Christmas all over again

Well done for making it through another year fellow viewers, may I wish you heartfelt well wishes for Baby Jesus day and beyond.

I apologise for posting about half as much this year. It turns out that maintaining a blog is much easier when you have internet access. New for 2011 however is a brand new internet that I have constructed from rubber bands and bits of string. If that doesn't work I hope to buy a box of internet in the January sales. It's quite common after all for people to return internet they have received for Christmas on the basis that it makes their bum look big.

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There's an app(rentice) for that

Ever since that chap did an impression of a pterodactyl a couple of years ago, the interview episode of  'The Apprentice' has always been the best. Margaret was an inspired choice to have interview them last night as this series has missed her withering eyebrow raising. Poor Thebrand though, I think felt that he was somehow part of some inner circle after having explored the lower reaches of the Sugar colon last week, as Margaret said, “greeting me like a long lost friend”, so when she unleashed the brows of peril he seemed suddenly deflated, like someone had taken a pin to a toad's throat mid-ribbit.

So now it’s down to death stare Stella and charisma vacuum Chris, a man so dull he sucks the life out of you through the cathode tube (I have an old telly). My money’s on Stella, but only because Chris would cause every one of Lord Suralan’s employees to turn into narcoleptics.
 
Who wins? YOU decide. Oh, sorry, no you don't. But you can watch someone else decide, and that's just as much fun.

Especially if Stuart makes one final appearance and puffs up like a toad once again.

Why the long face?

Every now and then whilst cursor-crawling around a news website you happen upon a story that really touches you. Not in a physical sense (the day that you are able to physically interact with websites is the day I withdraw from public life to merrily go blind in the privacy of my own home), no I mean you find a story that tugs your heartstrings to such a degree that you feel you must share it with others.

This is one such story. Follow the link below and have a look at the video. I'll still be here when you get back.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/health-11780938

Seriously, isn't that so sad. Noone should have a mobile phone that rubbish.

See that there? That was a joke. I said it to lighten the mood (although, the phone is crap) as I thought you might be a little sad. Sad because he has just told you about how on each and every birthday he wishes his parents would contact him. The reason this is such a sad story is that, presumably because of his condition affecting his eyes, he can't see that the reason his parents never seem to contact him is because...

...his phone's turned off.

:-(

Leon's getting larger

People around me keep losing weight. This is nice for them as it means they won't die a sudden artery clogged death. Arteries are like motorways you see, when you eat nice things like cakes and pizzas they get jammed up with the gloop that makes cakes and pizzas nice in the first place: fat. Yummy, yummy fat. When you eat nice things your internal motorways get backed up with blood cells, all beeping their horns and shaking their little blood cell fists at the quivering jelly that's filling the once free-flowing lanes. There are foodstuffs that you can buy to help free up these claret traffic jams. Benecol margarine for instance. However, a few evenings grimly spooning that into your once merry cakehole in the optimistic hope that you might get a snog at the Christmas party from a local skinny chaser are enough to make you opt for a swifter, more bus-related end than the slow honking cellular gridlock ever threatened.
Another option is to eat Shredded Wheat, but last I saw Ian Botham whiled away his free time wandering around inside that, and since not even his wife wants beef for breakfast it must fall to option number three: diet.

It is diets that are popping up attached to the people around me. Diets aren't fun things for people to be on though. They're not roller skates. They aren't like a funny hat, causing warm feelings to the wearer whenever they see their reflection. No, they are more like the hump that old ladies get when their spine can no longer bear the weight of the lifetime's knowledge and experience that's silting up their minds. Knowledge that prevents them from learning new things and causing queues at cash machines. And when people wear the hump of diet they squint up at you in the same way the old ladies do, faces creased with pain and confusion.
"I want that packet of crisps" they say. "I want that packet of crisps. Why can't I have that packet of crisps? I can afford that packet of crisps. I can see that packet of crisps. I can reach that packet of crisps. Why am I denying myself that packet of crisps?". But then they remember. They know.

They know, because they have read that the pleasure of the packet of crisps is fleeting and greatly outweighed by how much longer they will live by refusing themselves fatty foods. They know that by not having that packet of crisps now, they get to live a long life that they can fill with not having packets of crisps.
Annoyingly, the weight that these people are losing is not lost for long. It is soon found slithering up my trouserleg like a hoard of randy slugs, gathering behind my steadily tightening waistband. Of course as well as making things taste nice, fat is also very friendly. Jolly to be precise. So more fat then comes to join it, oozing up my legs and shaking blobby hands with the rest of the fat. The healthier the other people get, the unhealthier I seem to become. Much like Leon in 'Airplane'.

For every pie they resolutely ignore and every salad they blankly crunch through, they are killing me. Of course when I mention this to them they don't believe me, they just think I need to cut down on the crisps. Something which would be a lot easier to do if I wasn't the only one eating them.

Down with this sort of thing

Being a publicly funded organisation, the BBC has always championed free speech.

Regardez: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sD4dw2eB9Ck

Of course as Mr Robinson discovers, protesters are like whiskers. Pluck one out and another always takes its place.

English Americana

There is a newish cd being trailered on the nation's fireplace that looks quite good. It's called 'American Anthems', and the advert involves a car speeding off down route 66, no doubt with a 'trunk' full of burgers and CSI spinoffs, whilst a gravel-voiced voiceover voices the words "this is the sound of America" with his voice.

Oh, and English band 'Whitesnake' (featuring David 'definitely from the North of England' Coverdale) play 'Is This Love?' in the background. Another classic American (definitely English) artist listed is Billy Idol (from Middlesex). He went to school in the same town as my Dad, in the American city of Newhaven, Sussex.

Foreigner (formed by Englishman Mick Jones and ex- King Crimson member Ian McDonald from Dorset) are also present. The Beach Boys; Bruce Springsteen; The Doobie Brothers; Van Halen; Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers; Kiss; Guns 'n' Roses and New York Dolls are not, however I'm sure this will be rectified with the release of 'English Anthems' at Christmas.

A spoonful of lucre

And lo, there was another series of 'The Apprentice'*.

You may have thought the previous five series' had exhausted the entire UK supply of suited twerps, here come another 18 onanistic clichés strutting through the opening titles and into our houses, ready to fill our living rooms with their massive heads. It is truly startling that any one person can be as confident as one of the contestants/applicants, so it's amazing that 18 of them can all be found together. It's like Alan Sugar has discovered a twat well and happily draws a bucketful every year for our entertainment.

