Introducing to you... Porter.

This is a fantastic young band from Mexico. They have opened for Ian Brown, The Strokes and many others. I don't mention that in order to influence you but simply to inform you.

This is what Mexico should be exporting more of... and footballers of course.

But please, if you are new to this blog or every now and again look at it (which I really doubt apart from me and my wife) please look at this link and give it a chance. Believe me that you will miss more by not listening than by being disappointed.

Porter

Look at the video and please ignore the stupid outfit the lead singer is wearing, give him a chance, he is young and making it fairly big (at home for the time being).
The album was a self release, but it is fantastic. Someting good and with better promotion should come soon.

Hope you enjoy it and if you do please tell other people about it.

Great headline... shit story.

This is a real news headline and a link to it's disappointing unraveling.

Dog starts car after eating chip

Read and weep.

Finally... Interviews!!!

Finally I am close to the peak of my transformation from a dole scum into a 'respectable' citizen. Though I don't know if I specified this before. My benefit comes from my own contributions, not from your taxes. Let's be frank, my problem, my burden. Why should I sponge off your taxes when so many other people in the country can do it for me.

The first interview was a disaster from the beginning. In the traditional sense of recruitment agencies... they don't give a fuck about you, they just want a quick buck. Such interview was for a job that I wasn't sure of, but would pay the bills. The caring agency didn't bother to send me the address or interview details until two hours prior of me needing to get on a train. There is where it all started going wrong.
Facing two hours to groom myself from a tramp into a suit wearing human was something that would have made 'Queer eye for the straight guy' proud. The main thing was to cut my hair as it had reached that 'Action man' fuzziness look. Then it was required for me to shave. For those who know me and have seen me since I came back from my trip... I was sporting a patchy Che Guevara beard. Just as cheap and shit, but made me feel as if I could somehow change the world. Considering that I had only been trimming it for the last four months, a razor would have not been welcome by my delicate skin. So I trimmed and plucked at it with the electric razor, not before messing about with my un-crowded facial hair.
Like most of you would have done, I decided to look at three styles as that was all my hair could afford for options. Style number 1 was like Abraham Lincoln but with the added bonus of a 'tache. Needless to say, it looked weird and stupid in an unprofessional way. Style 2, just the 'tache. Looking at that face on the mirror I believe most people would have still mentioned 10 eastern European nationalities before thinking Mexican. Style 3, now I am not proud of this, but in the spirit of messing about, I had to do it. I tried one of those small moustaches that might have been popular in Germany up to 1945. Hilarious consequences, but not something you can don whilst walking down the street.

Having eventually removed all facial hair I became aware of one thing, my beard was acting like a 'Body shaper' for my double chin. I am beginning to think that it was more like a net holding all that flab up. It was a sad and scary moment. There contemplating that my fat body was a bit skinny, compared to my multiple chins. Things didn't improve when I put on my suit. Sure, black is a flattering colour, but by then my shirt and tie were working like a Wonderbra (r), pushing it all out and forward. I felt for a moment as if a bouncer's fat head had been placed on top of my shoulders. Besides, my belt shrank one hole in the wash. A dark day indeed.

I managed to get to the interview on time. It was a fairly reputable company who were part of a very reputable fashion brand. Not Topshop you bloody commoner. Though it went well I think my expression must have changed when they mentioned shift work. For that I would work in a bar, which would be more fun. On my behalf, considering that it would pay less than my previous job, that shifts would come into it and a few other things, that job and I were not made for each other. On their behalf, I am too charming and good looking to steal the limelight of the whole IT department, my suit and my Marks and Spencer's shirt were definitely not what they were looking for.
I got the call not much later saying that though they liked me and were impressed with my skills, they would not be calling me back for a second interview. The typical It's not you, it's me. I wasn't that upset as I have been at the job hunt like a desperate drunk in a town's club.
On the way home, before the fated call, about to get on my train I caught a glimpse of my reflection on the carriage's window. Amazing how quick a metamorphosis can take place. Only a few, maximum 3, hours of me wearing a suit and I already had a smug look on my face. I know what I will become if I am given half a chance.

All I can do for now is to keep you posted, concentrate on getting a job and then decide what to do with this blog. I have things in mind, but one has to respect it's nature. I have to respect my loyal audience. One that can compete in ratings with shows on BBC4, because let's face it, it is only me and a handful out there who are keeping an eye on it.

