During the second world war, my grandad (the Gloucestershire one) managed to get hold of some swan meat. There was a war on and anything that wasn't nailed down was eaten. He said that it was almost inedible. Very strong tasting with a rank fishy flavour. It was the one of the few things he said he'd never eat again - swan and a few of the things he'd tried eating to stave off hunger during a very poor childhood.
His late Victorian rural childhood involved eating anything he could get his hands on. Rabbit, badger, thrush - even fox. He drew the line at blackbird and hedgehog. He'd tried them but apparently they tasted even worse than swan.
The family were dirt poor. In the 1831 census, his own grandfather - one Jasper Roseblade - was listed as 'Occupation - Outdoor Vagrant'. Ten years later, Jasper had come up in the world and in the next census was recorded as an 'Indoor Vagrant'. Sadly, he blew his fortune on a turnip and the family returned to grinding poverty and outdoor vagrancy ten years later.
Because of his poor background, my grandad would eat almost anything - even chitterlings - the 'delicacy' made from pressed (and not always cleaned) intestines.
I've inherited his love of strange food. As I write this, I have some pigs cheeks bubbling away in the slow cooker. Wherever I went on my work travels, I would always ask to eat local specialities - especially the ones that tourists would be horrified by. Inevitably, that means tripe. Over the years, I've been served tripe several ways in several countries. All different & all lovely. I've had pigs ears, raw steak, raw shellfish and so on. In France, I was told by a local that I ate like a Frenchman. I took it as the compliment that it was meant to be.
I was given some chocolate made out of camels milk. It was ok but after I'd eaten it, I was told that camels milk is very creamy and thick and a bit salty. Also, it seems that camels have to be milked *very* hard and they only have the one 'teat.'.. I'll eat almost anything but I'm going to have to draw a line at dromedary jizz. Whilst it is respectful to animals to eat as much as can be eaten, the sperm is an exception and will not be knowingly eaten - I'm not Marc Almond. But it is far better - and less perverted - to have devilled kidneys or marinated & grilled ox heart than to tuck into the unused shagging muscle of a virgin bull - that's fillet steak to you.
Whilst working in Cheshire, I was in a hotel for so long that I got to know the chef and persuaded him to get some unusual things in. He got freshwater fish - perch and roach. Perch has bones like caltrops but is very delicious. Roach is like like chewed-up newspaper wrapped around toothpicks - only not so nice. After the roach, my throat resembled a game of Ker-Plunk.
The chef also tried to get squirrel but was threatened with the sack if he ever served vermin. The fluffy-***ts have got the hotel managers on their side.
As I get older, I find that high-fibre foods become more and more attractive - no better way to start the day than with an 18 inch stool.. I've always been suspicious of those who keep their libraries in their loo - it strongly suggests a poor diet. I saw a TV program that said that the diet of lorry drivers is kept deliberately low in fibre as there is little time time in the truckin' day for regular poos. Instead, the poor sods are kept on an appetising but unhealthy diet of bacon and fried bread to ensure that they only need to go once every three days.
When they do finally get the chance to poo, it's like a chair leg. The most effective technique get it out is to bounce up and down on the loo, while smacking themselves on the head - like human ketchup bottles. This does shift things but it usually smashes the toilet. The broken toilets you find all to often in service stations is not vandalism but simply the bad diet that the poor truckers are forced to eat.
Tuesday, 31 December 2013
Monday, 30 December 2013
Six Geese a Laying - Christmas 2015
There is no bigger farmyard bastard than Geese. Bad-tempered, always angry and happy to attack anyone without any reason - the goose is the unlicensed bouncer of the farmyard. They're often used instead of guard dogs. Guard dogs can be reasoned with but geese, like unlicensed nightclub bouncers, have no grasp of reason and only want to have a ruck. Try getting into a farmyard without a check shirt, Hunter wellies and coloured corduroys and they'll be onto you like a shot and will take you round the back of a barn for a beating. "Six Geese a Laying into some poor sod" is the full lyric from the original song.
Geese are bastards. Their wing feathers are tattooed with 'love' on one side and 'hate' on the other* and they stomp around the farmyard, terrorising the other animals. They run protection rackets and extort food from the other animals through blackmail and violence. Geese in the farmyard means a reign of terror.