"There is nothing mediocre about me" shouted one participant with all the confidence of one who flatly denies his cocky shell is soon to fracture and expose the mediocre foetus within. Another of this year's group, Stuart 'The Brand' Baggs (yes, really), stated "whatever I touch turns to salt". I'm sorry? Everything he touches turns to salt? How old is he? Did he know Lot's wife before he fondled her? Whatever, in view of what we know about salt, how is this a positive boast anyway? "Aren't I great! Hooray for heart disease!" his face moons down the camera as he sits back in his chair beaming smugly at the viewing squillions, confident that he has won and that the ensuing weeks are merely a formality. He may as well have declared "everything I touch turns to trans fats".

In fact, upon reading a review of the episode today I discovered that he actually said "whatever I touch turns to sold" (because he's such a brilliant salesman, see?) but that doesn't even make sense. I can see the point he was trying to make of course. He was trying to say “I’m less of a bumfaced blurt than the others”, but in fact he is mistaken. He is simply one of a number of blurts. What’s the plural for ‘blurts’ anyway? A 'blather' I imagine. A blather of blurts.

Lord Alan of course has seen blathers such as this before. "You all look good on paper" he began, "but so does fish and chips". The assembled business urchins all laughed at his joke of course, hoping to distract him as they clambered over each other in an attempt to be the first to plant their tongue in his craggy bottom. He must hate seeing such sycophancy. Until he looks at his payslip that is, at which point he probably doesn't mind so much. If nothing else, it saves on toilet tissue.

This year the programme is populated by people who have been affected by the recession. Some ran their own businesses which subsequently collapsed, and some were made redundant. Some haven't even managed to get a job to lose in the first place. So essentially Lord Alan is taking the role of a very strict job centre clerk, making the unemployed jump through especially complex hoops in order to earn their state crumbs. But this won't phase them.

"If I can get someone to talk to me, I can sell them sausages" we heard. This skill must have been very useful in his previous occupation as a communications specialist. In fact I think BT are rolling out a fibre-optic-cables-for-sausages replacement programme in the new year.

"I know how to connect with them" he went on. Someone then walked within 'connecting' distance and he thrust a packet of sausages in their faces whilst yelling "SAUSAGES" in an elucidative manner. Selling is an artform, and this man has taken to it like a duck to sales.

Speaking of which, "they are out there selling" the male team captain was seen to shout. To illustrate his point the camera cut to his salesmen who were standing around scratching themselves and chatting. Probably discussing which of the lady contestants would be most likely to show their perineum for a Twix.

Dan Harris was the team captain in question and he found himself in the boardroom trying to justify his poor sausage hawking skills. Dan has completed three marathons, climbed Kilimanjaro and once held the world record for the fastest ascent and descent of Mount Kenya. He now holds the record for fastest exit from 'The Apprentice'*, a record he holds jointly with five other deflated egos.

So yes, lo there was another series of 'The Apprentice'*. And we saw that it was good.



*other forms of public humiliation are available

Other people's orgasms

My neighbour has a good sex life.

Isn't that nice.

Many times a week she makes love.

I make tea.

I probably make more tea than she makes love. Which is probably just as well since if she matched me cup for f**k (or is that f**k for cup?) she'd probably run out of juices and the friction would be a fire hazard.

Not that she doesn't make tea of course, I'm sure she does. After all, she's British. The difference is that whilst I potter into the kitchenette and lean on the counter watching 'Come Dine With Me' whilst I wait for the kettle to boil, she hobbles into hers with legs wobbling like laundry in a light breeze following a sugar-wall shaking petite mort.

You could be forgiven for thinking I am envious, however I assure you that I am not. I've seen them. It's just difficult to hear their moans and groans as anything other than moaned gloats. "Oh yeah" he shouts, "yeeesssss!" she squeals, but all I hear is "ha ha, we're doing the sex, aren't we great, look at you alone in bed reading your Danny Wallace book and chuckling into your fat. You're so sad and dull. We judge you with our sexy time". Maybe things would be different if my bedroom encounters didn't consist of two minutes of fumbling, five of apologising and then an awkward wait for a cab.

That, incidentally, was a joke. You see it's not like my flat doesn't have its moments. Only last night in fact the rutters were busily writhing around in their brilliant sex, and approximately twelve feet away I too was making my own "ooh" noises. Sadly mine formed the opening of the rather less interesting statement "ooh, 'The Apprentice' is on next week".

I then texted this news to a friend and put my headphones back on.

Good deity you

It's always nice to experience things for the first time. Unless that happens to be the experience of watching Bruce Forsyth tap-dance of course, but at least you then get to experience chewing off your own feet. I recently experienced something that I wasn't particularly expecting. I had someone turn up at my front door, trying to deliver some religion. This rather took me by surprise because I couldn't remember ordering any.

A yawn was making its presence felt as I opened the door early on Saturday morning to be greeted by a smiling old lady. Her posture adjusted as the door opened, presumably scarred by decades of having it slam shut in her face. Upon judging that I wasn't much of a door-slammer she produced a leaflet.

"Good morning, I wondered if you had seen our leaflet"
"Er...no" I said. I assumed she didn't mean the specific leaflet she was holding. It would be fairly odd behaviour to go from door to door holding something and ask the occupiers if they could see the item in question. Maybe if you were selling spectacles.

"What's it about?". This was a bit of a stupid thing for me to say. I could see that it had a drawing on the front that depicted the garden of Eden so it was fairly obvious it was something religious. The only other option was that she worked for a garden centre, and she could see that I don't have a garden. Unless she thought I had turfed over my living room, and if she thought that then she was an idiot.

I can't really tell you exactly what she replied. Not because it's a secret, but because my mind (if it can do such a thing) glazed over. I can tell you that it was something about how brilliant religion is.

"Right...thanks very much but I'm really not that interested in religious matters," I said, "not that I'm against people that are, it's just not for me". This was mostly true. What I meant of course was that whilst I appreciated that some people take comfort from such things, I've never been able to get over the idea that it all just seems a bit silly.
"Oh right dear, so I can't interest you in taking this little bible then?". She rummaged in her handbag and produced a book. When she said 'little bible', she really wasn't joking. This book had obviously been abridged to such a degree it was in danger of being mistaken for one of her leaflets. Roger Hargreaves has produced heftier tomes.
"No, thanks anyway but I'm sure there are other people who would get more enjoyment out of it than I would".
"No? Oh that's a shame because it really is wonderful" she said, looking down at the well thumbed booklet in her paw. It was quite sweet how she was beaming down at it. I was expecting her to kiss it and whisper "I love you" into one of its dog-eared corners, but instead she opted to tell me why she loved it.
"It's just so amazing how everything in it is coming true"
"Is it? Great. Thanks very much then"
"We won't give up on you" she said, and with that slightly threatening statement hanging in the air she tottered off down the hallway, and I shut my door. And locked it. And hooked up the security chain.

