There’s still a few things to iron out or tweak a bit more, but it’s mostly functional – or as far as I can tell.

So, if you care to pass comment on anything you’ve come across that you don’t like or don’t quite understand, please let me know in the comments.

Both the main Butler Sheetmetal site and the blog have been revamped, with both a more minimal and integrated feel.

We’ve also added a client case studies section and a job book section which contains all the photo galleries.

If you have a couple of spare minutes, do have a little mosey and let me know your thoughts if you care to share them.

I’d be terribly grateful.

Talk about pudgy round the gills and waxing not too lyrical. He’s simply a sequence of Scottish grunts and groans.

The last thing you’d want to do with him he engage in a conversation, let alone touching any kind of sharp instrument or operating machinery.

Still, it’s not like most of us aren’t a bit like that of a Monday morning.

But, fear not people. Those of you (and me), like Jasper, reaping the health and safety whirlwind due to early morning mental blurring need fear no more when faced with sharp blades doing anything over 1,000 RPM.

There’s some clever fella devised a circular saw locking system thriggered by by conduction – and with water being a conductor, that means your pinkies.

The following video is most impressive as they try and attack the blade with a limp hot dog and it shutting down without causing even the slightest of Stevie Nicks.

But, it gets darn close and then some – as in a 1,000th of an inch – then kachunk-a-blammo; the automatic locking system kicks in and halts the blade dead in its tracks.

Hot dog wieners are all well and good, but you need someone with real sausage fingers to really put it through its paces. So, the inventor steps up and volunteers his digits for the camera – one of those super duper slow-mo affairs that takes nearly as long to set up as it does to display the slowed down version of the film.

It takes a while as the crew wants to show exactly how close the guy gets with his finger and the forces / tensions on the blade as it abruptly stops. Either that, or they manage to film the first ever slow motion finger slice with Tarinto-esque blood spurts arcing across the shot that’s guaranteed to go viral.

But, I won’t tell you anymore. You can just watch it yourself:

It could’ve started off so well had Burnley thought about turning up against Blackburn, but as dire no-shows go, that little tete a tete takes the entire biscuit barrel.

The next day my mother moved house from the one I grew up in to a lovely little cottage but a mere stone’s throw away from my sister and John’s house in Trawden. That means she’s equidistant from her babysitting duties and mucking out John’s chicken shed.

The only phone calls I’ve received from her have been because BT hadn’t installed vision, thus leaving her Corrie-less, as well as endless inquiries as to why her computer wasn’t working properly.

Shades of The IT Crowd:

Then we hit Tuesday and I hit 40. No problems with that, other than I felt strangely at ease with the world. And trust me, I rarely feel strangely at ease with the world.

Although I did have a hankering, nay craving, for something quintessentially English for my Birthday tea. Now I understand why John plumped for cheese and onion pie and mushy peas – besides him being cheap, that is. But, because it was my Birthday I had no intention of making it, and because I’m living in America I had no chance of finding a café, restaurant or chippy to quell my pangs; unless an out-of-date, overpriced tin of mushy peas from World Market’s ‘English’ food section and some mini quiches from Aldi’s count. I would’ve struggled for OXO cubes, mind.

Instead, we sauntered off to find some faux Irish boozer selling faux steak and Guinness pie – which was obviously shut.

How we wound up in some rather posh gaff chomping ourselves daft on lamb shank served with garlic-enthused (sic) mash topped with arugula and pear salad is beyond me. Plus we hadn’t the shame to refuse our server’s (a camp hybrid of Stephen Colbert and Phil Brown’s tan & goatee) warning that our expensive bottle of wine was, in fact, only a half bottle.

Stephen Colbert & Phil Brown

But it was bloody lovely; so bloody lovely that I felt compelled to order the Mexican spiced cocoa crème brûlée. That was also bloody lovely until a blow-torched sugar chili twig sank itself into the deeper reaches of my back jaw, where it has remained ever since as a constant reminder to eating above my station in life.

I mean, the worst injury you’re going to receive from a micro waved Greggs’ pastie / mushy peas combo is Pete Burns lip, right?