The original version of Orwell's Animal Farm had the geese in the role of the pigs. However, Orwell based it on real farmyard observations and found that the geese were simply too evil even for the Napoleon role. He had to drop geese from the whole story. Geese are bastards - if you haven't eaten one for Christmas, do so now.
*Humans (and geese) having 'Love' and 'Hate' on the knuckles is an odd idea. I get the 'hate' side but what sort of love can you express with knuckles - apart from 'self love'? I reckon it'd be much better to have 'wank' tattooed on the right knuckles and 'wipe' tattooed on the left knuckles. It's so easy to get mixed up - this sort of aide memoir would help a lot.
Sunday, 29 December 2013
Five Gold Rings - Christmas 2015
Always a bit of an odd one, 5 gold rings. The song rattles along nicely and then suddenly halts so that '5 Gold Rings' is sung in a Madrigal stylee. Why? And why so high pitched? Choral singers have to reach down and squeeze their testicles in order to reach the high note of '5'. I accept that squeezing testicles is part and parcel of being in a church choir but it's not usual to have to squeeze ones own testicles.
Rings in testicles - squeezed or un-squeezed - seem to be very popular these days. Seems that you're no-one without a cock-ring or a couple of bolts through the scrotum. Perhaps it's planning ahead - when the knacker-sac gets too saggy and dangly, it can be easily bolted back into place. But I'm not convinced of the wisdom of attaching weights to something so stretchy. Sooner or later, you're going to trip over it while stumbling along for a third night-time pee.
It is claimed that the Prince Albert is so named because the real Prince Albert had his cock pierced so that his trousers fitted properly. Just let me run that by you again. His trousers didn't fit. So he jabbed a new hole in his cock. And then put some metal through it. He was the Prince Regent - husband of the ruler of the largest empire the world has seen. And yet he'd rather mutilate his cock than ask the royal tailor to adjust his trousers. I'm pro-Monarchy but that is just barking mad.
I recently had a long haul flight next to a well-dressed professional gentleman in his 40s. With a small Prince Albert through his nose. Why was it there? To stop him digging for roots? Was it the one from his cock? Kept in a safe place so that he didn't set of a security alarm? No idea - I didn't dare ask him.
Many years ago, a friend of mine pierced his foreskin and put a ring through it. He was ever so proud and insisted on showing us. Erm... Great... To be honest, it looked like a cock with an ear-ring. Only smaller. But it had the desired effect - he showed it to a lot of women and they mostly seemed to think it was cute enough to play with.
In 1982, while still at Cambridge University, Derek Pringle was called up into the England cricket team. He had a ear stud and this caused a furore at the MCC. He was told in no uncertain terms that he would be playing but the earring would not be allowed. Determined that his earring should enjoy the match, Pringle entrusted it to his mate, Muttley. Word from the wise - never have a mate called Muttley. Here's why. Muttley took the earring and as soon as Pringle's back was turned, jabbed it through his own foreskin and then hobbled to his seat at Lords. The earring didn't have a great view of the match but it was there throughout. After the match, Muttley removed and returned the earring. Pringle put it back in his ear and didn't find out about its tour de foreskin until a long way through the beers later that evening. Didn't take it out though. Good man.
Rings in testicles - squeezed or un-squeezed - seem to be very popular these days. Seems that you're no-one without a cock-ring or a couple of bolts through the scrotum. Perhaps it's planning ahead - when the knacker-sac gets too saggy and dangly, it can be easily bolted back into place. But I'm not convinced of the wisdom of attaching weights to something so stretchy. Sooner or later, you're going to trip over it while stumbling along for a third night-time pee.
It is claimed that the Prince Albert is so named because the real Prince Albert had his cock pierced so that his trousers fitted properly. Just let me run that by you again. His trousers didn't fit. So he jabbed a new hole in his cock. And then put some metal through it. He was the Prince Regent - husband of the ruler of the largest empire the world has seen. And yet he'd rather mutilate his cock than ask the royal tailor to adjust his trousers. I'm pro-Monarchy but that is just barking mad.