Children of men.

I highly recommend Children of Men. Though it is Sci-fi, it is very realistic and a lot closer to us than any 70's tripped out future. Throughout it is filled with a grittiness and natural dialogue that it is pretty much believable. It is incredibly atmospheric, though the atmosphere of 'that' future is gray and depressing. It is moving where it needs to be, yet it doesn't milk it like plenty other films.
It has some fantastic touches of irony. A scene in Battersea power station, overlooking from a window and they have hung an inflatable pig like in the cover of 'Animals'. Great pieces of art that have been looted from other countries. The brutality of sincerity when a politician asked how he can cope with humanity dying and the simple reply 'I just don't think about it'. At the same time the simple yet challenging feat for Hollywood to have British actors playing British characters and Americans playing American.
The soundtrack is covered of what one would love to think will be classics by 2027 like Roots Manuva 'Witness' and what I believed to be Aphex Twin in a scene with Michael Caine and Clive Owen.
It didn't feel as if were trying too hard at any moment. The flow is quite natural and it is brave enough to follow for an appropriate ending rather than a full blown Hollywood cliche.
Overall a great movie about the end of the world yet not in the usual apocalyptic manner. The simple yet tragic realisation of humanity simply dying out. But like in most movies or stories there is hope. Hope doesn't arrive like a full blown rescue operation but as a desperate possibility within reach. People fighting to be the ones to show what could save us all. In true human nature, we would trample over anyone in order to save the day.
It is a movie that leaves something in you. It is not a feel good movie, it is not a movie it is cinema.

Why can't we afford this shit?!?!?!?!?

First of all I would like to reminisce on the last few days. With London week and all the controversy of skinny models... it still left me with the realisation that I still can't afford to look like a cunt.
I believe the poor have as much right as the rich to look like complete cunts.

My secret life... As seen in The Independent on Saturdays

Peyotitlan, Job seeker & blogger
______________________________________
Peyotitlan emigrated to the UK nine years ago. He hasn't
Founded a magazine or made many people happy. The
impact he has on other people's lives is limited and
diversified. He has spiritual homes in a few foreign lands
and an ever decreasing bank balance. His interests include
socializing, social smoking, drinking tea and browsing the
internet for free sites as well as music and entertaining
himself.

I drive/ride... public transport, my wife's car and my two
feet. I generally equip my feet with trainers (not shiny white).
If I have time to myself I... can easily get bored.
You wouldn't know it but I'm very good at... upsetting
people. I have a magical charm to say the wrong thing at the
worst possible time. I can keep secrets very well too and I am
very good at losing my patience with anything created by man
when it doesn't do what I wish it to do when I want it to do it.
I'm no good at... listening or patience. I can keep secrets
because I am not listening half the times. I am not patient with
imbeciles and I will vent my rage once they have left the room.
A book that changed me... Asterix 'The Gaul' an amazing
and inspiring tale. I am still to eat wild boar, came close to it in
Argentina but didn't do it in the end.
Movie haven... it could be anything. Action, arthouse, comedy...
I laugh out loud to videos of people falling down the stairs. I am
easily pleased.
At night I dream of... seeing people one more time.
Comfort eating... junk food and all that is bad for me.
All my money goes on... filling my spare time. This can come
in various shapes or forms. Generally is in the shape of tickets,
pints, cigarettes, CD's, books... you get the general idea.
It's not fashionable but I like... receiving 'bungs' for football
transfers. I love skinny models on the catwalk. And swearing freely
and coarsely.
My favourite work of art... proper art and not the bollocks
that Damien Hirst and his sort produce. It is an insult to so many
people who actually suffered for what they did and weren't just
cashing in like true whores.
The soundtrack to my life... the voices, traffic and background
noise, subdued by pleasant conversations, music or television.
The best invention ever... the bread slicer.

Crikey... Rests in one piece.

Our own little tribute... and mark of respect.

Greetings...

Another boring day with an ever decreasing number of jobs to apply for which is rather concerning.

