A fairly bright idea: the run-off from the frankly phenomenal musicOMH Tracks column can fill up posts here like sawdust on the Legends dancefloor. It's tasteless, it barely warrants its own existence, and it's right at home here on AMATB (A Magpie Amongst The Beavers). I receive more than 150 unsolicited music PR-type emails each and every week, so it follows that somebody should open their doors to pop fugitive YouTube clips, right? Right.
That said, I'll post the first of many Overspills (toyed with the name Overspillz, or even Overspillzz) with a classy Christmas number that did actually pass muster for OMH: living legend Tim Wheeler and Emmy The Great, whoever she is. As such, I've passed judgement once and shan't repeat the feat (it's here, anywayz).
Tuesday, 22 November 2011
Monday, 21 November 2011
Five-Pin, Father Christmas and Tatanka
Leaves fall, temperatures plummet (as described in the latest award-worthy musicOMH Tracks column) and the nights draw in. Geordie ex-pats are wrapping up really warm over here; some are wearing two t-shirts (joke credit of Nick Hancock on They Think It's All Over's 1995 VHS No Holds Barred special). With events ticking over nicely - a job interview here, a trip to the local McCafe there - it's time to take stock of the mad, bad and dangerous events of the last week or so, aides memoires courtesy of some hastily snapped pics and YouTube's dullest video.
One: Funny Beans
To the relief of close-minded immigrants, Toronto's many supermarkets stock an abundance of frankly bonkers food. Care for rainbow trout stuffed with crab, i.e. a fish in another fish? Not a problem, head to aisle three. Heinz baked beans? Absolutely, sir, as long as you like maple syrup. What cannot be acquired, however, is winter staple Ready Brek. I have had to narrow down potential alternatives to just two: either Cream Of Wheat or Oat Bran, neither of which sound as enticing as Ready Brek and its glowing dragon / central heating for kids.
Two: An Old Friend
Call it a coincidence, but just have a look at who happened to be at the mall last week. Yeah, I know it's not the real Santa - I'm not daft - but I also know that he works for him, and that he can pass on messages to the big man himself. Owing to the size of the crowd I couldn't get near enough to pass on my regards, but the spectacle was little short of sensational: a gathering of literally dozens of shoppers jostling to drink in the sight of the Father Christmas entourage descending on an escalator to a magical cardboard workshop. Cue aimless milling about, a one-man band blasting out some Ryan Adams (who else?) and countless kids wondering why Santa is standing around picking his bum rather than taking to his throne and acknowledging receipt of their gift orders. It's the most wonderful time of the year (TM).
Three: The Stubborn Tree
The Man of the House warned me that the tree in our yard was the last to shed its leaves - meaning a more drawn-out job than anybody else on the street - but little did I know how truthfully he spoke. Other trees dropped their foliage quicker than Carlos Tevez can spit his dummy, but our sod of a maple/oak/birch/whatever extends the process to a tortuous degree; requiring three or more (!) leaf clearance undertakings, as previously described on these very pixels. It's the worst thing in the world (update: tree is now bare).
Four: U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!
The Land of the Free; the Home of the Whopper. I've only ever been to the USA once: a snowy recon into Buffalo via Niagara Falls. On that occasion border staff were short (in their manner, not their height) and testy (though some were female), and made sure to flash their AKs when I signed a form asserting that I didn't take part in Nazi atrocities between 1939 and 1945 (1946-onwards was fine, apparently). They also stole my fingerprints and eyeballs, figuratively speaking. This time was far more pleasant. It would appear that border control has been instructed to drop a pleasantry or two into their dealings with the general public. Because New York State is grateful for Canadian spenders post-crunch? Perhaps.
Anyway, the butch lady who peered into our car was most genial - half-joking that I should stay on the border with her - and the man tasked with copying my fingerprints and soul (via retinas) didn't scowl, yelp or curse. Result. And the best thing about New York State? The poster featuring all of yesterday's favourite wrestlers:
Five: Half The Pins, Double The Skillz
Take ten-pin bowling and half the number of pins and the size of the ball (also fill in the fingerholes). Relocate to a working men's club-type environment and populate with a working class crowd in their 60s. Cordon off the majority of lanes for the Friday night league meeting and provide cheapish beer on tap, school canteen-style plastic pitchers and manual scoring sheets. What do you have? Five-pin at the Rouge!