I recently had a long haul flight next to a well-dressed professional gentleman in his 40s. With a small Prince Albert through his nose. Why was it there? To stop him digging for roots? Was it the one from his cock? Kept in a safe place so that he didn't set of a security alarm? No idea - I didn't dare ask him.
Many years ago, a friend of mine pierced his foreskin and put a ring through it. He was ever so proud and insisted on showing us. Erm... Great... To be honest, it looked like a cock with an ear-ring. Only smaller. But it had the desired effect - he showed it to a lot of women and they mostly seemed to think it was cute enough to play with.
In 1982, while still at Cambridge University, Derek Pringle was called up into the England cricket team. He had a ear stud and this caused a furore at the MCC. He was told in no uncertain terms that he would be playing but the earring would not be allowed. Determined that his earring should enjoy the match, Pringle entrusted it to his mate, Muttley. Word from the wise - never have a mate called Muttley. Here's why. Muttley took the earring and as soon as Pringle's back was turned, jabbed it through his own foreskin and then hobbled to his seat at Lords. The earring didn't have a great view of the match but it was there throughout. After the match, Muttley removed and returned the earring. Pringle put it back in his ear and didn't find out about its tour de foreskin until a long way through the beers later that evening. Didn't take it out though. Good man.
Tuesday, 24 December 2013
A Partridge in a Pear Tree
Andy Partridge out of XTC is not only a fine musician and one of Swindon's most famous sons, he is also a visionary legislator.
According to a recent-ish interview, when he was recording in the studio with XTC, he enforced a rule that should be put onto the law books of every country.
The rule was simple, elegant and enabled the calm defusing of any stressful situation. Over to Andy for an quick explanation.
I’d be ordering people around, saying, “Look, come on, can we do another take, let’s try this again.” There’d be lots of muttering under the breath of the band, you know. I guess I got into the bandleader role a little bit stronger on that album than on previous albums. But I thought to lighten the mood…we’d always had loads of porn mags around the studio, so I cut out a particularly well-photographed close-up of a pudenda and made a real sort of Russian commissar’s peaked cap and stuck that where the badge should be on the front. And we had this hat on the mixing desk, and if I suggested or if anybody suggested anything that was a little dictatorial, everyone would point to the hat, and they had to go and put on the Colonel C**t hat.
(I think that as Andy said it, I'm not required to put a quid in the tin.)
What a cracking law that would be, though. Every time anyone gets above themselves and starts acting like a dick, they'd be forced to wear the Colonel hat.
The whole of Parliament would have to wear them - except for Michael Gove, who'd instead have Grant Shapps sitting on his face. That'd make Liam Fox soooo jealous.
Every Manchester Utd fan, Chelsea fan, Man City fan - would have Colonel hats plonked to their heads until they promised to shut up about their glory-seeking 'supporterdom'. "I supported them when they got relegated" Did you bollocks - you supported Liverpool for a while instead. What is it with supporting successful but far off teams? I feel sorry for these fans - growing up having to support Man Utd because their parents couldn't afford a map and a ruler. Find your closest team - support them. And do it quietly unless you want a hat.
For drivers of those ridiculous 'Max Power - Min Penis' street cars - where the seats are lowered for the ultimate in shortarse chic - where the exhaust pipes are enlarged for the subliminal message that they like back-door action - (have I done that one before?) - these fuckers would have the Colonel hats glued on so that when they try to turn them around to wear backwards, all their shitty over-gelled hair would be ripped off. Maybe not quite Vlad the Impaler - more Vlad the Super Gluer.
Golfers - a bunch of badly-dressed ****s in a field - Colonel hat.
This list is endless.
It's Christmas - who would you give a Colonel hat to?
According to a recent-ish interview, when he was recording in the studio with XTC, he enforced a rule that should be put onto the law books of every country.
The rule was simple, elegant and enabled the calm defusing of any stressful situation. Over to Andy for an quick explanation.
I’d be ordering people around, saying, “Look, come on, can we do another take, let’s try this again.” There’d be lots of muttering under the breath of the band, you know. I guess I got into the bandleader role a little bit stronger on that album than on previous albums. But I thought to lighten the mood…we’d always had loads of porn mags around the studio, so I cut out a particularly well-photographed close-up of a pudenda and made a real sort of Russian commissar’s peaked cap and stuck that where the badge should be on the front. And we had this hat on the mixing desk, and if I suggested or if anybody suggested anything that was a little dictatorial, everyone would point to the hat, and they had to go and put on the Colonel C**t hat.