So there you go, my first door-to-door God botherer. Naturally I didn't have the heart to tell her that if she really wanted to bother God, did she really think that a small ground floor flat in a Sussex commuter town would be good place to start? Then again, maybe he heard that I once saw Mariella Frostrup by the deli counter at Sainsbury's and thought he'd try his luck. Then again, I may have misunderstood the phrase. When I returned to my boudoir it was a few minutes before one thought started echoing around my head. Namely:
"How the fuck did she get in to the building?"
Assuming she isn't able to sprinkle herself with magic dust, and trot through the keyhole like a blue-rinsed Father Christmas, she had to be buzzed in. Therefore there are two options:

1- She pretended to be delivering a pizza.
2- There is someone in the building who think old storybooks are bibletastic too.

I personally hope it's the second, because if the bible is coming true, they are bound to have stocked up on locust repellent. I'll find out soon enough though, because if they are going to dupe their way in with promises of junk food I'm going to be seeing an awful lot more of that old lady...

Croc Monsieur

I just thought I would share this with you.

Altogether now:

"That's not a tax bill...THAT'S a tax bill".

Sitting comfortably?

You will be pleased to know that everything went well with my move and I am happily installed in my dwelling, brimming with contentment now that I have my own little cave to shuffle about in. All that remains is the installation of a good size telly and a sofa to stare blankly at it from. Noone wants to visit me until I have a good size telly to drown out my blather, so priority-wise the sofa has taken a back seat.

Yes that pun was intentional. Don't judge me.

My brilliant brother has acquired a television for me from a website called 'freecycle', which I believe is much like ebay, only instead of bidding money you win things by typing 'mine' in the largest lettering. The only sticking point is that it is an old style cathode-tube set (the box type) which being that it's a 28inch screen is going to prove something of a 'feature' in the living room. I have a feeling that when I switch it on there is going to be a loud hum, the lights will go dim and my skin cells will quiver and burst like Sigourney Weaver's eggs in 'Ghostbusters'. On the plus side, I won't have to squint when I'm bashing zombies on the head with a cricket bat whilst playing 'Left 4 Dead 2'.

So now I need to get a sofa. I have been reminded that a sofa from the old family home is still locked up in a garage in darkest Cambridgeshire. The trouble is I remember it being a bit near to the end of its life when it last saw daylight so I am very tempted to get a nearly-new one from the nearly-new furniture place around the corner from my flat. My logic for this is simple: I don't want to have the palava of hiring a van to go and bail out the currently imprisoned sofa, break my back getting it into my flat only to have a spring make a break for freedom and impale my unmentionables after a week's use. The final revenge of the Couch of Monte Cristo. However, I know for a fact that noone has died on that one, wet themselves on it, or attempted to hide the body of a dead prostitute amidst its springs. Always a risk with second-hand furniture.

Or I could simply not have any visitors and live out my days in my pants on a beanbag, surrounded by empty cans of Stella Artois, eating crisps and bashing zombies on the head with a  cricket bat. As of last week, this has been working for 29 years.

The new one two

Due to an unfortunate turn of events I watched 'Alan Carr: Chatty Man' on Sunday. Clumsy I know, but it was a choice between that or an epsiode of the Jordan/Alex Reid tan-fest and the latter makes my eyeballs vomit. His guests this week were cheeky-but-harmless Jason Manford and Welsh sort Alex Jones. You won't have heard of her, apart from the tabloid revelations that she looks a bit like Christine Bleakley if you squint a bit. Manford was typically cheeky-but-harmless and Jones seems nice, but there was a problem with the two of them. Something wrong. Something inappropriate.

They appear to have...skill.

Part of the charm of 'The One Show' was that it would lurch clumsily from one item to the next, like a leaky ship in a storm being steered by a drunk Captain. The running order seemed to pride itself on its juxtapositon. We would have a report from a small shouty bald man about the importance of keeping our till receipts, then an interview with Tony Hadley about his upcoming appearance in 'Aladdin' at Eastbourne. This would be followed by a serious report about child abuse, which would end and Adrian Chiles would lean towards Tony Hadley to ask him what he thought about it. Once we are all happy that not only he but the rest of the reformed Spandau Ballet are quite against paedophiles too then we would be introduced to a dog that can bark some of the alphabet in no particular order. Next week Status Quo would be on to plug their latest 'best-of' and give their opinion about London's homeless.

Now Chiles and Bleakley have run away to the next channel-but-one The Good Ship One is being steered by Manford and Jones (Jones is the Welsh one), and they appear to have chemistry. They don't sit next to each other like a couple at a dinner party who are overdue a divorce. They don't speak to each other like they are humouring a tourist with learning difficulies. Not only that, but they seem to be able to appear in front of a camera without looking like they've hypnotised themselves with their own reflection. Adrian Chiles always seems fearful that the camera will steal his soul, which is why he tries to fool it by pretending he has no personality whilst Bleakley blinds it with lip-gloss and flashes of leg. We didn't have to put up with actual presenting talent before, so why now? Why didn't the producers just take the next logical step and follow their departure by having the show presented by a heavily sedated bulldog and a cardboard cut-out of Raquel Welch circa 1966? I suppose they'd only be poached by ITV to fill in the gap left by Bleakley and Chiles' inevitable wanderlust/sacking.

So what next? Mark Austin saying something positive on News at Ten? Jokes in 'My Family'? An episode of Dragons' Den where you don't have to leap around the living room in order to hold the presenter's gaze? Satan must be dusting off his ice-skates.



Of course I realise I am being ridiculous. There's never going to be any jokes in 'My Family'.

Baiting

Ever woken up like a bear with a sore head? Well look on the bright side, at least you didn't wake up with a bear with a sore head in its mouth. Your head to be precise. Like this woman:

You see it could always be worse. Stories like this aren't actually that interesting I realise, as it's just another 'wild animal does something wild' article. Not really news. The last time one leapt out at me was when a killer whale killed its trainer at Sea World, and the press reported everyone's surprise. Why were they surprised? If it was called a cuddle whale, or a long walks on the beach at sunset whale I could understand but it's a killer whale. Are they equally amazed when they get stung by a stinging nettle? Anyway, the reason I am thrusting this under your nose is because of the accompanying image. It shows a park ranger setting a trap to catch the bear.

So if you were to catch a bear, what would you use as bait? Peanut butter? A lady bear? A picnic basket? No, you erect a tent in front of it. How obvious! After all, if you wanted to lure a paedophile into a large metal trailer, you'd build a playground in front of it wouldn't you. Well, this is the same idea. Brilliant! True you'd end up with a  few stray ramblers looking for a cup of tea, but you can't make an omelette without breaking a few legs.

