Alex Harries's diary

Right, this just isn't funny. Fraggy and I are stuck in the Sabb office. It's almost 10pm, and we're neck-deep in PWs hell.

Meanwhile, outside, 1,500 people are either queueing patiently, queueing not-so-patiently, or inside the Union having some Tuesday-night fun.

It's just not fair - I want to go play!

Anyway, if you're appalled at the sudden drop in quality of PWs this week, please accept our sincerest apologies - we're in a rush so we can have a drink with the wicked (but good-looking) witches that just flew past the window...

(On the other hand, if you didn't notice any difference in quality - and just think PWs is generally pretty poor... Chin up! ;o)

Ok, back to work... (Edit: I can't spell "happy" - what an idoit...)

... it will. Fraggy and I are having a late-night PWs creating session after everything got left till the last minute.

He's having to learn how to use Quark on the Macbook Pro 'cos his PC's having a bit of an off day (ok, it's pretty much had its chips...), and thanks to the joy of Microsoft fonts, he's installed Rockwell on the Mac and it's managed to completely stop Quark from opening.

Plan B C D E ... let's just go with plan K ... is just kicking off - he's signing in as me and having to re-create all his settings on Quark. In the meantime I've been relegated to my tired-looking Vaio and I've been redesigning the PWs homepage - it might look a bit gash, but... Well, there probably isn't a but, but I really couldn't care less. No, really....

Anyway, we've been here for four hours and I haven't put a single article online yet. If any friendly cheerleaders or dance club girls want to come over and tidy Fraggy's room - no, seriously, please ... it's horrible - they're more than welcome.

In Fraggy's words, "Here's to another late one, clart". Proper bo...

I've just paid for software. Admittedly, I've spent the last three days trying to find a way around having to pay for a program to transfer all my information from Outlook to Entourage (the Mac version of Outlook... Or so it seems) with no luck, so I've trusted Some Random American Company (TM) with my card details and have splashed out $10 on a serial number - a string of letters and numbers any self-respecting obsessive-compulsive could probably memorise in a couple of minutes - to let me use this program that so far looks most likely to save my sanity.

We'll see whether that's true in a couple of hours - it looks like it's going to take some time for this Shiny New Program (also TM) to finish slinging all my precious information out of Outlook.

Oh, and my Macbook Pro can understand voice commands. I didn't have to train it, beat it, or even coax and bribe it - apparently it just needed to be turned on. Now I can tell my laptop to do "stuff"... Exactly what stuff that might be, I have no idea - I think it means I can play hands-free chess with my computer or something...

Right, I'm off to bed. If anyone needs me, I'll be having a small panic attack in the corner of the room again... ;o)

I have an e-mail account - signinproblems@upsu.net - which fires off an automagic reply to every e-mail it receives to say "thanks for getting in touch. We're lazy, so don't hold your breath waiting for a reply" (or words to that effect).

I've come home to find that someone has e-mailed us with an enquiry. Our automagic reply has then gone to their account, which has also - probably because they too are as bored as I was when I set up my auto-reply - fired off an auto-reply to my auto-reply to tell my auto-reply that the owner of the mailbox is very sorry, but he has a life thankyouverymuch, so he might take a while to reply.

... to which *my* inbox fired off an auto-reply, saying "thanks for getting in touch. We're lazy, so don't hold your breath waiting for a reply".

... which then received another "the owner of the mailbox is very sorry, but he has a life thankyouverymuch, so he might take a while to reply" message...

... and so-on.

This could take some time to fix...

So tonight's little excursion to Tiger Tiger didn't go as planned. Running a little late (hey, it takes time to look this good... Stop laughing at the back of the class), I got stuck in the queue to end all queues. Us Brits have a unique ability to stand about in order, maintaining a careful degree of personal space whilst mentally determing who might need a good elbowing to stop them jumping the queue.

In another land - let's say France as an example (not that I'm bitter at being nearly run over by a school-load of French children armed only with skis and poles while on a skiing trip at the tender age of 11) - there would be a melée of people climbing over each other whilst simultaneously maintaining the bouffant style of their hair (including, in the case of the ladies, their under-arm quiffs. Or at least so I'm led to believe...), managing to keep their Prada handbags perfectly horizontal, and with the men chivalrously laying down coats to prevent mud, blood and other miscellaneous fluids spoiling their other halves' Jimmy Choos.

But in England? No, we're content to stand quietly in line, with the occasional Bouncer On A Power Trip (TM) walking down the line, gloatingly announcing that the venue is full, and that you have "no hope of getting in here tonight mate. Fat chance - why don't you go somewhere more suited to your dresscode? Perhaps a rubbish tip? Or Lidl's?"

And so that was the theme of my night - having made it 3/4 of the way to the front of the Tiger queue (more through less strong-willed people giving up than any actual flow of people into the venue), I eventually gave up as the bouncers started charging up their cattle prods and made my way to Route 66, where I'd been told queues had been abolished in favour of dancing ladies serving alcoholic ice cream... With hindsight, I suspect that may have been a ruse to get me to go there so I could lend my housemate some money. I might ask her when she toddles through the door at silly o'clock, soaking wet (ha - it's raining - that'll teach you to go out and enjoy yourself!). In any case, those dancing ladies serving alcoholic something-or-other turned out to be a lie - there were dancing people, but I can tell you now they were no ladies - and the infamous "One In, One Out" line was being shouted by yet more Bouncers On A Power Trip (TM).

So I ended up heading home. Side-stepping the crowds of already-drunk People Bigger Than Me (TM) (since I'm about as much use in a fight as a crisp packet is as a wind-break), I made my way home - sober, but less broke.

Getting to my front door, I realise I've left my key inside. I knock on the door, and am greeted by a familiar face - it's another Bouncer On A Power Trip (TM) - probably a mail-order bouncer to go with my housemate's mail order bridge (spelling mistake in Google - very embarrassing...) - who tells me that he's very sorry, but my house is full and, while I'm welcome to wait, it could be several months before I'm allowed inside, and even then I'll have to show valid photo ID...