The Banter Thread / Banter Topic / Sean Bean

[spagmasterswift]

Couple of hours left in this bitch then I'm off until 3rd Jan...no NTSC-UK for 9 days... I guess Xmas is the perfect time to go cold turkey!

[Widegoat]

4 hrs 15 mins to go for me. Not back until the 9th Jan - no NTSC-UK for me until then!

[112]

2 more hours before my working duties are over for this year, back on the 3rd of Jan so time for me to relax, download some tuowns......... play some metal gear, chase some girls, and eat like hell!

Merry Xmas guys! Be good!

[Darwock]

I'm here until 4, but no chance am I doing any work today (do I ever?)

It seems slow on this site today though, I guess most people are off work. ANyone got anything interesting to read? I've been reduced to reading gamefaq reviews of games I've already got.. that's how low I've sunk.

I'm also back at work next Wednesday, no doubt it'll still be dead here then too. Baaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh humbug.

[marcus]

Work today has consisted of eating xmas food, and playing LAN Quake 4 demo - if only all days were like this

[Ish]

This made me laugh

http://www.pointlesswasteoftime.com/film/trilogy.html

[HaHaUK]

Thought that Mario deserved a refurbished bathroom for the new year.
<<<

[SaijoBob]

Happy New Year! Just got back from Toshogu shrine in Hiroshima, where I got my fortune for the year. Apparently I should listen to older people's advice and not rush things. Bah!

Have a good one whatever you get up to!

[marcus]

Someone posted this on the rmlluk forum, a good read for anyone approaching or over 30 :-)


My rule in life is...

Heading toward Thirty is a sobering time. It's a
well-worn clich?; it's the new forty, but I have never
paid much attention to any of this, imagining myself
somehow exempt. Until now, that is. Having just turned
29, this event seems to have opened the sluice gates
for a torrent of pitiful self-analysis. I am slowly
coming to the awful conclusion that, my God, I AM an
adult. And this is the problem, am I the only 29 year
old who, despite a job and a brain, has singularly
failed to accumulate any of the recognised trappings
of adulthood over the course of the last decade?
I have begun to look around and am increasingly drawn
to the stark conclusion that yes, I am.

It is an unwritten rule that there are in today's
society, certain things that a MAN (and I still expect
the spellcheck to pick that up) should have by the
time he reaches The Big Three-O.

Money. Ah yes, the timeless classic. When you hit
thirty, it is a rule, a cast iron rule, that you will
have savings. You will NOT spend the last weekend of
the month with beans on toast, and empty petrol tank,
roll ups and a bottle of Hungarian Red. You will have
a special account with enough money for emergencies,
and the key meter running out will not constitute an
emergency. You will not mark the days till next pay in
biro on your desk calendar as you stifle hunger pangs
and sniff surreptitiously at your armpits due to the
deodorant running out in week three. You will have
gold card and a healthy credit rating, no CCJs and you
will not have had to change address to avoid the
bailiffs still hunting you from 5 years ago. You will,
in short, not be on the run from the Student Loans
Company.

I have never had any money, and I am beginning to
suspect that this will remain the case. I have
realised that bagging up coppers on the 25th of the
month is a sign that something is fundamentally wrong
with both my bank account and myself. Last week, in a
final act of indignity, I had to borrow a friend's SIM
card just to maintain contact with outside world. The
glossy pages of GQ and Vanity Fair never led me to
expect this lifestyle. Dousing myself in Egoiste on a
Saturday night has so far failed to turn the objects
of my booze fuelled affection into Christy Turlington.

Nice Car. I'm not talking about the well-worn Vauxhall
that I actually saw as a step up the automotive ladder
not six months ago, a form of transport proving
costlier than running a Learjet as its built in
obsolescence becomes hideously apparent. No, I'm
talking about a 'nice' car.
It will have alloy wheels as standard; its doors will
shut with the reassuring clunk that only large wedges
of cash can supply. It will start without that being a
surprise and will not feature stickers for
sneakerskate manufacturers. Its subtle metallic
paintjob will blend in nicely with the slightly more
expensive Beemers and Audis of the real adults. It
will not cause business contacts to assume that you're
being deliberately retro.
A year ago I would have labelled drivers of such cars
'wanker'. Now, with the gaping abyss of Three-O before
me, I gaze at the gleaming rows of Nice Cars in my
office car park with a new emotion...bitter, bitter
jealously.