But the real question is why not bait the trap with a mutli-coloured dance floor and play 'Funky Town' over some loudspeakers? After all, everyone knows bears love a dance. I've seen it on the telly.

Bam chika woof woof

It's been a good week if you like stories about men having sex with animals, primarily because there has been one. Hooray! Fingers at the ready, commence pointing:

In case you were in any doubt as to the brilliance of this man's imagination, this is Christie Brinkley:

And this is a great dane:

...sorry...this is a great dane:

I love his apologetic attitude. "I haven't been as energetic lately". Bless him. But why take the dog to a vet? Is he mad?! Clearly they should have gone to couple's counselling.

Sign before the pen's stolen

So in the words of Tom Petty: time to move on. This was/is the first time I've done this on my own so the flat viewing process was markedly different this time around. Primarily because I didn't have anyone to tell me if the place was nice or not. True, I had the letting agent with me but to honest I think they are  little biased. To be a letting agent (as in most sales) you need to be able to turn anything, however negative, into a positive. This was most evident for me when I looked at a flat somewhere and asked what the parking was like.

"Well," said the rental woman "ordinarily there isn't any but you can usually park in the solicitor's office car park across the road from Friday night until Monday as they don't usually work at the weekend. Also, you're in luck at the moment..."
At this point I should add that following her initial suggestion, I wasn't optimistic about the second.
"Why's that?" I said, forgetting that I wasn't being optimistic.
"Yes," she said, mistaking my response for a closed question, "some people have stolen the parking restriction sign on the road, so if you get a ticket you can appeal".
"Oh right. That's useful to know." I said. Offering the handshake of finality, I was conscious of a vein on my forehead throbbing with sarcasm, straining to burst out over her clipboard.

I suppose I can't fault her for trying. It takes a truly optimistic seller to turn the increased local crime-rate into a reason to move into that area. "Lucky for you a lot of thieves have been operating in the area. Will your deposit be cash or cheque?"

...and [click], you're back in the room

Conscience is a funny thing. It's not really, it's essentially guilt thus is rubbish, but of all personality defects, it is one of the more curious. You see, over the last month every time I have stumbled onto the internet and not thought "there's porn here..." I have had a voice in my head saying "you really ought to look for somewhere to live". On the rare occasion that thought wasn't stabbed in the ribs by the voice saying "there's porn here..." I have been doing just that, therefore my bloglets have been like Michael Barrymore's charm: absent. I have now found somewhere to live (hooray) so we're back together again. Hug anyone? No? Oh come on, it's not gay if there's no cupping.

Check out this bust

There was a story in the tabloids a while ago about Craig Charles going on a CRAZED bender, buying DRUGS and having a PINT with some MATES. You can read about it here. The reason I am reminded of this is because as part of his crazeddrugfuelledwildnightbender, he asked his driver to buy him some PORN. Now, unfortunately this is the only link I could find, but I remember at the time the reporting was even more lurid, quoting him as saying "f*ck me I really need a w*nk". This was actually the embarrasing part of the story. Drink and drugs are fine, he's famous and it adds to rock and roll mystique he's cultivated whilst pretending to be a taxi driver in the only part of Manchester to still have cobbled streets and whose most ethnic resident is a slightly tanned David Essex. Buying porn though, is just a little bit embarassing. That's all I could think about when I read it, "oh no, poor chap, what would the boys from the Dwarf say?". Stories like that serve a positive purpose though, they remind us that famous people are the same as the rest of us. They may appear in Heat magazine, snapped boarding a bus in Mayfair (whereas the rest of us have to snap ourselves if we want a record of it), but they are just us with a more recognisable face. How do we know this? Because people like Craig Charles helpfully remind us that even famous people get drunk, go home and masturbate alone over a woman with staples through her tits.

You may ask why I am talking about a news item from four years ago? Well it's all down to drunk men's nocturnal desire to look at boobs. A burger van has been 'seized' by police for giving away free porn when their customers spent more than five pounds...

I love the idea of men being 'enticed' with free porn, like they are under the spell of a pied piper in a dirty raincoat. In the event of a population explosion you could cull the male population by dumping copies of Razzle off a cliff and just sitting back to watch the shuffling hoardes of drooling grub-monkeys tumble off the edge fondling their crotches and murmering "mmm, jubblies" as they fall to their doom.

Please don't think that I don't approve of free smut. I actively applaud it in fact. If porn was given away as a free gift more often just imagine how empty the streets would be. On the rare occasion anyone did leave their houses violence would be as rare as rocking horse droppings since everyone would be so weak and sluggish, it would be all they could do to drag their massive right-arms behind them like they're on their way to their own crucifiction. Even if violence did erupt it would be over in seconds because if anyone landed a punch it would take your head off.

The reason this story really appealed to me was the undercover officers who made 'test purchases'. That's a bloody tough case for them isn't it. The horror of it, having to buy burgers and be given free porn. Oh dear. Imagine the counselling bill. How many volunteers do you think they had for that operation? I'm amazed there isn't a headline underneath the article detailing the officers killed in the stampede. One thing's for sure, the waiting list for evidence room duty is longer than the ever dwindling rolls of Andrex in their desk drawers.

'Five Pass Out in a Gutter'

Take a look back there. That was a bank holiday that was. You can tell because it was mostly drizzly and for the rest of this week people will keep asking you what you got up to, as if by tacking an extra day onto your weekend you are guaranteed adventures that a regular weekend simply cannot encompass. In fact it is generally acknowledged that all of Enid Blyton's 'Famous Five' stories take place over bank holidays, as that's they only way the adventures could be completed and the mysteries solved. Apart from 'The Case of the Unwanted Pregnancy' of course, which was solved in an alley on an overcast Thursday afternoon. I recall Julian and Georgina didn't mention that one to the others until 'The Riddle of the Bloody Coathanger' in 1958.

One response could be "I went to the 'Jazz on Broadway' event", which took place on Sunday. Doesn't that look fun (and isn't the website attractive). I have actually hitched my wagon to that particular star on a previous occasion and emerged stained, hoarse and due to the exotic pricing structure imposed upon on all drinks, poorer than an unemployed church mouse (in fact wherever they live, mice have yet to develop a satisfactory system for funding a jobseekers allowance, primarily because mice are very resistant to taxation). This time I was busy attaining squatter's rights on a comfy Brighton sofa whilst others were jazzing all over Broadway, which I can recommend you try but would also ask you to find your own sofa.