Five-pin is hard. Really hard. In fact, it's recommended that you don't start playing unless you're already an expert. I wouldn't want to bamboozle you with five-pin lingo, but rest assured that it's far easier to throw a five-pin bowling ball wonky than it is a heavier, more trustworthy ten-pin bowling ball. There's also a different scoring system: the middle pin is worth five, the inside two three each, and the outside pins two (make sense?). You get three attempts to knock them all down.
Before you check out one of my many, many clearances, please be advised that:
a) Tony put pressure on me by saying, "Okay, I'm recording."
2) I was pretty tired at this point, having recently bowled two non-consecutive strikes
D) Following awry initial efforts, I showed tremendous fortitude to come back from a scything "I think you're gonna wanna delete this" cat-call to mercilessly smash down the remaining pins
One: Funny Beans
 |
| Queer as a tin of maple style beans |
To the relief of close-minded immigrants, Toronto's many supermarkets stock an abundance of frankly bonkers food. Care for rainbow trout stuffed with crab, i.e. a fish in another fish? Not a problem, head to aisle three. Heinz baked beans? Absolutely, sir, as long as you like maple syrup. What cannot be acquired, however, is winter staple Ready Brek. I have had to narrow down potential alternatives to just two: either Cream Of Wheat or Oat Bran, neither of which sound as enticing as Ready Brek and its glowing dragon / central heating for kids.
Two: An Old Friend
Call it a coincidence, but just have a look at who happened to be at the mall last week. Yeah, I know it's not the real Santa - I'm not daft - but I also know that he works for him, and that he can pass on messages to the big man himself. Owing to the size of the crowd I couldn't get near enough to pass on my regards, but the spectacle was little short of sensational: a gathering of literally dozens of shoppers jostling to drink in the sight of the Father Christmas entourage descending on an escalator to a magical cardboard workshop. Cue aimless milling about, a one-man band blasting out some Ryan Adams (who else?) and countless kids wondering why Santa is standing around picking his bum rather than taking to his throne and acknowledging receipt of their gift orders. It's the most wonderful time of the year (TM).
Three: The Stubborn Tree
 |
| Bastard (right) |
The Man of the House warned me that the tree in our yard was the last to shed its leaves - meaning a more drawn-out job than anybody else on the street - but little did I know how truthfully he spoke. Other trees dropped their foliage quicker than Carlos Tevez can spit his dummy, but our sod of a maple/oak/birch/whatever extends the process to a tortuous degree; requiring three or more (!) leaf clearance undertakings, as previously described on these very pixels. It's the worst thing in the world (update: tree is now bare).
Four: U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!
 | |
| Point of no return |
The Land of the Free; the Home of the Whopper. I've only ever been to the USA once: a snowy recon into Buffalo via Niagara Falls. On that occasion border staff were short (in their manner, not their height) and testy (though some were female), and made sure to flash their AKs when I signed a form asserting that I didn't take part in Nazi atrocities between 1939 and 1945 (1946-onwards was fine, apparently). They also stole my fingerprints and eyeballs, figuratively speaking. This time was far more pleasant. It would appear that border control has been instructed to drop a pleasantry or two into their dealings with the general public. Because New York State is grateful for Canadian spenders post-crunch? Perhaps.
Anyway, the butch lady who peered into our car was most genial - half-joking that I should stay on the border with her - and the man tasked with copying my fingerprints and soul (via retinas) didn't scowl, yelp or curse. Result. And the best thing about New York State? The poster featuring all of yesterday's favourite wrestlers:
 |
| Click for full resolution reminiscing |
Five: Half The Pins, Double The Skillz
Take ten-pin bowling and half the number of pins and the size of the ball (also fill in the fingerholes). Relocate to a working men's club-type environment and populate with a working class crowd in their 60s. Cordon off the majority of lanes for the Friday night league meeting and provide cheapish beer on tap, school canteen-style plastic pitchers and manual scoring sheets. What do you have? Five-pin at the Rouge!
Five-pin is hard. Really hard. In fact, it's recommended that you don't start playing unless you're already an expert. I wouldn't want to bamboozle you with five-pin lingo, but rest assured that it's far easier to throw a five-pin bowling ball wonky than it is a heavier, more trustworthy ten-pin bowling ball. There's also a different scoring system: the middle pin is worth five, the inside two three each, and the outside pins two (make sense?). You get three attempts to knock them all down.
Before you check out one of my many, many clearances, please be advised that:
a) Tony put pressure on me by saying, "Okay, I'm recording."