(I think that as Andy said it, I'm not required to put a quid in the tin.)
What a cracking law that would be, though. Every time anyone gets above themselves and starts acting like a dick, they'd be forced to wear the Colonel hat.
The whole of Parliament would have to wear them - except for Michael Gove, who'd instead have Grant Shapps sitting on his face. That'd make Liam Fox soooo jealous.
Every Manchester Utd fan, Chelsea fan, Man City fan - would have Colonel hats plonked to their heads until they promised to shut up about their glory-seeking 'supporterdom'. "I supported them when they got relegated" Did you bollocks - you supported Liverpool for a while instead. What is it with supporting successful but far off teams? I feel sorry for these fans - growing up having to support Man Utd because their parents couldn't afford a map and a ruler. Find your closest team - support them. And do it quietly unless you want a hat.
For drivers of those ridiculous 'Max Power - Min Penis' street cars - where the seats are lowered for the ultimate in shortarse chic - where the exhaust pipes are enlarged for the subliminal message that they like back-door action - (have I done that one before?) - these fuckers would have the Colonel hats glued on so that when they try to turn them around to wear backwards, all their shitty over-gelled hair would be ripped off. Maybe not quite Vlad the Impaler - more Vlad the Super Gluer.
Golfers - a bunch of badly-dressed ****s in a field - Colonel hat.
This list is endless.
It's Christmas - who would you give a Colonel hat to?
Tuesday, 26 November 2013
The Twerk Ethic
Last night, I had the misfortune to have to hear the Miley Cyrus offering - Wrecking Ball. I was trapped in a moving car - there was no escape. Christ on a bike, it was bad.
I accept that I'm old and that I'm not the target Cyrus demographic and that I am obliged to complain about young people's music. However, I tried to be subjective and simply to judge it on artistic merits. Trouble is that is has none. There isn't even anything resembling a tune. Over-produced, creatively-bankrupt shite, mostly. Women wailing, men shouting, lots of whistles and clicks. It sounded more like two dolphins cage-fighting in front of a hostile crowd, while playing kazoos out of their blow holes.
And then there are the cover versions. Many good songs being taken out and ritually humiliated by a new 'interpretation'. I can only hope that the original artists has been connected to a generator - they're going to be spinning in their graves so fast, they can be used as a power source.
I also heard renowned Doner Kebab-wearer, Lady Gaga droning on that her man can "Use my body any way you want to". This was followed by another woman shouting that she'll "Use them any way I can to get you". These seem to be pretty unambiguous - these girls are top trumping as to who can be the dirtiest. Is that necessary? Is it wise? What next? "Baby you can go in dry!" or "Hey boy! I can stick a pineapple up my bum!" At least if they did that, I have good reason to turn off the radio.
Far too late to close the Pandoras Box that is Psy, though. My kids - all kids - love 'Gangnam Style' - even if my youngest insists that it is 'Gammon Style'. They have no idea what 'sexy' is but they use it all the time. Heyyy! Sexy Breakfast!" and "Heyyy! Sexy School Tie" etc. etc.
My kids want to listen to Capital Radio in the car. But not the London Capital Radio - not the Capital Radio of the Clash - ooo no - they want the parochial, regional Capital Radio with inane advertisments for local car dealers and kebab shops. The DJs are the usual post-lobotomistic fucktards and all in all, I feel that I am being a good parent by refusing to allow it in my car and giving them Pere Ubu instead. What doesn't kill them will make them stronger.
I'm not giving in and I'm certainly not getting down with the kids. I have plenty of other ways of losing what little dignity I have left. I don't need to pretend to like young peoples music to get them to like me. They won't like me and I won't like their music. It a deal.
I should be down with the kids though. A quick look through my music collection will show that I'm pretty fond of stuff that doesn't have a tune. But there is a difference between the joyous noise of Husker Du and the wear-out-one-note-and-then-struggle-to-the-next-one 'tune' of Wrecking Ball - a song that owes more than it intends to Ted and Dougal's original version of My Lovely Horse.