Sadly, home being what it is, it must eventually be returned to so 10:30pm saw me returning from Brighton to Haywards Heath station and from there wandering in the direction of Castle Benenstein. Though it had failed to lure me, the prospect of £5 pints and a lack of requirement to make conversation had evidently proved too much for many, and my return took me through the wobbly masses who were en route to the fabled 'last train'. It was easy to see why they chose to name the street 'Broadway' as there is a definite air of glamour about it. I could think of nothing else in fact as I walked up through the steadily departing hordes. Sweating wobbly drunks farting down the street with burger grease dribbled down their shirt-fronts and couples demonstrating how lovely it is to be in a relationship by arguing in the middle of the road, showering each other's red-faces with spit and insults. Glenn Miller always brings out the best in people.

So anyway, hopefully you had a lovely one. The banks have now returned to work feeling refreshed, full of vimto and vinegar and are happily setting about ruining people's lives until their next break in August. You might like to start planning your next adventure.

An indelible melt

Some films sell themselves by the cast, such as the action movies of the 1980s where the star's surname was in significantly larger type than the name of the film. Some sell themselves by the title alone. I'm a particular fan of a good title. You know what you are going to get with something like 'Zombie Flesh Eaters' or 'The Blood Beast Terror' whereas you're still in the dark with something more vague such as 'Legend'. Actually, 'The Blood Beast Terror' is about a girl that turns into a moth (rather brilliantly called a 'were-moth') so maybe you don't know exactly what you're going to get after all. The title gives you a clue though. There is blood. There is a beast. There is also a certain amount of terror, but this terror is mainly towards the end, when an evil scientist's dastardly plot to create a male were-moth to mate with the aforementioned girl is revealed. Primarily because you fear for the actor's ability to utter the phrase 'male were-moth' with a straight face.

Another film that drops one or two subtle clues as to the plot in its title is 'The Incredible Melting Man', which I was fortunate enough to see recently. Okay, so it doesn't so much give you clues as write the plot on the title equivalent of a baseball bat (it's an American film) and proceed to bash you about the head with it. Needless to say, I was very excited when I loaded the dvd into the player, eager to see this incredible melting man melt incredibly. Sadly, the incredible melting man doesn’t really melt incredibly at all, at least not until the final gooey reel. Until that point he just loiters in the shadows glooping over his suit, lurching out occasionally to smear himself on someone. Initially optimistic hopes of him concentrating his melt when he feels threatened and squirting it at someone remained simply hopes.

Happily this small failing is made up for with some delightful b-movie silliness. Near the end, the hero on the trail of the dribblesome one, Dr Ted Nelson, walks towards a policeman with his hands up and shouts "don't shoot, I'm Dr Ted Nelson" and promptly gets shot. Apparently GPs weren't popular in the 1970s. Nurses evidently weren't particularly bright either, as at one point a rotund nurse is shown running (in glorious slow-motion) away from the eponymous fiend down a very long corridor, and when she reaches the door at the end rather than pull or push it open, she barrels through the glass like it's the front door of her local Greggs. Actually, I might be doing her a disservice. Perhaps if the camera had lingered a little longer we could see that rather than say 'push' or 'pull' on the door, maybe it simply said 'smash through'.





Maybe she was just in a hurry. It can't have been fear, after all she's running away from a man with toilet tissue hanging out of his nose. Don't believe me? Watch the scene here.

There, that has to have sold it. If not, the box cover declares him to be an all new type of monster and I can confirm that this is absolutely true. Of course bearing in mind the toilet paper incident he's not a very scary one. It's hard to feel intimidated by someone with Andrex dangling from his right nostril. This doesn't stop ladies from screaming throughout but really it’s just because of the mess he’s making on the carpet. “Eeeek!" they squeal, "stand on a newspaper!”.

I'm not clearing them up

Whilst on this subject, I may have mentioned before that I do not enjoy following people into the bathroom. Specifically I don't like being reminded that anyone uses it apart from myself. The whole event is an unpleasant one in fact, if I wouldn't end up with my own wasted seeping from my pores and coating my skin like over-applied foundation, or sorse simply bursting like a blocked sewage pipe, I'd have glued myself up years ago. Yesterday I was pleased to be reminded that I'm not alone in this.

"I hate going into the toilet when someone's dropped their guts" declared a colleague at work.
"Hear, hear" I concurred, inwardly congratulating myself on our banter.

His words stuck in my mind. Not because of  wondering who/what he would like to follow into the toilet, but because his expression was simply so vivid and colourful (although that colour was mainly brown). It makes you think that you're following someone of immense clumsiness, because after all of all the areas of your anatomy, your guts are surely one of the most secure. It takes great skill to drop them. I would have thought that you are more likely to have one of your hands fall into the sink whilst you're washing them, it tumbling awkwardly around the plughole, than you are to drop your guts all over the place. I could understand your brain falling out of your mouth since that's an orrifice that spends most of its time hanging open like a cave with a single wingless bat hanging from the ceiling. I suppose if that happened your body would soon follow it to the floor and the inconvenience wouldn't be the grim mess, more the minor annoyance of an individual having to stand astride your blankly staring face in order to have a wee. But to drop your guts? Clumsiness in the extreme. Rude too. Just because you don't want them doesn't mean that you can leave your spare parts laying around on the offchance that Burke and Hare happen to be passing.

Another alternative is that it is an exhibition of selfishness, the person cheerfully unburdening themselves of a gutful of guts without considering the effects their presence will have upon the next bathroom inhabitant. Away they swan to live their now slightly less gutful life whilst an unfortunate someone slides across the floor, one foot on a colon that's echoing raspberries around the tiny room, the other making an ill-judged step onto some intestines, squeezing semi-digested pap from them like a rusty tube of toothpaste before skidding to the wall and coming to an undignified halt sprawled over the sanitary bin.

So I suppose this is a plea to the rest of the world: keep your guts. Love them. Cherish them. Maybe even use them. Just please, for all of our sakes, don't drop them. If you do tire of them at least have the decency to have them eaten by zombies and add some entertainment to the proceedings.

Faesh in a bowl

I've just seen a programme (the brilliant 'You Have Been Watching') that talked about 'Dancing on Ice's judge Jason Gardiner and his comment that Sharron Davies resembled "faecal matter that won't flush" (watch him apologise in an entirely heartfelt manner here). Now needless to say this passed me by at the time because I'd rather gouge my eyeballs out with a junkie's spoon than watch any of the celebrity dancing dross that infects Saturday prime-time schedules and seeps into conversation like sewage from a leaky pipe, however even I can tell that's not the most supportive comment he could have made. However, in his defence, she was wearing brown and drifting awkwardly around a large white bowl. Compare that to the ever popular 'Lion King' musical where every night a black fellow gets a standing ovation for wearing a yellow hat and saying he's a lion. Suddenly Sharron Davies as shit seems pretty convincing.