Today I watched some TV, but still managed to avoid Jeremy Kyle. I saw in the news about Steve Irwin's funeral. Truly a moving circus parade. It is moving, but he exposed himself all the time and lets face it, it was expected. Unexpected that it was a stingray. Even more unexpected the fact that some people (maybe some Australians) are sooooooooooooooooo stupid as to have killed stingrays and torn their tails off. One thing that puzzled me, which I thought it was a bit off the mark, was a woman who had taken a kid dressed as a crocodile. A bit inappropriate, if you ask me. I wonder how it would have gone if you took a kid dressed as a stingray? My condolences to the family and to a country that offers a state funeral to an entertainer... Richard Bacon, there is still time to emigrate.

Today was a big day and something huge happened and went unnoticed. The grand event that went unnoticed and was only enjoyed by misfortunate people like me was none other than EPISODE 1000 OF DOCTORS. The fantastic BBC drama that follows Neighbours. To celebrate the 1000 episode they had - what it seems - a guest writer. My guess is that it was whoever wrote Brookside or last week's Hollyoaks. To give you an idea, there was an EXPLOSION at the beginning.

Needles to say, it didn't change my life. Not even the touching moments:

-An old man going senile with a sixth sense edge, he can hear all the dead people that died in his room.

-A girl who got pregnant and that could have ruined her one year trip. To sort that out she was close to taking a whole box of Malaria tablets. I think that was a 50/50 call. Have a home made abortion or choke to death on a fistful of pills.

-Chardonnay, from Footballers wives, with a coke problem and refusing help.

-A bloke with an anger problem who shouted at everyone and punched a woman, by accident.

-And the clinic having an assessment as their whole meaningless world falls to pieces.

The best bit is that it started with the explosion, then to jump back three hours back to lead you to the beginning and bring all the characters back together. Imagine Memento meets Casualty but written by the Hollyoaks script writer. Chardonnay and the anger problem bloke died in the explosion and tomorrow the rest of the cast won't even have to pick up the pieces.

This is what I have been reduced to in this week. To make snide comments about a funeral and to take it out on this page for watching a crap TV show.

Next week there will be an interview... so stay tuned.

And for our fans in Wales...

-----Original Message-----
From: KXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Sent: 13 July 2006 15:30
To: GXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Subject: RE: Glyn 2 Win

Helo!
Dwi yn massively excited! Dwi'n mynd i fyny ar y nos Fercher am y 'wedding rehearsal' (!!) ac ar dydd iau dwi hefo Katherine drwy dydd yn gwneud last minute preparations. Wedyn ar y dydd Gwener, dydi'r briodas ddim tan 1 ond rydan ni'n dechrau'r beauty treatmenst am 9.30! Ha ha!
Welai di yno definitely - ond cofia bod fi'n bwysig iawn ac ar y top table a ddim hefo'r plebs ar y byrddau normal! Edrych ymlaen i'r inter-generational Creuddyn reunion (blwyddyn geth, ti, fi a Lowri!)
K


-----Original Message-----
From: GXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Sent: 13 July 2006 15:22
To: KXXXXXXXXXXXX
Subject: Glyn 2 Win

Su'mae KXXXX,

Edrych mlaen at y briodas fawr rwan? Newydd gael sgwrs efo Gethin ac mae o'n swnio'n weddol cool - cael yr argraff mai Katherine sy di gneud y trefnu i gyd.
Welai di yno felly efo gweddill y bods Crueddyn.

GXXXXXXX

Mobile phone dictionary...

You guessed right, a low day on the inspirational front.
Here is a list of all the words I have added to my mobile's dictionary. Where necessary there will be an explanation...


