Today's big news is that I am "reserve choice" for the job I interviewed for a few days ago; as I suspected, it's gone to an "internal candidate" – i.e. they knew who they wanted to appoint but just went through the motions of an open application process because they had to. Good feedback though, they liked me and thought I could do a good job, with one or two minor reservations as to the breadth of my experience.

The position was to work with and for our local "sex workers", ensuring that those forced into it were given an escape, that those who'd been trafficked were removed from harm, and that others were at least keeping out of trouble and not annoying anybody, and had a route out if they wanted it.

Long-time readers will know of my close interest in these issues, and I thought that the job would be very challenging – especially for a man, there's very few male sex workers round here – but ultimately also highly rewarding.

Ah well. I'm not unduly disappointed, because I kept myself more in hope than expectation; nor is it the case that I'm disadvantaged, since I'm still in my current night care/supervision work. I'm still keeping my eyes open…

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At about the same time I took the call, a parcel flopped on the doormat -

Thank you, Ang and Rem; your timing, as ever, is immaculate…

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Of course now the World Cup is taking up major parts of the day; although I'm finding the radio coverage much more to my liking than the TV, which is obsessed with instant "action replays" from six different angles each and every time someone kicks the ball ["less is more" is a philosophy that grows in importance all the time, I find].

After the first round of games, my preliminary conclusions are that Germany looked miles ahead of anybody else; adopted favourite team Slovenija will depend on their match against the USA as to what they do in the tournament; my £5 bet on Mexico, based solely on Giovani's eight games on loan to Ipswich, is pretty much wasted; and I wonder what noise it makes if you fart down a vuvuzela?

All complaints about the above image should be sent to atomic@b3ta through the link, and not to…

Various Updates, Thingies And Other Stuff:

- The new "Like" button which appears at the foot of this post should work, and you should help me test it out. [To me it appears to work on your logged-in Facebook ID, so if you don't want to disclose that don't click]. I'd also like to know what happens if you're not logged into Facearse, so experiment away.

- It's a wet three-day weekend here, and although I could be at a Street Fayre elsewhere in the county I really can't be arsed to get out of the door. Instead, it looks like the snooker on the telly and the DVD of The Machinist which Gosia has recommended and lent me. Review will follow [if it's worth it].

- Three days to Stick An X Next To A Twunt Day [see previous post], and it looks like a grudging LD vote, unless I decide to vote for the candidate with the biggest knockers.

- Why didn't someone tell me before how bitchenly amazing Inga Liljeström is?

- There's an application in so possible brilliant job news to come, but I'm keeping it under my hat at the minute just in case it doesn't pull off. Suffice to say that it's on a subject I've quite often blogged about [and which was especially highlighted on telly last week] and I'd be excited to be able to make a real difference in this area. Sorry for being cryptic, but until I know if I'm at least being interviewed…

- The new toaster is called Bernardo.

- Suggestions for other names for various household objects should be sent to the usual address. The current grand prize for those whose entries are selected stands at its standard level of a 30-second drawing of a man with a garden rake up his bum.

Moon. Last night I was in Cambridge to see Bug and a few of her friends; she'd got the DVD of Moon – [the son-of-Bowie-directed "new 2001", nothing to do with the piss-poor Lost Boys derivation of a similar title] -

It's difficult to talk about the film without giving "spoilers" – the central crux of the film is also one of the things which makes it a pleasing cinematic experience; suffice to say, perhaps, that anyone who comes to the film knowing their serious sci-fi won't be disappointed, even if it's not exactly car-crash-and-popcorn material.

Bug and her friends, Dan, Duncan and Lucy, were charming; the only thing that took a little getting used to is how out here in rural parts you just don't get that level of lordly sci-fi geekiness – we're talking way beyond my general Whomania into authors, series and films that I just haven't got into because I've not got that sort of community to plug into to experience them.

This difference between urban and rural community, especially Cambridge urban which has always, rightly or wrongly, had a reputation as high-level, perhaps even – shush – elitist in some ways, is one of the few things I miss from my London years [now approaching two decades ago].

