Category Archives: Personal

Miscellany, Personal

Nuts!

My Aunty Sushi stopped by the flat last week on her way home from Malaysia, and she brought me a really nice gift: some of my favourite peanuts from Malaysia. They really are unparalleled for flavour. I do, however, take issue with the marketing manager of Pagoda peanuts choice of words to promote the quality of peanuts (and this is completely for real, un-photoshopped scan of a peanut packet):

Nuts!

Seriousla! Did the wrong, criminally wrong, interpretation of that never occur to anyone?

[Listening to: Town Called Malice – Jam (The) – Original Soundtrack – High Fidelity [UK] (02:54)]
Miscellany, Personal

It’s amazing…

…some of the rubbish you can write when the mood takes you. Like that earlier post, about Morpheus. I mean, yeah, Sandman is great, but re-reading it, it is like I’m on drugs.

Man.

Finding a similar thing re-writing bits of my thesis which I wrote a year ago, when I was evidently more self-obssessed and, well, verbose. Crikey, I can’t stop myself. I just keep writing ridiculoulsy wordy sentences.

Intense weekend of re-writing going on here. It’s actually a lot more interesting than I expected, if still not particularly enticing or fun in any way.

[Listening to: Tu Mira (Edit) – Lole Y Manuel – Kill Bill Volume 2 (04:01)]
Miscellany, Personal

The snare of Morpheus

I was trapped, this morning, in my dreams. I battled it out with the Dream-king, but his grip was strong, and as I emerged from sleep, the first time, I found myself in a motel room unlike any I’d ever seen, with two 14″ TVs on either side of the room, an undrawable curtain, and myself, stark naked, fully aware of the battle that was going on and adamant that I would not lose.

In my dream, I sought return to sleep, but in Morpheus’ domain, we play by his rules. For a fleeting moment, I was arguing with my brother, having a shower, preparing for work, and then trapped between warm pillows and sheets once again.

Three, four times this happened. Once I even saw his face; pasty white, dark, spiked hair, as Gaiman might have envisioned him. It was a face no conscious mind has ever witness, nor ever will.

But it was Morpheus who won. My hope of early rising was destroying; by 11.30 I was waking for the fourth and final time. The disturbing yet oddly comfortable fantasy of the Dreaming was gone, and reality was monochrome, dry-mouthed, and in need of the bathoom.

**

If you’re saying to yourself, “no more drugs for that man”, go read all Neil Gaiman’s brilliant “Sandman” series. You may reach the same conclusion, but at least you’ll understand where I’m coming from, and it’ll make your Dreaming more interesting.

[Listening to: She Will Be Loved – Maroon 5 – Songs About Jane (04:20)]
Books, Film, Media & Marketing, Music, Personal, Work

Summer heat

It’s been damn hot the last few days. It might seems pitiful that someone who gew up within spitting distance of the equator swelters and whinges about a mild hot spell in London, and in truth, I’m not complaining – the hot weather was great over the weekend. Lazing around in the sunshine in Regent’s Park, reading through my thesis (grrr – if I ever see a professional philosopher again, I don’t know what I’ll do!) was really quite wonderful.

I’m not looking forward to having to spend most of the day cooped up in a hot office building though – that’s less than 100% Colombian fun. Don’t get me wrong – I love my job – but I think they should call siestas for the summer months.

But, coming to the point of this post (insofar as it has one): all is well with me; I’ve watched a lot of movies of late (The Punisher, Brazil, Brain Dead, 13 going on 30, High Fidelity and Grosse Point Blank (again!) and more), read a little (finished Timoleon Vieta come Home – brilliant – and about to start Fortress of Solitute, once I get this thesis dealt with), and been working a lot. New client started at work last week – Cisco Systems – which is great, but obviously its been a bit busy at work dealing with the additional load.

Not much else is on. Results of the MRI come in tomorrow (woo), I’ve taken to saying “woo” a lot (woo!), and think people should stop singing “Armand David” to the tune of “Craig David” when I call them. All else is good in Armo’s world.

Off to Cambridge next weekend if I get enough work done this week. Wish me luck.

[Listening to: Am I the Only One? – Barenaked Ladies – Maybe You Should Drive (04:50)]
Personal

Grandma’s 80th birthday tribute

Dear Grandma

I wish I could be there with you tonight, celebrating. I won’t bore you with the practical explanation of why I can’t; you know about my new job (which is going well, by the way).

For your 77th birthday, we put together a video for you, and I (embarrassingly) sang you a song – called “Time of your Life”. Not high poetry, perhaps, but it captured what I wanted to; the moments of a life well-lived, an absence of regrets — it was a tribute to our resident Matriarch, inexpertly phrased by a punk rock band.

Tonight, well, tonight I just wanted to remind you of your legacy. It’s easy, when looking at our family — at any family — to focus on the squabbles, the troubles, the hurts, pains and difficulties. But I tell you (to borrow a catchphrase from my Father) – and I admit this is easy to do with the benefit of 5,000 miles of perspective, but sometimes that helps — when I look at us, it’s difficult to tell the Angels from the Saints.

