Mr Miyage is a hack.

This is about one sixth of my parent's bonsai garden. They have nearly 200 all together and they won't give me one. Bastards.
Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device

Because Hollywood has broken my heart too many times...

Did you know that we have approximately 6 years until Back to the Future 2 becomes a total lie? That's right, we have 6 years to produce hover boards, flying cars and jackets with built in driers. More frightening, only 6 years for this here hat to become fashionable.

Obviously, those pioneers of fashion, indie kids are trying their best, but i fear tight trousers and complicated hair are leading them in the wrong direction. This cap is not the past. It is not the 80s. It is the future.

I don't resent them for their retro ways. It's history repeating, it always happens. If I had my way, pastel linen suits with the sleeves rolled up and slicked back hair would be right back at the forefront, but if we are to make wearing this hat acceptable, we need to get on the case.

People, we need this.
Be part of the solution.

This hat must be part of our lives.

More photos, though these are lower tier compared to the earlier ones.

These are some of my first efforts at taking proper photos, not just snaps.
Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device

Heh, this is all the rage on Twitter. Come to me my followers, come to me.

This is my tweet (@nettofabulous) on the Evening Standard website...as such I have gathered 3 more followers. Good times.
Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device

This is an excerpt from the PopBitch Email...brilliant.

Lord Delawdy writes: "A friend of mine was in Los Angeles 79 thru 87. Michael Jackson had had a huge hit with Off The Wall, and was recording the follow up. "The sessions were arranged for a very late start, and, after a night on the town, my mate popped around to the studio to see the producer. "He got into the control room to find that everyone's attention was fixed on the glass window. On the other side, Quincy Jones was kicking a pile of rags on the floor while shouting "Silent, you motherfucker! I said NO SQUEAKS!" "It turned out the pile of rags was a gibbering Michael Jackson. They were recording a new song called Billie Jean, and Michael had decided to fill every gap with his trademark whoops, clicks and squeaks. Quincy, however, had decided that the track would be a pared down. "After several hours of trying to get the singer to do what he wanted, and having consumed large quantities of ragedust, Jones had finally snapped and attacked the poor freak. Needless to say, after the outburst, MJ sang the song how he was told to, and the rest is history."
Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device

I need to blog some more...

...But this will have to do in the mean time.
I am a frustrated photographer. What I want to achieve is beyond my skill set.
These are ok though...I think.
Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device

Flower Small.jpg

I used to do lots of photo things.
Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device

Big Brother - Don't judge me, you all watch it!

This years Big Brother seems to be in a bit of a pickle, rumours of crisis talks after falling ratings have caused bookies to slash the odds on the programme being axed before scheduled.
This happens every year. These rumours always fly around. But this year, it is apparent that the rumours may be true.

Obviously, as a random punter on the street, I am ideally skilled to advise football managers on which attack formations to use and I can run the NHS better than the government so I am more than qualified to give television producers ideas for how to improve their flailing creations.

Here's my pitch:

Do you remember BB1? The genuine element social experimentation? The collection of normal members of the public? The tasks for luxury shopping?
Big Brother was always watching. That is ALL he did. The housemates were, more or less, allowed to settle in and produce a twisted microcosm of society. There was the initial fight for who was most extrovert (fighting for the alpha position), with the spontaneous naked body art. There was the sexual tension brought in via an Irish erection. There was upset when a bean-head yelled his nominations in the Diary Room and other housemates heard it. And, of course, there was the Nasty Nick incident.
All of this was allowed to be played out via the normal human interaction of normal people in as normal situation as could be allowed in the confines of a TV show.

Fast forward 10 years and what do we have? A Russian female boxer, an Iranian who thinks he may be Salvador Dali and a bisexual posh boy who thinks he can sing reggae. Although these types of people exist, they are not representative of the population as a whole.
BB1 winner? It was a scouse builder who gave his winnings to a girl with Down's syndrome who needed heart surgery. Who could potentially win this year? A synthetic looking Brazilian teenager who thinks England is making him gay (maybe it is, we're well camp).
This year, the housemates entered the house to find that they weren't actually housemates. Now they have to complete a series of ludicrous tasks to ensure their place in the house. As if forming friendships and loyalties and alliances, to ensure you were not nominated, wasn't difficult enough.
Can it get any more ludicrous? Yes, it can!
How about we have some actual SAS members flood in and make them exercise?
Really?
REALLY?
Big Brother is no longer just watching, he's poking them in the eye and giving them wedgies.