Mmmm. My Lovely Horse. I feel much better now.
I accept that I'm old and that I'm not the target Cyrus demographic and that I am obliged to complain about young people's music. However, I tried to be subjective and simply to judge it on artistic merits. Trouble is that is has none. There isn't even anything resembling a tune. Over-produced, creatively-bankrupt shite, mostly. Women wailing, men shouting, lots of whistles and clicks. It sounded more like two dolphins cage-fighting in front of a hostile crowd, while playing kazoos out of their blow holes.
And then there are the cover versions. Many good songs being taken out and ritually humiliated by a new 'interpretation'. I can only hope that the original artists has been connected to a generator - they're going to be spinning in their graves so fast, they can be used as a power source.
I also heard renowned Doner Kebab-wearer, Lady Gaga droning on that her man can "Use my body any way you want to". This was followed by another woman shouting that she'll "Use them any way I can to get you". These seem to be pretty unambiguous - these girls are top trumping as to who can be the dirtiest. Is that necessary? Is it wise? What next? "Baby you can go in dry!" or "Hey boy! I can stick a pineapple up my bum!" At least if they did that, I have good reason to turn off the radio.
Far too late to close the Pandoras Box that is Psy, though. My kids - all kids - love 'Gangnam Style' - even if my youngest insists that it is 'Gammon Style'. They have no idea what 'sexy' is but they use it all the time. Heyyy! Sexy Breakfast!" and "Heyyy! Sexy School Tie" etc. etc.
My kids want to listen to Capital Radio in the car. But not the London Capital Radio - not the Capital Radio of the Clash - ooo no - they want the parochial, regional Capital Radio with inane advertisments for local car dealers and kebab shops. The DJs are the usual post-lobotomistic fucktards and all in all, I feel that I am being a good parent by refusing to allow it in my car and giving them Pere Ubu instead. What doesn't kill them will make them stronger.
I'm not giving in and I'm certainly not getting down with the kids. I have plenty of other ways of losing what little dignity I have left. I don't need to pretend to like young peoples music to get them to like me. They won't like me and I won't like their music. It a deal.
I should be down with the kids though. A quick look through my music collection will show that I'm pretty fond of stuff that doesn't have a tune. But there is a difference between the joyous noise of Husker Du and the wear-out-one-note-and-then-struggle-to-the-next-one 'tune' of Wrecking Ball - a song that owes more than it intends to Ted and Dougal's original version of My Lovely Horse.
Mmmm. My Lovely Horse. I feel much better now.
Beardy Weirdy
Those of you who have seen me recently might have noticed that I'm growing a beard. Many people are growing 'taches for Movember and so I thought I could slip in a beard while so many others were also looking repellent. But instead of Movember, I've got a head start for Decembeaver or Fanuary. Doesn't matter which - I know my beard will fit in a treat.
Movember and 'taches aren't really my disco demographic. A beard, however, can be a dignified and noble addition to a face. There is no possible shape of 'tache that isn't going to make me look like a massive wanker. And not just me.
To be honest, it isn't a great beard. It looks more like I have used my shepherding skills to corral stray pubes onto my face. And there is some truth to that. Rather that using a real sheepdog to chase my pubes to my face (too 'specialist'), I simply shaved off all the wandering pubes except those on my chin. A feature of middle age is that larger, coarser hairs start to appear all over the place. This is a perfectly normal phenomenom - it's called the 'Pube Sabbatical'. After a pube has spent 30 years or so, hanging round your bollocks, it gets given a holiday in your eyebrows or ears. I've simply used social media* to tell a few pubes that there was a house party on my chin. It went viral and they've all turned up.
The beard's days are numbered though. My poor long-suffering wife puts up with a lot but she has put her foot down about the facial hair. It is too bristly and she says that I am unkissable. I'm very fond of my wife and do not want to be unkissable. Seems that my bristles are too coarse and spiky. She tells me that other mens beards are much softer. Make of that what you will. But she has a point - it does feel like I have shredded wheat glued to my face. In tests, one out of one wife who expressed a preference, said that the whiskers were shit.