2) I was pretty tired at this point, having recently bowled two non-consecutive strikes
D) Following awry initial efforts, I showed tremendous fortitude to come back from a scything "I think you're gonna wanna delete this" cat-call to mercilessly smash down the remaining pins
Tuesday, 15 November 2011
All Filler, No Killer: Lookalikes
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| Peter Crouch (left) and Dr Zitbag (right) |
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| Alan Pardew (left) and Hume Cronyn (right) |
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| Joe Cornish (left) and Mike Williamson (right) |
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| Bobby Zamora (left) and Andrew Whitelaw (right) |
Friday, 11 November 2011
Driving: Take One
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| Several laps of the car park; phantom clutch pressing minimal |
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| Straight onto the left side of the road; quickly corrected, minor accident averted |
Thursday, 10 November 2011
Pottering Aboot
A successful foray into deepest, darkest downtown T.O., and one that will just about wrap up any big ticket expenditure this side of gainful employment: yesterday's four-hour saunter around the city produced a winter coat, a pair of hair clippers and a small bottle of Sunny D. A sufficiently interesting, exciting and revelatory subject for blogging? Too rights.
First stop from Union Station was King Street, southern border of Toronto's world-renowned (though not as renowned as the Grainger Market) Fashion District. What a splendid street: tattoo parlours, trendy bars, contemporary restaurants offering a different world beer for every dish. But clothes shops? Not a sausage, unless you want to pay $200 for a confusingly subversive t-shirt. I did, however, have cause to pause, seeing that FYEO has gone trans-Atlantic:
Amusing though it was, the hunt for a jacket had to continue (besides, FYEO looked closed; a few rasps on the door confirmed that this was indeed the case). I made my way towards the Fashion District's northern barrier - Queen Street - and headed centrewise. Still with me? It's exciting, I know. Anyways, I stopped in at some no-name shop only to find it was a thrift store (a trendy thrift store, where ironically moth-eaten jumpers commanded $30 price tags). I u-turned, crossing the street to Jeans West, which sounded as likely place as any to get a winter coat.
Ten minutes later my mission was accomplished; I don't mess about. The kindly Italian (or otherwise vaguely European-sounding) manager had bent my ear with his expert sales patter, and had me purchase the best of three nice coats he had practically forced me to try on. The winner: a smart, dark blue Jack & Jones parka, complete with furry hood and orange inner-lining. Granted, it's not the type of down-filled duvet I had been recommended to buy, but I've smiled so convincingly when showing off my parka that nobody has yet dared criticise my choice.
My shopping efficiency took a turn for the worse thereafter, my remaining three hours downtown producing only a pair of hair clippers ($22), a bottle of Sunny D ($1.99) and a bagel for lunch ($6.19!). A deeks around the LCBO for Glen Breton - Canada's only single malt whisky - was successful, but its $88 price put the brakes on. Still, it wasn't a complete waste of time: I took two additional photographs and spotted a decent (chain) restaurant for tonight's dinner: The Pickle Barrel (not pictured).
In addition to owning a coat with a furry hood, I further Canadianised myself by helping the Man Of The House clear the fallen leaves from the front "yard" (garden). Granted, I'd never handled a lawnmower before today - even if I'd had the inclination, I simply couldn't have been trusted - but I didn't let that hold me back: I mowed that lawn as if my name was Joe Canada, the golden leaves disappearing up into my mower-sack like so many lines up Daniella Westbrooke's shnoz.
TV Update: Remember that blonde lass from The Goonies? The one who was friends with the other lass, and ended up shnecking on with Corey Feldman? She's now in an admittedly pretty good sitcom. But she's also now twelvety years older than tea. Exhibit A:
Music Update: Heavy D, off of Heavy D and the Boyz, has passed. He was more like Skinny D and no boyz in the last few years, but he'll always be heavy to me.
First stop from Union Station was King Street, southern border of Toronto's world-renowned (though not as renowned as the Grainger Market) Fashion District. What a splendid street: tattoo parlours, trendy bars, contemporary restaurants offering a different world beer for every dish. But clothes shops? Not a sausage, unless you want to pay $200 for a confusingly subversive t-shirt. I did, however, have cause to pause, seeing that FYEO has gone trans-Atlantic:
Amusing though it was, the hunt for a jacket had to continue (besides, FYEO looked closed; a few rasps on the door confirmed that this was indeed the case). I made my way towards the Fashion District's northern barrier - Queen Street - and headed centrewise. Still with me? It's exciting, I know. Anyways, I stopped in at some no-name shop only to find it was a thrift store (a trendy thrift store, where ironically moth-eaten jumpers commanded $30 price tags). I u-turned, crossing the street to Jeans West, which sounded as likely place as any to get a winter coat.