Warbling foetus

There's somthing immensely creepy about Justin Bieber, the latest musical hot potato to stare at us from MTV with eyes like gooey dinner-plates, warbling 'baby, baby baby, ooh'. I'm not sure what proves most upsetting. The haircut, like a tea-cosy missing a bobble. Possibly it's the jacket with sleeves hitched up his forearms in doubtless homage to Cutting Crew. Or maybe it's the shuffly dancing he's taught every chatshow host into whose lair he has inadvertantly shuffled, dancing that looks like Skat the Cat in Paula Abdul's 'Opposites Attract' video channeling the spirit of Michael Jackson.

No, I'm not going to say anything about MJ's spirit entering a young boy. That would be wrong. Shame on you.

Actually, I do know what it is. It's the advertisment for his little album (I don't know why I feel the urge to refer to it as his 'little album', I just do. Maybe I'd ruffle his hair if he was within ruffling range. I'd wash my hands afterwards, obviously. I'm not an animal.) where we are informed that we should "get Bieber fever!". Bieber fever. Bieber fever sounds like something you would inoculate a child against, not something you should actively encourage.

So that's why I think he's creepy. He's the aural equivalent of whooping cough.

Tellers about the bank

I don't pretend to know anything about money, or indeed have any skills in keeping hold of it. Where funds are concerned, I can always find an ill-judged investment window to throw my cash through. Money to me is as easy to keep hold of as a fish in vaseline pyjamas. Which is why, when possible, I keep it in a bank. You may be familiar with banks, they are institutions who you ask to look after your money and who then spend it as soon as you turn your back. We don't usually worry about them doing this so long as they give us something that looks a bit like our money when we ask for it. As I understand it, that's why the credit crunch annoyed so many people. They went to their bank and asked for some of their money and the bank put its hands in its pockets, looked guiltily at the floor, shifted its weight from one foot to the other and said 'sorry, I spent it'. The bank's customers then walked away grumbling about how they should have put it in a sports bag and asked a homeless junkie (whom we shall call 'Heroin Harry', in the hope that he gets his own chatshow) to look after, since there's at least a chance he'll overdose before he spends it all.
Of course I rarely read the money supplement, so I may have misunderstood the whole thing.

I was in the bank today queuing behind a middle-aged woman. As you know, each bank teller is numbered. This is because if they were identified by name then the tannoy would say "Steve is now free" or "please move to Christine", and the customers would be milling around scratching their heads trying to decide if someone had a Christiney quality or not. The subjective nature of whether or not someone is Christiney would result in terrible delays and an inability to recall why you are standing in front of a man who might be called Christine in the first place. To avoid this situation a simple numeric system is in place so that a disembodied voice (who also works for the post office) can say "[bing] cashier X is now available". Well, I say simple, the system proved a little complicated for the lady in front of me.

"[Bing] cashier three is now available" [flashing light]. The lady looked up. She knew something had just happened, but she wasn't sure what.
"[Bing] cashier three is now available" [flashing light]. The cashier waved. The lady looked around like her skull was sat on a rotating metronome.
"[Bing] cashier three is now available" [flashing light]. The cashier then stood up, waved like someone on a desert island attempting to get the attention of a passing ship and said "I'm over here".
This had the desired effect, the lady made an exaggerated 'oh, THERE you are!' gesture and toddled off to the desk. Yes. THERE she was. Number three. Next to number two. Before number four. If you find yourself standing next to a stranger at number five, you've gone too far.

I didn't get to hear what she asked the clerk for as I was then summoned to number one, but I like to think that she then tried to deposit some buttons.

The wrong kind of Fiddler

Technology is being developed so that internet-lurking paedophiles can be identified by the way they type. Apparently it only takes ten taps of the keyboard to identify the typists age, gender and even culture with 95% accuracy.

But how will this help identify paedophiles? Well, if it can ascertain your age, presumably it can tell that you're typing with one hand.

Whilst on this subject, I was pleased to have this brought to my attention. Specifically, the author's name. The search for 'journalist most likely to report on child abuse scandals' can now be considered closed.

The Lyger got Woods

Ah that Tiger Woods. What a cad. So smooth though, women go weak at the knees over him. They are powerless to resist that charm, especially when he says he wants to choke them.

No wonder she's pissed off that he doesn't speak to her any more. "Hey, come back Tiger, you said you'd kill me you bastard! Now who's going to call me a f***ing whore, hmm? I feel so un-loved...".

Pet defence

You know how some people carry a rabbit's foot with them in the hope that it brings them good luck? Well, here's a question for you:

What do you get if you carry four rabbit's feet?

Very cross indeed...

For the removal of costumed men

Being the barely sentient potato that I am, last evening found me planted upon the sofa being advertised at by the television. This time I was being sold Febreze, on the basis that sometimes when you come home there are men sat on your sofa wearing out-sized foam costumes (representing smells), and a good way to get rid of them is to aerosol them in the face. Alternatively you could hold up a mirror and the not-so-fancy-dressed actors will simply die of shame. Starting with the one dressed as a putrid fish carcass.

I suppose it's difficult to find new ways to advertise air freshener. As indeed it is with anything that does exactly what it says on the tin, unless you happen to be advertising Ronseal woodstain. Ronseal is fortunate in this regard as they have been straddling the painful inanity/marketing genius line for some time now. In case you need reminding (and I know you don't) Ronseal advertise their woodstain by having a shouty man standing next to a fence saying "if you need to stain your wood, buy Ronseal woodstain because it stains wood. Look it says so there. On the tin. Because that's what it does. It stains wood. And you've got wood that needs staining. Which is what this is good for. Because..." actually now that I think about it, maybe it's not so clever. The shouty repitition makes it seem like 'Rain Man', re-casted with Gregg Wallace in the Dustin Hoffman role. Staining doesn't get tougher than this.

The same no-nonsense 'we're blokes who don't mince our words or talk bollocks' approach is adopted by Direct Line for their van insurance. They have used Ground Force's Tommy Walsh to front their campaign, in which he loads up a white van with various items that you expect an honest down-to-earth working-class labourer to load up his white van with (ladder, toolchest and so on) whilst telling us that we, as blokes, can't afford to cut corners in our work and therefore shouldn't cut corners with our van insurance. We obviously trust Tommy because, you know, he's a bloke who doesn't talk bollocks, so immediately organise a bloke policy and swagger off to the pub scratching our balls for a pint of tits.

Wa-hay.