Arses - Lets not go there.
Aurora - A friend and a natural phenomenon. Both the borealis and my friend are a natural phenomenon.
Bastard(s)
Bender - Derrogative noun used to abuse friends.
Bitch
Biutiful - Mocking mexican fonetic pronunciation of the English language, plus it looks cool.
Bollocks
Brixton
Bummer
Calpis - Nectar from the gods... fantastic japanese drink. That white bottle I took pictures of around the world.
Chale - Mexican expression of disappointment.
Chernobyl - As in the place that had the tragic nuclear meltdown in the 80's and still has failed to produce any super heroes. This is used to abuse friends. Example '...you walking Chernobyl.'
Chilaquiles - Mexican dish. One of my favourite dishes and one of my wife's specialities.
Chorizo
Clapham
Cocks
Corydon
Crap
Cunt - It is only polite to use it now and again to decribe yourself and it should never be used to abuse a male friend...
Damn(ed)
Earlswood
Faggot
Fuck - And plenty of variations. Fucked and fucking being amongst them.
Fulham - One of the best football clubs in the world.
FWRT - Abv. Faggot Who Reads This. Ha, got you too. An old Mexican and now becoming a British and hopefully one day a Golbal tradition. Just leave notes bearing the legend for your friends to find or simply text it. Always a winner.
Geordie - The fantastic people from Newcaslte upon Tyne, in case anyone living abroad (or in a bunker in the UK) hasn't heard of this magnificent bunch.
Gimp
Guanatos - Coloquial name for Guadalajara, my home city in Mexico. Great place to visit if you want to eat and get pissed constantly.
Hullo
Kebab - You know you secretly love them, every now and again.
Kisser - Generally used in the context 'Arse kisser' or some worse.
Kyoto
Lager
Magestic
Mamacita - A Mexican compliment for the ladies.
Missus
Motorway - I didn't say they were all going to be interesting. Anyway, stupid phone should have had that one.
Ouch - (?)
Piss(ed)
Poof
Queers
Redhill
Reigate
Scousers - The 40 friends of Ali Baba or the people from Liverpool, it's all the same.
Scud - My local pub. Full name 'The Flying Scud'. Now that is naming a pub.
Sheffield
Shit - No refernce whatsoever to the above mentioned.
Skint
Sodomite
Spunk
Tomary - As in library, in Homer J Simpron's speech.
Turd
Wanker(s)
WHSmith - Because it is the easiest meeting point in Victoria station.

Yes, it is a bit embarrassing but I just want to invite you that much further in into my little world. FWRT, got you again.
Hope you weren't offended, if you were please complete the following sentence with the word of your choice from the list above.
Please don't be such a ___________.

Believe...

Another weekend and a Monday night...

ag‧o‧ra‧pho‧bi‧a  [ag-er-uh-foh-bee-uh] noun Psychiatry.
an abnormal fear of being in crowds, public places, or open areas, sometimes accompanied by anxiety attacks.

The weekend was filled of fun activities and real people.

Friday we had a problem with some plumbing and had to call a plumber in as we were wasting a lot of water. The plumber was a friendly enough bloke who felt comfortable to share some of his racist views; including his surprise at me coming from Mexico and saying 'Funny... I thought you all went over to the states...'. The whole joke ended up costing close to £400 and a hole in the wall.

On Friday night I went to the pub with Monkey and I was talking shit loads to begin with. Like a prisoner who has been in solitary confinement for a few weeks too many. My excitement of seeing real people can have an averse reaction. I felt like Spud in the interview for the first pint or two.

Saturday was great. More real people! A couple of friends came for dinner and we went to a gig in the town. We were so old compared to the rest of the people there that we must have looked like the local nonce squad. To the point that not only was I frisked by the bouncer, but he opened my pack of cigarettes (fine) and checked every bloody compartment in my wallet. As if I was going to carry any fucking drugs into a gig in that town!!! I was frisked and my wallet had the rubber glove intrusive treatment. There was bloody kids wrestling each other to the ground!!!

Bouncers are one step up from shopping centre/supermarket security on the security ladder. Most of them are failed coppers. Can't even become a copper!!! Security. They feel all mighty with the uniform, but... add a walkie talkie to the ensemble and they become mini despot dictators. Now add the ear-piece that a bouncer has and you do the maths...

Sunday!!! More people. I don't know how can I cope with all this. The funniest thing is that as every minute passes by I have less to tell people. I bore them usually and now I have ten minutes catch up for the last month. They have things to tell me and I can't help but get jealous. We talked for a while about each other's family 'secrets' and compared how twisted our relatives were.

Yesterday, Monday (11/09/06) we went to the recording of a radio 2 show, it was alright, but not great. Whilst waiting at the queue a (weird and lonely) bloke started talking to us. He was in his mid thirties, had a packed lunch and his social life consisted in going to show recordings and probably reviewing them to his mother. He told us about all the shows he's been to and a lot more things which I wish I hadn't heard. He even went to tell us that his watch was 2 minutes fast!!! How much detail and how much did I care? It is so he doesn't miss his train, by the way.
He interrupted a bloke on the phone, because he dared to mention over the phone that he was at the recording of a TV SHOW?!?! This bloke interrupted him by saying four times that it was a radio show. He cut the same bloke right in the middle of a funny story... to point at the queue and tell them it would move soon. All they could reply was ‘Don’t worry, we won’t forget going in’ and then we all watch the tumbleweeds roll for half a minute until he said ‘sorry… carry on’ as if he was included in their conversation.
Thinking about him, I can see him on the way to the show eating a pork pie in the tube. Crumbs falling on his lap and spitting some more to the passenger seating next to him as he tells him about the show he is on his way to see. When he was talking to us and his words became fluffy pillows smothering us in our sleep...
Sonya asked him a couple of questions!?!?!? I know she was only being polite, but that put us under the threat of him wanting to sit with us. Even worse, people thinking we were all together!!!