Ten minutes later my mission was accomplished; I don't mess about. The kindly Italian (or otherwise vaguely European-sounding) manager had bent my ear with his expert sales patter, and had me purchase the best of three nice coats he had practically forced me to try on. The winner: a smart, dark blue Jack & Jones parka, complete with furry hood and orange inner-lining. Granted, it's not the type of down-filled duvet I had been recommended to buy, but I've smiled so convincingly when showing off my parka that nobody has yet dared criticise my choice.
 |
| Fookin' mad fer it! |
My shopping efficiency took a turn for the worse thereafter, my remaining three hours downtown producing only a pair of hair clippers ($22), a bottle of Sunny D ($1.99) and a bagel for lunch ($6.19!). A deeks around the LCBO for Glen Breton - Canada's only single malt whisky - was successful, but its $88 price put the brakes on. Still, it wasn't a complete waste of time: I took two additional photographs and spotted a decent (chain) restaurant for tonight's dinner: The Pickle Barrel (not pictured).
 |
| The Eaton Centre: Eldon Square with higher ceilings/fewer radgies |
 |
| The corner of Queen Street and... *mumble* Street. |
In addition to owning a coat with a furry hood, I further Canadianised myself by helping the Man Of The House clear the fallen leaves from the front "yard" (garden). Granted, I'd never handled a lawnmower before today - even if I'd had the inclination, I simply couldn't have been trusted - but I didn't let that hold me back: I mowed that lawn as if my name was Joe Canada, the golden leaves disappearing up into my mower-sack like so many lines up Daniella Westbrooke's shnoz.
 |
| Mr Neighbour, I've got two words for ya... LEAFY LAWN! (NB: Mr Neighbour tends to clear both yards; a courtesy not returned on this - or any - occasion) |
TV Update: Remember that blonde lass from The Goonies? The one who was friends with the other lass, and ended up shnecking on with Corey Feldman? She's now in an admittedly pretty good sitcom. But she's also now twelvety years older than tea. Exhibit A:
 |
| She's making some crack about stealing coins from fountains. Pretty clever. |
Music Update: Heavy D, off of Heavy D and the Boyz, has passed. He was more like Skinny D and no boyz in the last few years, but he'll always be heavy to me.
Monday, 7 November 2011
PICTURE SPECIAL: Toronto Zoo
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| Arse |
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| Orang-utan: "Homeless man of the jungle" |
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| Not captured: fish grinning at us |
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| Traditional elephant shot |
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| My personal favourite: the white-handed gibbon (primate Saruman?) |
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| There's a man in the hyena den! |
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| Giraffe in jail |
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| Man-made stuff: better than nature? |
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| Waiting to be fed tiny meatballs |
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| I tastefully waited for the wee to stop |
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| Graboid from Tremors. Sadly now extinct. |
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| The poser bird |
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| Heather's tiger photography: first attempt |
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| Heather's tiger photography: second attempt |
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| Heather's tiger photography: third attempt |
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| ...Success! (Does it look like I own a tiger?) |
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| Warthog type things. Note: adolescent hog inside feeding cage |
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| "Please, don't leave us here!" |
Friday, 4 November 2011
Rowdy Roddy Piper
Day eight: have completely run out of things to say. No, not really. In fact, LOADS has been going on here in "Toronto The Good" (which, I'm told, is a legitimate nickname for the city; I'm not entirely convinced they're not pulling my leg, or "yanking my chain").
I've applied for at least seven (SEVEN) jobs for a collection of forward-thinking, innovative and future-proofed companies that will, apart from the Ontario Gaming Commission and the WWF (pandas, not spandex), remain nameless for fear of jinxing, hexing or otherwise knackering my already-slim chances. Still, it's been fairly satisfying to get up at the absolute crack of dawn (8.30am, sometimes 8.00am), put in a shift on the old joblessness front, and still have the rest of the day to a) go to the LCBO, 2) go for - and get lost on - a 10-minute jog, or D) settle in the basement for Serie A highlights.
Venturing bravely (i.e. without a winter coat) from the shelter of my new home, I've been right in the mixer. Dollarama? Been there, done that. By proxy. Future Shop? Of course, even if it is criminally misrepresenting itself. Mark's Work Clothing Warehouse? Well, only if he's happy to have me.