Your children are wonderful people – the incredible skill and dexterity of Vijayan, the force and warmth of Anthony’s personality, the power of Nirme’s compassion, the seemingly inexhaustible patience and energy of Sharmilla, Gerry’s laugh, Sushi’s tenacity, Ann’s brilliance and Johnny’s unbridled and infectious enthusiasm for life — to crudely pick one characteristic from each of your offspring. And their wives and husbands – extraordinary people every one.

I guess now is as good a time as any, Grandma, to take stock and look at what you’re leaving the world. Your amazing children and their amazing spouses have extended the legacy, passed the torch, to us now, and we carry it high: proud of who we are, where we come from, and the Grandmother who saw us all into the world. You guided us all through our earliest difficulties, and taught us the beauty and aesthetic appreciation of something as apparently simple as a pineapple tart.

I love you Grandma, and I miss you all tonight. Our family, even at its worst, but especially at its best, is an incredibly powerful force, a social phenomenon, and one for which we have you to thank.

Happy birthday.

Love,

Armand

[Listening to: Poison – Alice Cooper – (04:29)]
Books, Film, Media & Marketing, Music, Personal

So much to blog, so little time

Ok, so there’s 8,000 inane websites like this one popping up every day, but that’s not going to stop me from annoying my friends with whatever trivia, observations, or self-referential prose with limited aim that I feel like. So Nyah.

Quick three or four part blog.

Good books: Anthropology, by Dan Rhodes – a 100 stories about girlfriends, at a paragraph each, provided me with a couple of bus journeys worth of absolute delight. Brilliant and satirical, terrible and emotional, they are the story any man can empathise with. It was like a punch to my emotional solarplexus; utter genius.

Also: In the City by the Sea, by Kamila Shamsie is utter brilliance; despite being a woman and an adult, Ms Shamsie brilliantly steps into the mind of an 11-year-old boy in a slightly fictionalised version of Pakistan. Having recently read a review by Kamila of another author’s book where she said literally nothing about the content of the book, I feel obliged to do exactly the opposite here – this is the story of a boy who’s uncle, a leader in the opposition, is placed under arrest by the despot General calling the shots. It tells his reaction, his decision to “depose the President”, his conversations with a cast of lively and unbelievable characters who you want to believe could be real – The Oldest Man, Wid, Ami and Aba, Salman Mamoo, and the wonderful Zehra, who I think, had I been 11, I would have fallen in love with. The whole story is told with reference to one of the most utterly devastating but remarkably concise opening sequences ever, in which the book’s hero, Hassan Haq, watches his neighbour, Azeem, fall off a roof to his death while trying to fly a kite. A metaphor for freedom, or an illustration of death without purpose; I haven’t finished it yet, so I don’t know. So far, it is utter lyrical genius, I go through the full range of my emotions from one paragraph to the next and feel the need to read bits out loud. I’m reading it slower as I approach the climax – I can’t bear to see what happens to the heroic Salman Haq.

Filmwize: Shrek 2 – 100% as good as Shrek 1, ’nuff said. Garfield – terrible, even for a longstanding Jim Davis, Lasagna and Jennifer Love-Hewitt fan. The Girl Next Door – cringeworthy American teen trash – I liked it a lot. I think that’s enough for now.

Music: undergoing a slight indie revival – Keane, Killers, Razorlight (and yes, ok, Busted and Mcfly), have been on my playlists lately, as well as the Spider-Man 2 soundtrack. Some good stuff there.

Finally: life – been busy. There’ve been some good parties lately, and I’ve met some very good new people: here’s to more, once the thesis is dealt with (I’m dealing, I’m dealing).

[Listening to: run – snow patrol (05:56)]
Miscellany, Personal

Henley Rah-gatta

Yesterday saw the conclusion of the Henley regatta, an annual summer boatfest that sees all sorts of people head down to the sleepy town of Henley and cheer on their clubs and teams, or other people’s clubs and teams, as they consume pimms by the river.

Sarah, an excellent friend of mine, had us over to her home in Henley for some post-event Pimms, which was complete fun and very enjoyable. The voyage there and back, however, was marred by the “all sorts” of people somewhat.

I mean, football fans get a bad rap, but being stuck on a train with 500 pimms and sun-wasted upper-middle-class aristo wannabes was irritating, even for a middle-class aristo wannabe like myself.

As one particular ponce redirected fellow travellers to a different toilet because one of his friends was having an “emergency situation”, I began to rethink my assessment. “Ponce he may be,” thought I, “but at least he looks out for his friend.” Some minutes later, though, I heard a knocking from the inside of the loo and noticed that the “friend” had wedged his foot against the door, preventing egress. When he eventually let his companion escape from the cramped train loo, gasping for breath through his blue-black-and-yellow crested boat-club blazer, my estimation sank once again.

Still, we had a nice time in Henley.