Strip it down. Take it back to basics.
Have 16 people, in a house, having to interact to prevent boredom. We sit and watch. Sorted.

The problem is, again, the Heat generation (see my venomous, first blog). The outside of the norm characters gather so much coverage, that it appears that that way of living is actually more prevalent than it is. It's skewing the figures. In statistical analysis these outliers would be disregarded from the general figures, as they are anomalous. This isn't some (not so) subtle, fascistic diatribe. I'm not going to start mentioning head measurements. I'm just trying to say that if the house were filled with an appropriate array of the actual diversity we have in this country, it would provide more interesting viewing.
Minorities are called "minorities" for a reason. There are less of them. How one Gay person or one Muslim interacts amongst 10 white people of varying class will show go a good way to showing how the gay or Muslim communities feel interacting with a predominantly white population.

What I'm saying is, "Keep it real, not surreal"

Now I am off to kayak as I have a day off. Hopefully my next entry will be more light-hearted.
I do try to be happy, honest.

Peace out.

Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device

I should be in charge of television.

Whilst drinking in the heady atmosphere of 13th Century Mongolia, why not consider the authentic yurt, for the duration of your stay?

At only 1 goat per person, per week, it's a relaxing, yet affordable and down-to-earth accommodation that caters for your basic needs.
24 hour yurt service will be provided.

During my stay, I was waited on by Qo'ai-marael Bat-Uul (or Steve, as I affectionately came to refer to him as).

For as little as 50,000,000 Togrog(The local currency) or 0.034USD you can get a constant supply of fermented yak's milk brought to your dwellings.

Set deep in the barren wastelands of southern Siberia, the harsh weather, limited food, blood-thirsty hoards and toothless smiles really give you a sense belonging.
Indeed, after wandering away from camp and getting lost for 3 days, I was glad to be back inside my yurt, draped in reindeer fur and smashed as tits off yaks milk.

With it's extreme continental climate and tribal warfare, C13 era Mongolia is not for the average jet-setter, though will prove a rewarding escape from the trappings of 21st Century living.

13th Century Mongolia is best visited in late Spring when the weather, though not at it's peak, means that food is plentiful and you are less likely to be invaded by a neighbouring tribe. For the more adventurous among you, consider early December to add a little vigour to your stay. Blizzards, sub-zero temperatures and the worry of the impending food shortages really keep the locals on their toes...as it will you.

That's all for us this week, join us again next week when the X-Files' David Duchovny takes a trip to Berlin, during the previous Ice-Age.
I join former US Olympic hopeful, now hopeless cripple Nancy Kerrigan on a jaunt round 1844 Ireland to see whether local eateries really did suffer during the potato blight.
And John Cleese brings us a little culture, the way only he can, when he visits Rome sometime towards the end of Emperor Nero.

I hope you join us, thanks for watching.
Until next time, good night.
Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device

This is indulgent. I was just annoyed when I wrote this.

It's been a while, but here, have a taste of my life.

During the worst week, of the worst few months of my adult life, I almost came to breaking point. My job was trying to kill me. Every day has been like an episode of Casualty mixed with Final Destination.
On monday I was electrocuted by a mains extension cable 5 times!
I was wearing latex gloves. My safety boots have insulted soles. yet some how the pesky electrons managed to zap the living bejesus out of me.

I have what feels like a hairline fracture in the heel of my hand, tendon and ligament damage in my right arm, making this very difficult type by the way.
My right knee has a tender place directly beneath the knee-cap, making it very difficult/painful to kneel, which i do often at work.
To cap it off, yesterday a hammer drill got a bit frisky and decided to attack my only good limb. It tore into the trousers, which knotted up around the bit and tightened the material, cutting off the blood flow. The bit, hot due to constant use, strained to enter my thigh, being only held back by the strength of both of my weakened arms working at full capacity. The drill was aided by the leverage it gained from my trousers. My pulling back of the drill only angered it more as the drill-trigger was being plunged into overdrive, sending yet more urge to the hot metal hole borer, designed to rattle easily through concrete, to delve into my leg.
One final colossal, titan like pull saved my leg, but tore a hole the size of africa out of my trousers. Though the hole was huge, the debris was minimal.
The bit was so hot that it shrank the manmade fibres in the trousers.
I have also nearly lost two knuckles by being careless with a stanley knife. Cows keep pissing me off....I am far from happy.