Even before the days of El Interwebz making it easier to "reach out" to people, you could be sure that however "niche" your particular hobby, fetish or liking, there would be a club, group or regular get-together somewhere within reach of the Underground map.

In those days my "niche" was Thrash Metal, and we had our regular get-togethers at whatever venue was hosting whatever entirely obscure German band.

The nearest thing I have to that is whatever's on offer in Ipswich, and Ipswich is not a go-ahead-do-it kind of town where you have an "intellectual" stratum for the kind of things I'd sign up for. After that it means a trek to Norwich or Cambridge, which are over an hour away, or down into London, which brings its own set of problems.

Perhaps one of the few exceptions to this is the tiny little theatre and occasional cinema fifteen minutes up the road, scene of the acting workshops of last summer and the one before. Although the "acting" bit of it is still on hold – I must drop Mike an email sometime and see exactly how far Henry's got this year – I also meant to inveigle myself into whatever "community" gathered around that place.

And, since they're coincidentally showing an obscure just-post-Franco piece of Spanish cinema that's been recommended to me, perhaps this is the perfect time to start inveigling again…

[This is nothing to do with the brilliant band of the similar name, who I saw live in Cambridge many moons ago....]

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Oh, and just in case: the CCTV cameras on the A14 will back me up on this – the fire in Cambridge rail station that started at 2am was a couple of hours after I'd left the city, okay?

I've not been feeling very bloggy lately. So sue me.

Things that have happened since my last proper blog [none of them much interesting];

- My luck with chairs continues in the "omigod, why can't I just sit on a tortoise" vein, given that my computer chair has fallen to pieces. Which probably serves me right for picking one up in the bargain aisle at Staples.

Chair Wrongness [linked for very slight NSFWness]

- At the time I fell off it last Tuesday, the top button on my jeans went "ping" and flew off. This weekend I sewed a new one on. Donning them this morning, it lasted two hours before going "ping" in the dairy section of Sainsbury's supermarket. I finished my shopping with one hand holding my jeans up.

[Which reminds me of the time I went through customs at Ljubljana airport. Having placed my studded belt in the tray, I walked through the detector gate - and my trousers fell straight down, revealing my Pink Panther boxers.]

- Mwah to Ang for lending me the DVD of Rosemary's Baby, and for including the following in the package;

- A slightly advance copy of Goldfrapp's "Head First" has come into my hands; first listen was none too impressive, but I'm loath to damn it just yet…

- And I promise I'll get back to doing this properly…

I must apologize for my radio silence; a few times I've clicked "New Post" to blog here, found myself not only grouchy but far too grouchy even by the standards I've set myself on this site over the years, and decided in the interests of propriety that the one thing the  Interwebz doesn't need is even more strongly-worded grouchy invective – even if I hope mine would at least be gramatically above Speak You're Branes level.

The upshot, it seems, will be that to save my job I will accept a 20% reduction in both hours and salary, though this is not finalized yet.

Of course this will have ramifications upon my lifestyle – it's certainly not undo-able, but it will mean some modifications. It's not as if I'll be on starvation level, so there's no need to worry here; just that "lifestyle change" is something I know I have a blobfish-on-a-seesaw-type inertia with.

Change generally is not something I look forward to – I'm fine with it actually happening, I'm just crap at anticipating it, with a huge propensity to pessimism that even Charlie Brooker might regard as slightly deviant and self-defeating.

So again I'll apologize for grouching and if, in whatever medium, I'm not as entertaining, communicating or as verbose as I should be. This too will pass.

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In the meantime, to give you something else to do, may I direct you to this link, in which you can waste an hour and a bit of your time watching the "classic" Santa Claus Conquers The Martians?

You're welcome.

Contrasts. One of the key concepts of ancient Chinese philosophy, the "yin-yang" principle, holds that the cosmos is a universal balance; each up has its down, each action its opposite reaction, and even the most violent storm eventually blows itself out and calm returns.