Maybe when I’m 50.

I sincerely hope he’s not up to what this geezer in a Southampton fabrication shop has been up to:

A MAN who got his genitalia stuck in a steel pipe had to be cut free by eight firefighters using an industrial grinder. The heavy duty cutting gear had to be used to remove the three-inch long hollow pipe after medics were unable to release it. The painstaking operation, which involved eight firefighters, took around an hour.

The drama began after the man took himself to the accident and emergency department of Southampton General Hospital.

Restricted blood flow had left the man in a state of arousal, and unable to remove the pipe.

Staff there were so concerned that they phoned the emergency services and a crew from Redbridge Fire Station were initially dispatched. But they had to bring in backup from St Mary’s station which has a fire truck equipped with specialist cutting gear. A disc gutter cutter, with a four-and-a-half-inch blade, was used to slice open the stainless steel pipe.

The man, in his 30s, offered no explanation for his predicament but was said to be “quite concerned and anxious”. He had been given an anaesthetic to prepare for the procedure.

St Mary’s crew manager Adrian Johnson said: “It was a very delicate operation. We did not want anything heating up.

The person who did it deserves a commendation for his nerve and steady hand.”

Meanwhile, watch manager Greg Garrett from Redbridge station added: “I’ve only come across this type of thing three or four times in my 17 years as a firefighter. It’s not a daily occurrence.”

The man’s private parts were left bruised and swollen.

I’m generally fairly reluctant to post entire articles seeming it goes against Rupert Murdoch’s grain, but I really didn’t know which bits to cut out (as the fireman said to the bloke with his knob stuck in a steel tube). I mean, this is why you’d love to be a local journalist. Maybe a fireman as well, but not the guy doing the angle grinding or holding the pipe steady.

However, feel free to go and enjoy yourselves in the comments to the article.

How could I not venture to the Avon Duct Tape Festival this past weekend? Avon happens to be one of the two (there may be more) duct tape capitals of the world – the other being Sarah Palin’s home village of Wasilla. And yes, it’s kind of what you expect – an excuse to plonk a few fair rides on an uneven part of a field, get tipsy listening to 80s cover bands and take part in a parade with floats held together by the stuff.

It’s in no way tacky – well I suppose the tape is (ho-hum).

With it being a fair, my good lady was determined for me to display my undying whatever by winning her some kind of fair prize – a partially paralyzed goldfish or some stuffed toy made by Chinese orphans that would be more mobile than any goldfish.

It’s not that I’m a curmudgeon so much that I understand these things are rigged. Whether you’re talking about basketball games that have spring-loaded backboards to ensure the b-ball flies off into an adjacent county, or doctored darts that have you seeking the nearest specialist to check for the early signs of Parkinson’s, the fix is in.

Balloon Darts

We hadn’t made half a circuit of the festival before I heard a redneck trying to tempt me into throwing darts at a wall of balloons. I was doing my best to ignore him, but with Steph having her heart set on something stuffed and ignoring anything I ever have to say, she’d already engaged the bugger in conversation and was shouting for me to stop.

Marvellous – some crap banter ensued between the hillbilly Barnum and myself about him not wanting to shout (even though he was turned way past 11) and me explaining there was no chance him understanding a word I was saying – which he obviously didn’t understand a word of.

He then thrust a dart into my paw and told me that whatever happened Steph would win a prize and that the dart was free. So, with my wife pleading with me via the medium of puppy peepers, and some hick blabbering nonsense, I cracked. I took a couple of steps towards the stall and languidly lobbed the dart in the general direction of the balloon board fully expecting it to explode mid-flight or drop to the floor three inches from the latex as if it’d hit an invisible sheet of Perspex. Or merely bounce off one of the balloons and do a King Harold.

No, I happened to pop two of the blighters.

I resisted the urge to clap myself or perform a Tiger Woods fist pump, and expected Steph to be handed her prize and for us to pop off for a corn dog.

Instead I was handed another couple of darts and told to pay a couple of dollars for the privilege. I was being hoodwinked and having the hoodwinkery explained to me as I handed over a $20. However, it was hoodwinkery that I have no idea what was being said. Before I could throw the next two darts, I was asked if I wanted to pay a further $5 to try and win a ‘medium’ prize.