[I was so angry back then, I'm way more mellow now]
Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device

This was written in dec 2007. It displays pretty much my outlook on life. Festive.

Fucking Xmas
Well then, you all probably know that I am a misanthrope of the highest order. The overwhelming disgust and bitter disdain I hold for the fellow members of my species knows no bounds; so during the festive period I am a particularly seething, writhing, mass of deep seated ill-will and irascibility, and as recent events are only serving to amplify the impending total shutdown of "good will to all men", the thought of meandering through the hobbling hordes of bargain hunters sits as easy on my being as the sight of Humpty Dumpty sitting on that wall must have done to the one King's man on patrol who said "Stop titting about you egg bastard and step back off the edge, you arse!".

People piss me off.

HOWEVER...last night, whilst buying presents for the assembly of part-time atheistic, gift gluttons I refer to as my family, there was a moment of purity that made me smile a little bit and go "aww".

Having spent all my creativity points on choosing a gift for both my eldest niece and my nephew, and also after buying a hideously expensive leather jacket to cleanse the pallete (i may have bought you things but I spent many times more on myself....enjoy) I was left with an empty jar of resourcefulness with which to thrust web-ward and buy a prezzy for my other younger nieces.

Now despite what that pesky register claims, I have never yet had cause to get involved in the garments of a school girl. But knowing that teenagers are all tremendously particular in their apparel, I thought it best not to buy clothes, despite my sister saying "She likes playboy stuff".
Call me a cantankerous old character if you will, but I refuse to buy my 15 year old niece something that is endorsed BY A FUCKING PORNO MAG!

After resigning myself to the fact that I am totally without clue, I sent a text to young Abigail "What do you like? for Christmas and that."
The answer that came was precisely and fundamentally what people forget at this time of year, despite the religious hoo-haa that seems to be lost now (which is good). The feeling that you should just be an all round good shit to everyone and everything, should be an underlying rule for life.
That said, I'll be fucked if I'm going to be the first to take it up. I prefer being a perennial "Grinch" type figure, huffing and chuffing at the collective dregs of society that blights my existence.

I fear I may have digressed.

The message that I received, in response to my cleverly worded and subtle question, designed to surreptitiously draw out the requisite information, was as follows.

"Don't worry, you don't need to get me anything. Just give me a card. x"

Now isn't that lovely?

She'll regret that message though...Ross doesn't do cards.

Chump.

Merry Christmas.
Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device

This was an adventure I had last year. It was fun, sort of.

Today I went for a lovely little walk. Up the coast road, along the marsh and off onto the airfield.

On Silloth Airfield, the periphery is made up of small businesses using the hangers and such, decommissioned from WWII. My Brother in law has a haulage business working out of there.

Whilst walking past his compound, well past dusk so it was pretty dark, I saw two scumbag chavoids legging it from the compound with a 5 gallon drum of diesel.

As i followed their path I found that they were parked between two huge stacks of pallets, one of the dudes was stood at the boot, facing me, while the other was doing something by the drivers door. I also saw one, maybe two heads in the back seats. Thinking i was grossly outnumbered I didn't confront them.
Sadly this is not the 1950's where you could grab a young gentleman by his collar and clip him round the ear, today they are likely to stab you up good.
As the boot was open I couldn't see the Reg. plate, so i walked on, looking without looking, once out of sight I secreted myself with the aim of getting the Reg. plate as they passed...they didn't, so I turned on my bionic legs and sprinted the mile into town to my sisters house.
Once there I got The B-in-law Robert. We jumped in the car and headed back to the airfield.
As we were pulling nearer to the place where they were parked I pointed out the pallets..."There, where that car is...hang on...they're still here."
We pulled in at speed behind them, and like Starsky out of Starsky and Hutch I leapt out of the car...bolstered by the fact that in the harsh glare of the headlights I could see that the rear passengers were female...I could totally take those bitches down if i needed to.
With my sights set on the driver I was well up for a scuffle. Sadly Chav driver had other ideas and started to reverse. Robert, scared that his car would get hit reversed. All this happened in half a second, so I was still behind the passenger door of Robert's car. The door hit me on the hip and twisted my leg. Ouch.
Robert took of under my instructions. I saw that they were heading towards the other entrance to the airfield, so I ran AGAIN, towards the entrance that we came in by.
Slowed by bottomless puddles and half my leg in tatters I got to the entrance just in time to see them fly by. This meant I had to run back into town, I was faster this time.
Once in town I did a lap of the back alleys looking for the car. Turns out they drove right through town, with Rob after them. He phoned the rozzers and they were picked up 5 miles out of town...Captured.
So I had a huge walk, two sprints and now a sore leg...but at least the chavs are going down, and probably getting their car crushed cos it might not be insured...Bonus.
Sadly I should have stuck around cos the other chav was behind the pallets having a piss and was left behind. I took off at such a lightening pace (honest) that I didn't see him, otherwise I'd have had the chance to get in amongst it.