"Tell me about the sandwiches, George"

Earlier this week I was perusing the sandwiches in Sainsbury's and felt that the girl loading the shelves was getting uncomfortably close. I looked down at her and noticed that (aside from being quite short) she had down’s syndrome. Boldly resisting the urge to point and laugh (I am an oak of restraint) I looked back to the shelf then felt a tug on my sleeve and heard [adopts 'down’s voice'...now don't be like that, you know exactly what I mean] "scuse me, can you move the sandwiches on the top shelf so they are all together? Ican’treachemhankyou". I knew what she was asking, and having read 'Of Mice and Men', I didn't want to anger her.

So I did it.

Badly, as it happens, because she then tugged my sleeve again saying, "no put them behind each other" (I was grouping the fillings together, like some kind of idiot).

So I started again, conscious of her [judge]mental gaze.

I then plucked a pastrami sandwich from the shelf, paid and left. Walking back up to the office I nearly fell over when I suddenly thought, 'hang on a moment...'. My question is this: which is more bizarre, having my sandwich grouping skills criticised by someone that can’t tie their own shoelaces, or Sainsbury's expecting a dwarf to stack the top shelf?

Does it seem crowded in here?

A friend who has another friend (as if I'm not enough) who has recently had a baby held her phone out to me saying "do you want to see her baby after birth?"*. This is my problem with new parents, they take photos of everything.

Currently pregnancy seems to be everywhere. If people aren't actually pregnant, they are tying to get pregnant, or indeed have just given birth. It's like living in a country populated by inverted Pez dispensers. Even this woman, whom fate had seemingly decided was unfit to contribute to the gene pool, has now given birth. Let us applaud loudly enough to drown out the groaning of the bulging walls of our nearest adoption agency.

Actually, I will admit that's probably a little unfair. Well done her [pat, pat]. I'm deeply impressed that she kept trying after 18 miscarriages. My heart goes out to her husband though as any hope he has of getting a Playstaion 3 for his birthday are very slim since she's obviously rubbish at taking hints.

The problem with new parents is that you can feel that you have lost the friend that you had before they became a parent. Certainly you do initially. Out go the drinking sessions. Out go the boys'/girls' nights. Most upsettingly, out go converstaions about anything...other...than...babies. This is the hardest thing for new parents to understand, their baby occupies every moment of their lives, and it's very very hard for them to understand how anyone can not be as excited (or indeed as interested) as they are. To them it is a cutely gurgling bundle of joy, but to others it is an androgynous, screaming, leaking bundle of smells. They only think it's wonderful because they made it, it is their bundle. People tell me "oh, your ideas will change when you have children of your own", but is that really the sensible way to find out? Do they also recommend people hop into a car and speed off down the motorway on the off-chance they  turn out to be good drivers?

Besides, I can't make one alone unless I fashion it from wax. And that would look ridiculous.

Experience has taught me something though, and that is that the novelty does wear off. The first one is treated like it is Jesus Christ himself (only not fictional), the second with slightly less enthusiasm and so on and so on until eventually feral children are seen scurrying about the streets like rats hunting for scraps. At which point we summon the Pied Piper of Social Services.

Not that this will happen with you. If you haven't already, when you have children it will be amazing. You will of course have performed a miracle and awed congratulations will be bestowed upon you as appropriate. Just don't ask me to babysit because I take things far too literally.




*You will no doubt be almost as pleased as I was to learn that the photo was actually of the baby shortly after it was born. Which is just as well, because I doubt her mobile phone insurance covered vomit damage. Although how you damage vomit is anyone's guess.

Cuisine to die for

"She spiked lethal curry with Queen of poisons" wails The Sun (annoyingly the headline is different on the website than it was in the actual newspaper). Ah, a Black Widow story. One reported by The Sun too, a (literally) flashing icon of journalistic brilliance. A newspaper fit for Kings. Not Queens of course, they got no place here, not in our blokey, stubble-chinned, pint-swilling, tit-loving ol' mate The Sun. Fancy France for a pound? No? Ok, let's talk news.

So, woman has an affair. Man ends affair. Woman leaves poisoned curry in man's fridge. Man eats it with his girlfriend. Man dies, girlfriend ends up in coma. Girlfriend wakes up, calls The Sun. You would no-doubt do the same. But how come he died and she didn't? Because according to the report she didn't have second helpings. It seems that gluttony really is the number one killer in England after all.
"He had more than I did, he had it with three chapatis and I had it with two, then he had a second helping". He then complains of feeling ill (I'm not surprised, the fat fuck) so he went for a shower. Assuming that's not a euphemism, it's a curious thought process he had. "I'm not feeling well, perhaps if I wash my hair...".

The couple then started to go blind and lose control of their legs (pissheads), he ended up having to support himself. The penny now drops. That's why he is given such sympathetic treatment (don't forget, he was having an affair), The Sun is simply applauding him for not being on benefits.

Panicking, they call an ambulance and then his sister, who arrives ahead of the ambulance, piles them into her 'motor' (yes that's right, the most widely read newspaper in England refers to cars as 'motors', like the editor's Guy Ritchie) and takes them to the hospital. Presumably the ambulance then turned up, paramedics leap out and start scratching their heads at why an empty flat would need their help. The man dies, the girlfriend has a kip, and the killer is apprehended.

The murderess was found with the poison on her and despite her protestations of using the poison as a mosturiser when mixed with cow urine (I expect she was on her way to an appointment at Nivea), she was arrested. Confessions then poured out of her like moisturiser from a cow. It appears that she resented the affair ending due to all the sacrifices she made for it. One of which was offering to get a divorce. Offering! Now, really, are you sacrificing anything by offering to do something? Indeed are you even doing anything by offering? Think of the phrase 'do you want a hand?'. Has this ever been uttered and actually been followed up with an act of assistance? Rarely, and when it has the assistance has been accompanied by a pained expression and a sigh since the person offering never considered he'd actually need to do anything. If the divorce offer had been picked up the woman would have fallen over faster than the dead guy fell off his perch.

The poison she used was 'Wolfsbane' by the way (yes, the one you mix with cow piss to fill in your wrinkles). You may have heard of it, it looks a bit like a bluebell and isn't very good for you. Want to know more? The Sun is there with the important facts:
"[the plant is] often known in England as Wolfsbane and has featured in the Harry Potter books - used in a potion by Professor Snape, played by Alan Rickman" (there is an accompanying picture of Rickman as Snape).
Well that clears that up then. What The Sun doesn't tell you just isn't worth knowing.

The thing that I really struggle with in this story though, relates to the headline: "She spiked lethal curry with Queen of poisons". If the curry was lethal, why did she bother putting poison in it?

