It was a long night with record takings at the bar. I got home at 4:45, less than sober, and woke up to the cat's demand for fresh water some four and a half hours later. There's stuff to do around the house before I go back to the bar tonight for what will probably be an exercise in thumb-twiddling and navel-gazing. I grabbed a T-shirt from the "not publicly wearable but still serviceable" pile, suitable for housework. It was an old trophy and it made me think of Gilly.

If you voted against GooTube embeds, now's the time to sign up a couple dupes and fix the current poll results.

Am I really the first to notice this? I had to send an important mail to bro. I found a response from him this afternoon, except it wasn't from him.

An HTML hero. Someone who knows CSS and the problems implementing it. More importantly how to get around such problems.

More than 4500km driven. Rain, snow, sleet, darkness. See for yourself. It was an insane trip from the start, complicated by family, an aggressively optimistic schedule, and a fucking low pressure zone which popped out of nowhere and fucked us something royal. At least my bed tonight is free and comfortable.

The clouds all went away around 11:00a.m. and we shouldn't see any more before getting home next week. Pictures inside.

Update: Large picture links fixed

People may tell you that in Denmark, people eat smørrebrod, an open-faced sandwich with various toppings. Sweden is supposedly famous for little meatballs, a lie perpetrated by a particular furniture retailer.

The national food of Denmark is the schwarma and in Sweden, it's fucking pizza and McD's.

It's cold and rainy right now in Göteborg. Who'd've thunk it?

Also: gambling.

Free Intarwebs in the only real bar in Enschede, Dutchlandia! Bonus: the Grolsch here doesn't taste like piss.

I didn't think I could feel worse waking up in the morning and finding out that my sister hated me with a passion that she spent three drunken hours repeating to Blondie after I fell asleep. Two days later in Belgium I once again had food poisoning.

Flight 1462 to Edinburgh, Sunday night. Late boarding, we’re stuck in the ass of the plane. There’s an older chav-like female sitting in the window seat, reading some very pink magazine full of all the important information on world events one should be familiar with such as Britney Spears’ latest alleged lover’s name, the latest photos of Julia Someone-or-Other, and tips on how to do a French manicure at home for only £3.50.

I need a more powerful box. Potential specs inside. Commentary sought.