GOOD TIMES....I need a mask...and a cape...and a sidekick...and a better leg.
Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device

This was written over a year ago. Still relevant.

How has Ship Wrecked managed to be re commissioned by C4 again? It must be on it's 10th year. How the hell does something like this get by?
Sunday mornings on channel 4 are for hollyoaks omnibus to watch when you're hungover and endless Friends repeats...that is it.
The only time I will accept sending a bunch of overly dramatic, self important, slack chinned, pig-sticks to beautiful desert island is if there is an impending tsunami and the warning systems are disabled.

High Tide mother fuckers...high tide!

My advice to you. Sky+ it. watch it with the sound down and fast forward when ever there is a dude on the screen. If you put the right CD on to listen to you can imagine you are watching a baywatch highlight reel.

Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device

Just why is it that Britain likes to drink?

For those of you who may not know, the national pass time of the UK is getting "shit faced", "rat-arsed" and totally "cunted".
The requirements for this are few in number and low in cost.
Every weekend the streets of cities and towns around this glorious nation are littered with the debris of our broken dreams.

In a climate where the celebrity/civilian line becomes ever more blurred, the common punter on the street seeks to mimic that big titted bint who won that reality tv show that time or that footballer who used to be a builder and was spotted playing in his pub team. Sadly, the mimicry is mostly reminiscent of the images published in Heat. Images of tramps and trogs, stumbling out of clubs, covered in various fluids and with some ropey mess of a human on their arm.

It seems this facet of the celebrity lifestyle is the most easily attainable.
Of course this is only a relatively recent phenomenon. The root of our impending liver failure, en masse, goes way back.

Anything that alters the mind to give temporary escape from reality has always been indulged in.
Egyptian slaves were fed on a type of beer that was heavily nutritious and cheap. It also maintained a level of maleability in the group mentality. There's a long tradition of keeping the slave/working classes happy with mind altering/controlling substances (religion anyone?). Traditions like that don't go away, they merely change.
Britain once had a state brewery to supply low cost alcohol to the public, this was an open effort to keep people happy. Happy people don't revolt.

Here in Britain we have a hard life, not by world standards, but for an advanced, developed country at the forefront of politics and technology.
In relation to our european peers we work harder and longer for less money. If this was the standard, and no comparison could be drawn, this wouldn't matter. But seeing more and more how the celebrity classes live, seeing how mainland europe lives, it instils in us an over inflated sense of entitlement. We want the cosmopolitan lifestyle. We want a holiday home in the south of France. We want the trophy wife. We want it all, but don't you dare expect us to put in the effort to achieve it. It should be ours by right. This is the mentality that is making us languish behind in all the things that matter. Literacy rates, health, voting turn outs.
We aren't poor, we aren't destitute. If the poorest of our population can afford Sky Digital and a mobile phone we are doing OK. We should work hard to achieve things. We should put in the hours to earn money.

We were born, that's the easy part. Now if we want a lifestyle, we mustn't be afraid to work for it.
By all means go out on a weekend for a drink, have a good time, but when monday comes, don't you dare complain about others having it better than you. If you can spend £50+ on a friday night, simply to get drunk, then you have the resources to afford a lot more than most people.

I realise that for a first blog this is quite heavy (and rather badly structured/worded), but I promise future posts will be quite light hearted...and shorter.
Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device