I was being up sold without having bought anything in the first place. I hadn’t a clue what was happening, but was strangely enjoying the swift-talking swindler’s patter. The guy was a pro.

At this rate I was fully expecting to be taken into a port-a-potty and robbed of cards, cash and kidney.

Steph was starting to look stern and interjected on my behalf that we’d take our prize and run. At which he whisked the two darts out of my hand that I thought I’d paid for and reached for Steph’s prize.

Of course it wasn’t something dangling off the stall itself but something he rustled from underneath the counter out of an old plastic bag:

It basically looked like they’d partially wrapped some sausage meat in duct tape and tossed it in some boiling water. Even the dollar store would’ve considered themselves shysters for charging for it.

At least Steph found out I was right. And at least I don’t have to do that for a living.

Well not yet.

But thankfully, Spurs put paid to that little escapade just as I was getting down to my underpants. They also put paid to any other thoughts of a gaggle of Dingles descending upon the capital for a cup final.

You can’t help but be impressed by it as an effort. Even a few Blackburn fans felt a bit sorry for all concerned. Though that might not last.

Anyway, in order to cheer us all up I’ve come across the 2009 Female Mechanics Calendar. No, it’s not pornographic, nor is it clad remotely scantily – it’s a calendar full of women who are mechanics.

Now I don’t want this to come across as patronising or snide. I wanted to highlight it for the same reason that the photographer who put the thing together did – to show that they are genuine Rosie the Riveter type role models out there, and maybe this will help render the necessity for calendars pointing such a fact out in the future worthless.

Lady Mechanics Calendar 2009

Click for full size centerfold.

Why, a Christmas welding cap, of course:

Merry Christmas…

Well I’m off up yonder to that there windy city tomorrow to partake in a Blogging for Business panel at SES Chicago. Thankfully it’s a Tinbasher case study so I theoretically should know what I’m talking about. But it’s certainly felt like a bit of a task trying to condense every single marvellous morsel of Tinbasher zen into fifteen minutes for an audience of American search engine types.

I spent at least three hours toying with various references to whippers, but then decided to drop ‘em (the references – not my whippers). As if my accent isn’t going to trouble them enough without weird Northern English slang mentions of underpants.

Any road, one of the main reasons I’ve never shown up for this kind of thing previously (and it’s not as if folks badger me constantly) is that it costs a bit to get there and put yourself up; and I’m obviously a bit tight.

That’s why my boss at Direct Online Marketing is a top man – sending me off on my merry way with an allowance nonetheless – cheers Justin. And his good lady, Kristin, did a sterling job sorting my flights and booking the hotel. I mean, if left to me I’d have booked myself in to see Chicago the musical. And then we had Deborah and the guys running round BSM HQ taking dubious photos and fixing balance sheets. Thank you.

But I really appreciate all the help from Steph, my dear lady – who’s been coughing and spluttering and hallucinating for most of the week with some flu-like condition – for being my audience and being a great little sounding board.

Still, maybe you shouldn’t trust the opinion of somebody off their face on Tylenol flu and Sudafed.

I’m very much looking forward to this. I hope everybody concerned gets a little something out of it.

So, if you want any slides of the presentation or have any questions, you only need to ask. That is if SES doesn’t have them for some reason.

Although, it’s probably best to ask me over at my day job.

Anyone up for a jar?

I only live a stone’s throw away from work, but it’s far enough to turn a fifty minute lunch into a tight half hour if you don’t play it canny and get your wife to pick you up. So bang on the stroke of midday I gaily flounce out of the McLain Building front door to a welcoming Stephanie.

Last Thursday saw me flounce to the same script only to find nobody waiting for me outside. It wasn’t an immediate problem as I’m not the type of fella who rules over his women with a rod of iron – then again. But, with five minutes gone I was getting a wee bit antsy wondering where she was. With ten minutes gone I was slowly beginning to fume (the first thing running through my mind that she’d nodded off or was gassing with her mother – not worrying whether she was ok).