Who ever he is I am sure his mother laughed when he repeated the jokes and certainly reprimanded him for not leaving out the swear words. Because of his swearing he is today sitting at work, looking at his packed lunch contemplating the missing Kit Kat bar... Now, who's been a naughty boy?

More to come...

Week three...

Don't worry, whoever has been or not been reading it. You have not missed out on three weeks of shite, it is a new thing and it is my third week looking for a job.

First I think we should do a little background history; some dirty details and some time wasting.

The relevance for me being on the dole is that I am a naturalized foreign citizen. I originally come from Mexico with the intention of taking your women and screwing your jobs.
I have lived in beautiful England for 9 years - ha, I slipped through the net and now it is too late. I have already taken (well, married) a beautiful maiden, a true British rose born in Cyprus (RAF base, so stop that now). After nine glorious years in this nation I have acquired the taste for humour, beer, football, Indian summers, hate for the English, Labour government and now the dole.
You do not understand how dirty I felt when I went to sign on, as I immediately became the object of so many of my jokes and snide remarks. It didn't help either that - though I fully intend to get a job - I was wearing a red t-shirt with the legend 'Made in Mexico', reading a book in Spanish and that my name is unpronounceable.
So when I got called from the desk in my friendly and sophisticated job centre I had a few funny looks and I saw some xenophobic thoughts running through a couple of people’s eyes. So from that moment I became one of my own jokes and one of the people I turn my nose up at. I faced a mini identity crisis, should I start making racist comments? Should I switch to rollies? How mush is it for four cans of Special Brew? And all those things that rush to your head when facing such situation. I suppose no one is born a dole scum and there are no such manuals to help you.

After having received my first payment on Monday (04/09/06) and being shocked at how am I to live on that; I went and took a cold shower rocking on the bath tub’s floor scrubbing myself real hard. It was a shock to the system. This is what I can call properly a Culture shock. It is the great unknown and the great awkward silence in the flat in the mornings. My wife has got a contract and that is great, but that leaves me with the TV, the news (on line and on TV), my CD’s, Gamecube ® (you like that?), a bass guitar and a Word copy of my CV and covering letter to fill the day.
Though a routine has now taken shape (and suffering from OCD makes sure I stick to it) the days seem to be too big and long to fill them productively. I wake up with my wife and I make us a cup of tea, each, splashing out already. We have breakfast as we watch the news (count how many times this takes place), then she’s off to work. That leaves me there watching the end of the news and then I start looking for a job online. I categorically refuse to watch Jeremy Kyle as I know once I go down that downward spiral I will be cashing the giro at the pub or with a local dealer.
On line searching is not as fun as it might appear to be once it is strictly restricted to jobs. I go through approximately 10 or 15 messages that I receive daily with jobs. Though I created these searches, it is only a small percentage the number of jobs that are actually suited. You’ll find that no matter how specific, you might as well just enter ‘Job’ in the criteria and hope for the best. A couple of times a day you get calls from agencies and those teach you a lot. You understand what it felt like when you never called that girl (or guy) back. You hear your pathetic excitement as you answer to their questions, so they can tell you that they will call you later that day. All for you to mope over the phone for the rest of the day and pull faces at your wife when her sister calls her all the way from the North and they haven't seen in weeks.
After or during online searching I listen to the Ricky Gervais podcasts and nearly piss myself laughing, though I listen to them nearly every day. OK, every day.