A Home. Now, unlike the car, this needn't be nice, but
it must be YOURS. I am not referring to the rented
bedsit style accommodation that passes for my own
vision (or is that delusion) of cool urban bachelor
living (of which more later). It can be in a state of
disrepair, it can be tatty but it will be yours. You
will have parted with upwards of ?150k and this will
mean you can now discuss with other Three-Os the
merits of MFI, Homebase, Habitat and renting floor
sanders. More than any other acquisition, Home
ownership greatly increases the Adulthood factor. You
will now be burdened with a crippling mortgage for the
rest of your working life, and this is a GOOD thing.
The commitment of a mortgage bestows a certain
gravitas, a sense of responsibility that mere renters
like myself can only dream of (or wake up in the dead
of night soaked in sweat and screaming).
I got a surge of adult pride when I bought a set of
matching cushions from the local B-Wise.
Whilst my own level of commitment peaked with the
signing of a six-month contract, actual home ownership
will enable you to moan about, and even understand;
inflation, variable rates of interest and other grown
up things that make me feel physically unwell. You
will now be able to spend every available pennyminute
on home improvements and like the painting of the
Humber Bridge; this process will never, ever end.

A Partner. Whereas I have a wild mouse living in my
flat, I know that I should have partner, and I am not
talking about the occasional poor soul that I manage
to tempt back for a night of pissed fumbling. A
Partner shares your new Home and sometimes gets to
drive the Nice Car if it's her turn to drive after a
night at the Pizza Express. Now I am on slightly
firmer ground here, this is something I have actually
tried, though the description 'Partner' was always a
bridge too far. Ah, you notice the past tense.
In the heady days of my early twenties I viewed my
repeated failure to form meaningful relationships as a
badge of honour, fancying myself a footloose, maverick
swordsman cutting a swathe through the female populace
of my hometown. There was indeed a brief period when
friends genuinely envied my single status. Now as they
fall to the Big Three-O like GIs at Omaha I have
witnessed the envy turn first to pity, then outright
hostility.
You see, when you're 25, not being able to hold down a
girlfriend makes you an enigmatic lone wolf but as you
knock on the wrought iron gates of Thirtyhood, that
lone wolf has become an embittered, immature loser
who's almost certainly **** in bed. Those schoolgirls
you pass on the way to work? When your gaze meets,
it's not lust in their eyes...it's fear.

Plans for Kids. I can't bring myself to even discuss
this.

I realise that I may appear a little bitter, you may
well be sitting in your faux Corbusier chair on bare
beech flooring taking a break from stripping wallpaper
for the new nursery, shaking your head in the same way
most of my peers have begun to do recently. As Thirty
approaches I don't know where it all went so wrong
either. I am not thick or monstrously ugly and yet
even my most juvenile friends seem to have become
adults without telling me.
Recent Saturday nights have become a depressing
routine. I sit alone nursing a bottle of wine, Pay As
U Go in my trembling hand, punching in the numbers of
everyone I have even known, witnessing a succession of
'Sorry mate, We're having a quiet one', 'Me and
SueJaneAnne are going out/staying in for a bite to
eat', 'Please leave your message after the tone',
'Your JustTalk time has expired, please top up...'

There is, as always, a flipside to this predicament.
Just as certain things are required when adult, there
is an equally lengthy list of activities and must be
relinquished. Put simply, there are things you must
NOT do, under any circumstances, when you approach the
Three-O. Sadly for me, my reluctance to let them slip
from my childlike grasp is the source of much of my
present anguish.
Skateboarding. The godlike dude you once were,
casually pulling off Railslides and Ollies as you
glided down the high street now looks dangerously like
a middle aged man on a skateboard, which is precisely
what you are. Only Tony Hawk can get away with this
now.
BMX. As with the skateboard, if you can 180 Tailwhip a
traffic cone it does not mean you are an extreme
sports idol, it means your bike is too ****ing small.
Binge drinking. Accept the fact that you have become
the person you laughed at in the pub when you were 18.