Eat up

The inventiveness of Ben and Jerry's ice cream flavours never fails to impress me. One of them is called 'Caramel Chew Chew'. Now, does this or does this not sound like a euphemism employed by a black paedophile to encourage a stubborn child?

Good. Not just me then.

SyCo/Psycho

I noticed in the Metro that Simon Cowell has apparently offered weediest hunk in the world, Robert Pattinson (who plays Edward thingy in The Twiglet Saga), a record deal but he has turned it down since he believes his acting comes first. This is interesting for two reasons, firstly that he considered two hours of bland sleepwalking "acting", and secondly that Simon Cowell can smell a musical gravy train from a mile away. In case you need more evidence of this, a headline elsewhere in the paper reads 'Manslaughter rap for [Michael] Jackson's doc[tor]'.

You may also like the story under the heading 'Lover tried to behead his ex'. Here a man believed his ex-girlfriend was planning to kill him. So, rather unsportingly, he killed her. There is no evidence that she was in fact planning to kill him outside of his own 'psychotic delusions'. He is pleading guilty on the grounds of 'diminished responsibility'. Essentially saying "I couldn't help it, I'm mad". I've never really liked this defence, solely on the basis that there might be a judge somewhere that simply tuts, shakes his head and sends the nutcase on his way chortling at some murderers having no self-control ([sigh] "I don't know, what are you like"). In my mind, this defence means a killer could basically be given the same treatment as a dieter that has succumbed to a donut and held their hands up going "whoops, sorry".

He is definitely mad though, there's no doubt about that. For a start he tried to cut her head off with a pen-knife, and anyone could tell you that would take f***ing ages. Mental.

Something beginning with 'C'...

On Friday last, the gates of the Big Brother house closed for the penultimate time. This was the last gasp of the 'Celebrity' version, the nation's knee has yet to fully press down upon the wheezing chest of the prole equivalent, terminally ill though it is. Not that the death of the father of streaming reality TV will mean the death of reality TV as a whole, rest assured that Ant and Dec will continue feeding witchetty grubs to people we vaguely recognise for a few years yet.

This year the two series had a vague crossover, with novelty weather-balloon Jordan appearing in 'I'm a Celebrity...Get Me Out of Here' and her boyfriend, cage-fighter/actor/perma-tanned waxed chimp Alex Reid appearing in Celebrity Big Brother. Jordan's ex, bizarrely willied (Google the sex tape) Dane Bowers was also present in the house. Presumabaly Peter Andre was busy, which is a shame because the three of them could have formed a Barber-Shop trio specialising in songs about boobs. They could have called themselves 'The Three Tits'. Sadly, not to be.

Now when Jordan was in the jungle she complained about the public vicitmising her by voting for her to perform the various grim food challenges. Poor lamb. Who would have thought that viewers would like to watch an awful person having shit thrown at her. I really didn't see that coming, and presumably neither did she or she would have ducked.

As with many celebrities, Jordan went in ostensibly to prove that she is more than just a big pair of tits, and is not the bitch that the press painted her out to be. So we were treated to a variety of deep conversations.

"What did you think of me? What were your expectations?"
"I thought you'd be a bitch"
[blank face]
The conversation would then move on to talk about her tits.

Also whilst in the jungle, Jordan dumped her boyfriend (cage-fighter/actor/perma-tanned waxed chimp Alex Reid ) because she didn't love him. Upon exiting the show, she then left Australia in a hurry as she heard that he had arrived in the country to see her, no doubt slightly perplexed. Fortunately in the lead-up to Celebrity Big Brother, as media interest in him grew, Jordan remembered that she did in fact love him and so they got back together. Then he won the show! And she remembered she didn't just love him, she really loved him.

Ain't...(non-media induced) love...grand.

Foot-long bum ticklers

It can be difficult sharing a bathroom. Especially if you're all sharing it at the same time, since aiming between someone's legs can be tricky. Especially if they happen to be 'Poo Readers' and you have to avoid their newspaper or book of humorous quotations. There are worse dangers though. Dangers that don't just lurk in public conveniences.

Personally, I hate going to the bathroom. If I could superglue my bottom shut and not risk becoming a vast, wobbly, backlog-induced balloon then I would do so. Consequently I live in abject denial that toilets exist for any reason other than to host George Michael's release-parties. It appears that this is an unpopular way to bumble along however, as certain shadowy characters keep leaving evidence for me to stumble upon in order to burst my bubble and force me back to reality. Unflushable evidence.

Upon entering the smallest room in the house, it is only the most hardened soul that would fail to be startled by what may euphemistically be referred to as 'flush resistors'. We are all aware that sometimes our digestive creation may prove too much for a single cistern load, so is it too outlandish to suggest a quick check of the bowl prior to departure? You ask a lot of your porcelain if you expect it to eat something in a single gulp that you have just spent ten minutes birthing.

One of the most horrific aspects of this is the way the colour drains out the object in question, and spreads around it like it's sat on a brown rug. You lift the lid and there it is, reaching out like a pallid baby's arm, surrounded by this grim brown halo. I came home to find such a gift in my bathroom only the other day. As a special treat, this time it was paired with a small clump of matted wiry hairs perched on the toilet seat. I presume this was intended as some sort of garnish.

Presentation must mean a lot when you're haunting someone with the ghost of meals past.

Fifteen feet of pure white snow

"Aah, Winter. Lovely Winter. Lovely, lovely Wint..." [skid] "yikes" [thud, crack] "[thinks] oh dear"
[sirens]
"It's no good, he's paralysed from the nostrils up"
"[eyes pleading] kiiill...meeee"

The snow is coming to get you. No, really, it is. Again. So we're all fucked. Again. A fortnight ago we opened the curtains (or in my case, twiddled the stick that opens the blind) and 'yippee'd about the place as we had forgotten the pain in the arse that snow causes. Literally. Today we opened (or twiddled) the curtains (or blind) and our shoulders slumped to carpet level. No longer thinking 'hooray, we can build a snowman like when we were kids' but instead, "bollocks, this is going to be worse than an infected hemorrhoid in a couple of days". We've enjoyed the nice Raymond Briggsy bit but we've also been reminded that skidding along the pavement is both less fun and more perilous than a pool party at Barrymore Towers. I suppose 'what doesn't kill you makes you stronger', but snow makes you break your neck, and in case you didn't learn anything from 'Superman 5: The Quest for Better Stirrups', that might as well kill you even if it doesn't manage to actually kill you.

So, my advice, stay home. Like an old person. Or an unemployed person. Or a Fritzl child. Funnily enough, I noticed in yesterday’s Metro ‘Pensioners burn books for warmth’. Maybe the Nazis weren’t so bad after all. Maybe they were just cold.


(Oh yes, Happy New Year.)