I've had a look on the internet for beard softening. One recommendation was to use hair conditioner. I slopped a load of it onto my face. I saw myself in the mirror. With all that cream conditioner on my face, I looked like the closing frame of the worlds worst porn film. Didn't work either - my beard stayed resolutely brillo-pad like.
The old adage about cultivating on your face what grows wild around your arse is plainly untrue. If I had hair like this on my arse, it'd rip my boxers to shreds and wiping my arse would require me to wear leather gauntlets. Again, a bit more 'specialist' than I'd like.
I've been through the bathroom cabinet; trying out various oils and unguents. I've tried massage oil, cocoa butter and cough syrup so far. I smell nice but I still have a beard like a hedgehog's minge.
I had been hoping to grow the beard and 'tache and use wax to make a showpiece of them - something a bit Salvador Dali. I still have the moustache wax that I bought for a seabed-themed fancy dress party. I used the wax to straighten and set my ballbag-pubes so that my bollocks looked like sea urchins. Looked great but I had to walk really slowly.
And so, unless on of you can come up with a credible beard-softening suggestion, I'll be shaving it off in the next few days.
*Yes. My pubes are my Facebook friends. Why ever not? I see them every day and they never fail to make me laugh. Best Friends.
Movember and 'taches aren't really my disco demographic. A beard, however, can be a dignified and noble addition to a face. There is no possible shape of 'tache that isn't going to make me look like a massive wanker. And not just me.
To be honest, it isn't a great beard. It looks more like I have used my shepherding skills to corral stray pubes onto my face. And there is some truth to that. Rather that using a real sheepdog to chase my pubes to my face (too 'specialist'), I simply shaved off all the wandering pubes except those on my chin. A feature of middle age is that larger, coarser hairs start to appear all over the place. This is a perfectly normal phenomenom - it's called the 'Pube Sabbatical'. After a pube has spent 30 years or so, hanging round your bollocks, it gets given a holiday in your eyebrows or ears. I've simply used social media* to tell a few pubes that there was a house party on my chin. It went viral and they've all turned up.
The beard's days are numbered though. My poor long-suffering wife puts up with a lot but she has put her foot down about the facial hair. It is too bristly and she says that I am unkissable. I'm very fond of my wife and do not want to be unkissable. Seems that my bristles are too coarse and spiky. She tells me that other mens beards are much softer. Make of that what you will. But she has a point - it does feel like I have shredded wheat glued to my face. In tests, one out of one wife who expressed a preference, said that the whiskers were shit.
I've had a look on the internet for beard softening. One recommendation was to use hair conditioner. I slopped a load of it onto my face. I saw myself in the mirror. With all that cream conditioner on my face, I looked like the closing frame of the worlds worst porn film. Didn't work either - my beard stayed resolutely brillo-pad like.
The old adage about cultivating on your face what grows wild around your arse is plainly untrue. If I had hair like this on my arse, it'd rip my boxers to shreds and wiping my arse would require me to wear leather gauntlets. Again, a bit more 'specialist' than I'd like.
I've been through the bathroom cabinet; trying out various oils and unguents. I've tried massage oil, cocoa butter and cough syrup so far. I smell nice but I still have a beard like a hedgehog's minge.
I had been hoping to grow the beard and 'tache and use wax to make a showpiece of them - something a bit Salvador Dali. I still have the moustache wax that I bought for a seabed-themed fancy dress party. I used the wax to straighten and set my ballbag-pubes so that my bollocks looked like sea urchins. Looked great but I had to walk really slowly.
And so, unless on of you can come up with a credible beard-softening suggestion, I'll be shaving it off in the next few days.
*Yes. My pubes are my Facebook friends. Why ever not? I see them every day and they never fail to make me laugh. Best Friends.
Wednesday, 16 October 2013
Skin Flicks
I've always been a pimply fker. From adolescence to middle-age, I've been prone to spots. My 83 year old mother still gets teenage spots. It's a family thing. My wife has perfect skin and hardly ever gets spots. On the rare occasions that she does, her inexperience means she hacks away until she has genuinely made a mountain out of a molehill. I have years of practice and can surgically excise even the most stubborn pimple.