I had no other choice than to march off as I had no means of buying my own lunch.

Each step I took, the baking West Virginia sunshine raised my temperature levels until I was as heated as my sweating brow. By the time my house was in view I’d worked up a serious cascade of perspiration that evaporated to a head of steam. Somebody’s ass was gonna have me going positively Doomsday on it.

As I came up to crossing the entry to Uncle Pete’s car park, which adjoins (almost) our pad, a police SUV was blocking my usually unhindered passage and with its backend protruding way into the street, my only route involved playing chicken in the oncoming traffic as I walked round it. Still, I was that pissed I was raring to risk getting tasered as I gave Mr. Plod what for.

Then, as my apartment came into full view, I noticed our car in the adjacent parking spot to Uncle Pete’s and our abode. Thing is, it was in the Uncle Pete’s side with the yellow fire hydrant and had a piece of paper flapping from underneath the right windshield wiper.

The cop was walking towards me concentrating frantically on writing and walking having just given us a parking ticket.

DEF. CON. ONE.

I yanked myself up the stairs on the verge of going truly ballistic as I pictured Steph on the phone talking crap with her mother about window treatments. I entered the door to an inhale of breath and immediately saw her scurrying about the kitchen like a female Fagin.

You’ve got to poop a pocket or two.

Straight away she asked me if the copper was still outside and began to explain how she’d come to pick me up but suddenly had poorly poo cramps and had no other choice than to hare home to let rip.

I don’t wish to get too graphic. It’s not as if we all haven’t been there.

I calmed down to eleven on hearing this, but couldn’t quite sympathize fully as she’d been watching traffic copper putting the ticket on our windscreen from our window. Not only that, but she knows full well that Aldi beef sticks always end in toilet trauma, and she’d eaten two cans of the buggers the night before. And on top of that, we’ve always known how keen they are at Uncle Pete’s to rat out any offenders to the cops and get folks towed away.

Library Beef Sticks

With this in mind, and the fact that Mr. Chubby Rozzineri hadn’t moved his police veh-i-cle for a good fifteen minutes, we needed to make sure we were:

a} Not going to get clamped/towed away, and
b} Somehow sneak out and away to get some lunch without him noticing.

Anyhoo, I had fifteen minutes to get out and get fed. As soon as we managed to get outside, Steph realized she’d forgotten, of all things, her bloody car keys.

I’m sure I felt a vein in my eyeball pop.

So, she whispered to me to stand guard while she ran back upstairs in case the tow wagon turned up.

Being a clever lad, I stood close enough to our car to be able to leap on anything or anyone attempting to take it away, but distant enough so the copper didn’t think I had anything to do with it.

We’d deal with any police interference as and when it presented itself.

I can’t say Steph was hurrying, and every second was vital in terms of my growling gut and the impending tow truck, which couldn’t have been too far away. Also, I kept seeing (eaten too many) CHiPs checking out our motor out of the side of my eye.

If ever we could do with a swift diversion and get away it would be now.

All I could foresee was a ten minute telling off from the policeman, and some kind of call-out charge argument as the tow guy arrived. Any kind of exchange would totally wipe the rest of my lunch break redundant.

I kill with my bare hands when I’m hungry.

With still no sign of Steph – obviously attending to another beef stick bowel release – I was thinking of just sneaking in to Uncle Pete’s and sod the car getting towed.

But, as I turned to salivate over the entrance to the restaurant, two guys came storming out and started screaming across the road at some other guy who’d just tried to park in the space Steph should’ve gone in first off. He’d tried pretty appallingly by all accounts as he’d managed to not only prang the irate guy’s back bumper, but also block him in.

There was shouting and storming from both sides of the street, which is busy and noisy a the best of times, and this prompted Chief Wiggum to spring into action.

A bit of street disorder sorting obviously had him feeling more police-like than waiting for some other fat chap to turn up and wheel our car off.

And just as he walked past me, as if by magic, Stephanie appeared.

With one deft flick of the thumb, the car doors were open; and we were in and off.

I had never been so happy to get stung for just a parking ticket in my entire life.