtesy of craigyt.co.uk

Super job. It’s perhaps not quite as grim as this in real life. At night with the bright lights turned on, one feels strangely drawn to SLP’s many attractions.

A former Stevenage resident (currently living in Russia) has pointed out to me her delight at seeing the SLP signposted at a ‘tourist attraction’ complete with official brown road sign. It looks like this:

This denotes a 'pleasure or theme park'.

I’ll tell you what I really hate.

1. This is not aimed at any one person in particular. A lot of people do this. Maybe even me.

2. This post has not been triggered by a recent event, I just remembered what I really hate.

3. Here we go: what I really hate is when a friend tells someone else an anecdote, but they don’t tell it straight.
It’s an anecdote I know – in fact I was probably there at the time, which makes me a witness and/or key part of the story.

However, the storyteller is exaggerating most of the facts for comic effect. Meanwhile, the audience is looking at me in disbelief for affirmation – “Wow, is this really true?” their eyes seem to say.

Liar, liar...

In return, my eyes are trying not to say, “Well, the less impressive bits are true,” and the storyteller’s eyes are saying to me, “Don’t blow this – they’re in complete awe of my amazing story and storytelling abilities!”

And my eyes are trying to say (without the audience seeing), “Look, this isn’t exactly how it went down. Don’t implicate me in your dastardly web of deceit.”

And their eyes are saying, “Well if you’re such an expert raconteur, why don’t you tell it?”

And my eyes are like, “Hey, it’s your story, you tell it.”

And the audience’s eyes are like, “Look guys, can your eyes quit arguing and just get on with the story?”

And at that point my legs are like, “I’ve had enough of this bullshit, I’m outta here,” and my ears are like, “Amen to that!”

And I hate that.

The Carl Cox of popcorn.

Easily visible from Stevenage station is the Stevenage Leisure Park. So long as your idea of leisure is cinema/gym/bowling/McDonald’s/nightclub, you’ve come to the right place.

The jewel in its crown is the multi-multi-screen Cineworld. I picked my son from there at the weekend. He’d just seen Iron Man 2 (verdict: great!). As I loitered in the foyer, trying hard not look as though I was there to pick up girls, I looked up and saw this rather menacing chap wearing what looked like a welding mask in a DJ booth overlooking the exorbitantly-priced snacks.

DJ Popcorn-Popper in the house.

It turns out that he’s neither welding, DJing or hatching a plan to take over the world; he’s making fresh popcorn which then somehow descends into the units below ready to be consumed by hungry movie-goers.

I swear that window wasn’t there before. It all seems to be part of a plan for Cineworld to show the world that their popcorn is made fresh on the premises, rather than shipped in pre-popped (which is what they might have done before – allegedly).

While I was at it, I aimed my phone’s camera at the mirrored ceiling. This is what you get when you do such a thing. Can you spot me?

Looking up, looking down.

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