Then I go for a run. At the moment I can only handle 2 miles (I am showing off now), take a shower and read a couple of chapters from (currently) ‘Broken angels’ by Richard Morgan. A traditional Sci-fi chick-lit (ha, not really) thriller, that makes you ponder whether it is the new Blade runner or if you can tell your friends about it. Review to follow.
Back on the net just in case there is a new job that has been posted in the last half hour. Get bored of it, now go and read the news on the BBC’s website (twice the news now). Read immediately after, some boring sports news as the transfer window has closed and Fulham did fuck all. Check to whom we might lose to this weekend or cherish the thought of a draw or even be a bit cheeky and fantasize with the whole three points.

From there it is psychological downhill. I sit and watch the noon news on channel 4 and once they finish change over to BBC 1 to see the same news from a different angle, or so I try and lie to myself. Though I pretend to read my book at this time, I still have an ear out for the headlines. When the news are about finish I start cooking lunch and then proceed to eat whilst watching Neighbours. I tape them for my wife too, but she’ll kill me for having put this here. Once having eaten I go out for a cigarette. Then I struggle to play the bass whilst keeping the blinds open and a concentrated yet intense look upon my face.
Once my fingers are really sore or I feel too sweaty to have been only standing there, I stop. After that I have one or two hours before my wife gets back. In those two hours I think of plenty things that only an incredibly doomed and bored soul can dwell on.

For example:

- I wonder if Tony Blair and George Bush invent words when they are together. I am sure they do and they use them at G8 meetings to show how close they are. Though Tony just does it to rub it on the faces of the other world leaders.

- If we get a proper Scottish Prime Minister (though Tony Blair was born in Edinburgh he is sooooo English, face it), would the mentioned Prime Minister try to seriously fuck over the English?

Those are the two most topical and recent thoughts that have been keeping me awake at night, not really, they just plague my dreams.
Then my wife arrives, we have dinner and I have to act all sane only to blow my cover as soon as Hollyoaks starts. It’s got to the point where I seriously question its credibility. I have been living here for nine years, long enough to know better. After questioning it’s credibility I realize that the young Scouse lad that hardly ever features in the show, is the most believable character. When have you ever heard such thing?

Well, I shall leave it here. We’ll see what tomorrow brings. This is the beginning of what I hope will be a short ride. Though it strangely feels like a motorway drive with my Granddad. Longer than desired, terrifyingly fast and getting too close to the oncoming traffic.

Little concrete boots upstairs...

Hello there.
My name is Hector and this is my first blog outside MSN. Just really trying to keep busy whilst looking for a job.
So in between job hunting, reading, listening to music and running I shall be updating the little goings in my life.

This little entry is mainly about the child that lives above us. There is a whole family over there, it's not a toddler living by himself in a flat, tending after himself.

The thing is that we live in a flat, on the ground floor. Though that is great because we don't bother anyone when we get home or by simply being at home. It is a pain in the arse the fact that you have people walking over your head at undesirable times; or in the case of the child above, at all times.

I understand that kids have loads of energy and it is difficult to wear them down. As well I notice this as I am sitting on my arse, in the flat, most of the time. So I am here all day to hear him run about. The funniest thing is that one day, I presume, his parents trying to calm him down must have put a pair of skies on the kid's feet. Or at least that's what it sounded like. The longest and flattest feet stamping I have heard in my life. Every time he set a foot on the floor, you could hear this long dry snap on contact.

I call him little concrete boots, obviously, because when he is not sporting snow gear, he has the heaviest feet I have heard a child posses. Not even my 17 stone brother when he was drunk getting off the bunk beds, desperately running to be sick, sounded so heavy. We used to joke about our dinosaur boots when we were pissed rushing to the toilet. But I have to say that in all honesty this kid takes the biscuit and the medal.

I really don't know what to think anymore. Then his parents let him run around until way past a three year old's bedtime. The weirdest thing is that I don't know whether if I prefer the kid or my previous neighbour. The previous guy in the flat once surprised us by hoovering from 2 to 3 in the morning on Boxing day. I don't know if he had OCD or if he simply was bored and though 'what the hell'. Probably the hoover had been a present and he thought on testing it there and then.

Anyway, his spirit lives on (no, he didn't die in that flat) as the kids parents love to move furniture through out the day and at random times. Sometimes I do wonder whether if the kid's mum has OCD and is repeatedly shifting stuff and cleaning it. Some other times I thing that their furniture is odd Tetris-like shaped and her and the dad just play tetris in their living room with their weird furniture.

I hope to get to the bottom of this and if the truth is nowhere near interesting, I shall make something up.

Thank you for listening (reading).