Shagging teenagers: This no longer makes you an
enviable stud, it makes you the kind of man the News
of the World would prefix with the words 'monster',
'predator'...or 'nonce'.
Wearing trainers. Go out with your mates on a Saturday
night, look down. You are the only one who can't get
in to the Wine Lodge gastropub, and no, the bouncer
doesn't care that they're genuine '76 Vans.
Having a hairstyle: 'Just a trim please barber, and
yes
, my weekend break in Cumbria with Susan was lovely'
Smoking. As you cup a snout to your lips, letting the
cool smoke drift lazily into the light of the pool
table, you do not look like James Dean, or even Mickey
Rourke, you look like a balding salesman with a paunch
and the beginnings of emphysema.... which is no
coincidence.
T ****s with logos. These will now be traded for
comedy ties and Hackett rugby shirts.
Using street slang. Derek from accounts will not
understand that your watch blings or that the new
Optical 12" is banging, although this was never really
convincing from a public schoolboy from Plymouth
called Rupert. Word up.

Now before you A4 drivers sneer at these childish
pastimes, consider this. You will never, ever, be able
to skateboard again, unless you have borrowed it off
your son, are drunk, and are being encouraged by your
be suited work colleagues whilst being videoedscolded
by your Partner. Oh...maybe it IS just me.
Any of the above activities will henceforth be
regarded with the assumption that you are trying to be
funny.
It is this that I cannot take. I may not WANT to BMX
up the city streets popping wheelies, wearing Etnies
and a bleached 'do but Goddamnit, I should be allowed
to, free from ridicule and tutting disapproval,
without having to move to Shoreditch.

If there's one thing that encapsulates the full mind
bending horror of Thirtyhood, it's the Dinner Party.
These desperate gatherings are a nightmare vision of
what life has in store, a hideous rite of passage into
a world of Sunday carwashes and caring about the
cricket score. Next time you attend one of these
events (and believe me, you won't have to wait long),
observe the following. The women will gravitate
towards the cooking area, where compliments will be
exchanged on the recent Ikea overhaul or Le Crueset
ovensafe crockery. If you are, God forbid, single, you
won't have been invited. If you're not, watch, jaw
agape, as your girlfriend transforms before your eyes
from the hot chick you used to bang on the living room
floor of your student bedsit, into a nattering
housewife that refers to you as her 'other half'. Then
look at yourself. Smart casuals, deck shoes, a bottle
of Hoegaarden rather than a can of Kestrel, your mouth
forming the words 'So Dave, what's the Vectra like on
the motorway?' or 'Can you believe it? The bloody
suppliers only had QIF-104WR in stock!'
I suggest the following course of action. Go to the
shed (there'll be one), select the new Flymo
Grassmaster (there'll be one), plug in, turn on,
insert head into whirling blades...

Everyone else seems to embrace their newfound
adulthood with a smugly resigned attitude, much the
same as a pregnant woman. They somehow see the robbery
of their youth as some kind of validation, a stamp of
approval. As their dual incomes roll in they are
sensibly converted into bricks and mortar, white
goods, second cars, a dog. Mine is rarely turned into
anything that can't be ingested or ignited. The
serious questions are beginning to keep me up at
night. Is it wrong that the most important thoughts in
my mind tend to be 'is a pack of ten Marlboro enough
for the night?' or 'I have ten quid, should I buy fags
and food or fags and booze?'
Proof of my solitary status as childman is
omnipresent. Yesterday I went surfing with some old
mates, confident that, not a steady job between them,
they would provide some escape from this creeping
dread. Hell, I may even be able to claim some kind of
high ground as the only one with a career and a
different address from my parents. After a balmy
session out on the glittering waves one of them,
single, jobless, 29, turned to me from the seat of his
filthy VW camper and advised gravely,
'You really should think of setting up an ISA.'

[HaHaUK]

After a balmy
session out on the glittering waves one of them,
single, jobless, 29, turned to me from the seat of his
filthy VW camper and advised gravely,
'You really should think of setting up an ISA.'

[marcus]

Yeh class ending that. The thing about the dinner parties is so true also.

[Ish]

I'm 30 this month. Reading that I'm not sure whether I should laugh or cry!!!

[Ish]

I've just had a curry so painfully hot I feel kinda ill.

[Concept]

I try and not to think what it'll be like when I hit 30 in terms of looking back.

[Ish]

You don't need to think. I can tell you. Bleak.

I do of course joke. Well. Somewhat.