And though I'm yet to tick off most of my Canadian Eye-Spy checklist - maple syrup spillage, haphazardly organised street hockey game, moose riding another moose - I have seen more hot-rods than I've ever seen in my life (three) being taken out for what I am reliably informed is the last time before being temporarily mothballed for winter.
What else? Well, as I type I am enjoying a wee dram of Johnnie Walker Blue. "A $180 CAN bottle of whisky, and you don't even have a job?" I hear you scoff. True, I should be on the Spectre White, Pulse or White Lightning given my budget, but the Blue (snifter thereof, not the entire bottle) was a gift from the Man Of The House. Very grateful I am too, and more than happy to bite my tongue about dropping that kind of dollar (I can say that now) on a blended whisky. Besides, I'm fairly sure I've raised the same objection in the past. Neither of us can remember the specifics now, so we'll just let sleeping dogs lie, aye?
The reason for the Blue is not just because I'm great company, the first new Geordie in the Man Of The House's life for more than 30 years, or the fact that I've leveled the gender ratio 2:2 (two male; two female; inbetweenies not considered). Rather, it is the fact that we have together researched, acquired and set up two sets of desktop speakers - one each, obviously - and are now sat in separate rooms enjoying our wares. In fact, separate floors: the basement for me, the first floor for him, the ground floor as a buffer between the deafening tones of Metronomy (mine) and Gordon Lightfoot (his). For the Man Of The House: M-Audio AV40. For me: the cheaper but far more Dalek-esque Altec Lansing FX3022.
And so the day begins to draw to a satisfactory conclusion. At 3pm. On the agenda for tomorrow: Newcastle vs Everton at 8.45am, followed by most of the day at Toronto Zoo. Best... Saturday... ever? Potentially.
I've applied for at least seven (SEVEN) jobs for a collection of forward-thinking, innovative and future-proofed companies that will, apart from the Ontario Gaming Commission and the WWF (pandas, not spandex), remain nameless for fear of jinxing, hexing or otherwise knackering my already-slim chances. Still, it's been fairly satisfying to get up at the absolute crack of dawn (8.30am, sometimes 8.00am), put in a shift on the old joblessness front, and still have the rest of the day to a) go to the LCBO, 2) go for - and get lost on - a 10-minute jog, or D) settle in the basement for Serie A highlights.
Venturing bravely (i.e. without a winter coat) from the shelter of my new home, I've been right in the mixer. Dollarama? Been there, done that. By proxy. Future Shop? Of course, even if it is criminally misrepresenting itself. Mark's Work Clothing Warehouse? Well, only if he's happy to have me.
And though I'm yet to tick off most of my Canadian Eye-Spy checklist - maple syrup spillage, haphazardly organised street hockey game, moose riding another moose - I have seen more hot-rods than I've ever seen in my life (three) being taken out for what I am reliably informed is the last time before being temporarily mothballed for winter.
 |
| Not pictured: two additional hot-rods |
What else? Well, as I type I am enjoying a wee dram of Johnnie Walker Blue. "A $180 CAN bottle of whisky, and you don't even have a job?" I hear you scoff. True, I should be on the Spectre White, Pulse or White Lightning given my budget, but the Blue (snifter thereof, not the entire bottle) was a gift from the Man Of The House. Very grateful I am too, and more than happy to bite my tongue about dropping that kind of dollar (I can say that now) on a blended whisky. Besides, I'm fairly sure I've raised the same objection in the past. Neither of us can remember the specifics now, so we'll just let sleeping dogs lie, aye?
The reason for the Blue is not just because I'm great company, the first new Geordie in the Man Of The House's life for more than 30 years, or the fact that I've leveled the gender ratio 2:2 (two male; two female; inbetweenies not considered). Rather, it is the fact that we have together researched, acquired and set up two sets of desktop speakers - one each, obviously - and are now sat in separate rooms enjoying our wares. In fact, separate floors: the basement for me, the first floor for him, the ground floor as a buffer between the deafening tones of Metronomy (mine) and Gordon Lightfoot (his). For the Man Of The House: M-Audio AV40. For me: the cheaper but far more Dalek-esque Altec Lansing FX3022.
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| Can't think of a good Dr Who pun for this |
And so the day begins to draw to a satisfactory conclusion. At 3pm. On the agenda for tomorrow: Newcastle vs Everton at 8.45am, followed by most of the day at Toronto Zoo. Best... Saturday... ever? Potentially.
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