Well – I had a brilliant evening last night, which probably explains why I've spent today cold and feverish and hiding under my duvet.

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I was due to meet G. in the early evening, whose coffee stall was at the "Wood Fair" at a stately home outside Bury for the weekend, and camp overnight with her and fellow stallholders Sharon and John.

"Wood" double entendres aside, I have little interest in the material or in its carving, varnishing and general carpentry, but I was going for the people rather than for the fair or its stately surroundings;

Ickworth House. One of a number of local "insanely rich 17th-18thC semi-royal bastards build frog-off-big-house on back of near-slavery-conditions of inbred peasants" mansions, although funnily enough the guide book doesn't put it exactly like that.

Well, those of you with long memories will remember that me and camping get on like a horse on fire, so I decided not to sleep under canvas – the definite Autumnal shift in the weather over the past couple of weeks was a major factor in this decision [was it only a month ago I was risking sunburn at the Polish festival?] – so in the end I only stayed a few hours round a camp fire, eating a large fish supper and talking.

I did get to experience the most satisfying moment of camping, though. Since one of my overused phrases and sayings, used when I'm trying to dissuade somebody of some deluded notion, is "Not that I want to 'piss on your bonfire', but…", it's great when I actually do get to piss on someone's bonfire to put it out.

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On the way back from there I stopped briefly at a pub just down the road which was having a benefit do for parents of a local kid who's seriously ill in Great Ormond Street in London: I'd promised S. a donation, and caught her and C. on a table outside. [No way anyone could get inside: it was ultra-packed.]

There have been, over the years, people who think I'm crude, given to cheap double entendres, over-obsessed with deviant sexual practices, and generally prone to lowering the tone of just about every conversation I ever take part in. [I think it was Amy who called me "the personification of the Aristocrats joke".]

But, let me tell you, I'm a rank amateur compared to these two. Subjects included: the use of everyday household and/or electronic devices for personal gratification by male prisoners in our local youth detention centre; walking in on one's relatives when they're "enjoying themselves on their own" [and why they didn't stop]; watersports, and not of the Olympic swimming pool sort; the perils of recognizing one of the performers in an adult feature presentation; and the pitfalls of dealing with local exhibitionists, nudists and general flashers [including the time I witnessed one woman of my acquaintance streak away from our local psychiatric hospital, hotly pursued by several nurses].

I think I've found my level amongst the locals .

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So, naturally, having been outdoors for all that time [plus a couple of hours gossiping on the market earlier in the day], the cold that had been threatening to overwhelm me for the past week or so has broken out.

Luckily, today I've had a chance to recuperate under my duvet, adopting the "ill" mode – laziness, torpidity, and staying horizontal in front of the TV. "Calamity Jane" provided most of the latter this afternoon.

I don't even like the film much, even if I do know every word of and do often sing along in the car to "The Deadwood Stage".
[Yes, a copy of "The Best of Doris Day" is in my car at all times. How gay?]

Most of the time, I don't watch or even much like musicals, with several very notable exceptions. It seems to be a type of film I save for those times when my brain and/or body is tied up elsewhere, and accepts the unreality of the format rather than rebels against it. It's a "comfort blanket" genre.

When I was young, and we had one of the first VHS recorders [of a size which would now be regarded as ludicrous], Star Wars fulfilled this function: I was only allowed to watch it when I was ill. [One could speculate if this contributed to any later hypochondria.]

As much as I still love the film – indeed, all three of the earlier films – I can't watch "Episode IV: A New Hope" without the Proustian memory of a taste of bile at the back of my throat…

As you probably expect, "Episode VI: Return of the Jedi" brings Proustian moments of other bodily fluids, though…

Another "sick film" I much remember from those days was Yellow Submarine, whose psychedelic message was completely lost on me in those days, but whose beautiful hand-drawn animation utterly appealed to me in exactly the way which up-to-date 3D Pixar CGI completely doesn't.

And I *so* wanted to be a Blue Meanie .

Today's Big Question: What were and are your "comfort blanket" movies?