I never really got the huge adolescent zilters that could feed the five thousand - just annoying zits that usually come from poor hygiene. Apart from the teenage period of not washing as that would mean losing the wondrous new smells eminating all over, I've always been careful about washing my hands and face. It doesn't make much difference - dirt still seeks me out and settles on me seconds after washing.
Not everyone washes their hands. I often want to follow someone out of the gents and loudly announce "This dirty fucker didn't wash his hands". However, I don't want to get punched by pooey hands. These are grown men who come straight out of the trap and out of the toilets without even a glance at the sink. Ugh!
I worked with a bloke once who used to go for a piss and then dry his hands under the dryer. That left his hands pissy-wet as hand dryers are rubbish. He was sacked for being a ****.
Because hand dryers are so crap, I frequently have to assure someone whose hand I've just shaken that the moisture is from an inadequate dryer and not just piss. Breaks the ice but they do tend to hurry away and avoid me after that.
A recent addition to the long list of middle-aged c**t-tricks that nature plays on me is Roseacea. Along with knackers like a Gauchos' bolas, growing BFG ears and nose and the Pube Sabbatical*, I now have bad skin again.
Like all men, I've not gone to the doctors and instead have self-diagnosed over the internet. I shouldn't have done this. Partially because it is deeply stupid and partially because the prognosis was very bad. Roseacea is incurable and usually flares up after spicy food and / or alcohol.
So, a question for you, dear reader. Do I give up booze and spicy food and have mediocre skin? Or shall I carry on as I've always done with the added 'appeal' of a facial rash?
I have stopped drinking before. It is terribly dull. The evenings go on for ever. Maybe I need a hobby. While internetting the Roseacea, I found this video. Hard-core porn, daredevil stunts, cute kittens - none of them are as fascinating as this. I've watched it again and again and still I find myself gasping, wincing and then cheering.
The patient has nurtured a blocked pore for 25 years. Her friends (I assume they're friends - they certainly aren't doctors) decide to get the contents of the pore out using the bluntish end of a needle.
Be warned - it is horrible. But it is also fascinating. My new hobby is to allow a pore to block up for 25 years and then film it being squeezed. I'll charge people to watch. It is a far better financial plan than my pension.
http://www.minds.com/blog/view/208534/clogged-pore-for-the-past-25-years
Hungry now?
*Not sure if I've mentioned the Pube Sabbatical before. After 30 years of hanging round your bollocks, your pubes get to take a holiday in your eyebrows or ears.
Sunday, 13 October 2013
Dancing Cheek to Cheek
This isn't about the new series of Strictly Come Dancing. A great program but even more of a masturbation minefield than Eurotrash was (Charlie Brooker's joke - many thanks Charlie) . The chances of having your vinegar strokes ruined by Bruce Forsyth shuffling up and asking "Didn't he do well?" are far too great to even risk it.
No. This is about Rugby. For American readers, this is a sport when the men don't ponce about in armour and tight disco pants.
My 8-year-old son has just taken up Rugby and is very keen on it. He has size, speed and strength that all come from his mothers' side of the family. He does tend to dick around and avoid getting stuck into tackles - that comes from me.
When I started at the local Comp at 11, they'd just started playing Rugby there. There wasn't much of a pitch at that time - they marked out an area of boggy thistles that was more like Eeyore's field than a sports ground.
None of the teachers really knew much about Rugby and so the games were pretty much an extended bout of British Bulldogs played in horizontal, freezing rain.
Some 11 year old boys are far, far bigger than others. It was carnage. I was 6 foot tall but about 8 inches wide. I was snapped like a twig as enormous Taz*-like boy-men came running straight through me. Put me off for life.
Part of me is a little sad that my son is so keen on Rugby. I'd wanted him to take up Ballet instead as I felt that that would be better for him when he is an adult. Playing adult Rugby involves a lot of hanging round with other Rugby players and getting cocks out etc.. If he'd become a professional Ballet dancer, he'd be hanging round with attractive girls who can put their ankles behind their ears and have to live on on high-protein diet. How can Rugby be better than that?
Sadly, Ballet is seen as gay and effeminate whereas Rugby is, of course, manly and not gay. .
His training sessions are better organised than what we had at school. Last week they learned how to tackle. Seems that the proper way to tackle is to put your face cheek against the opponents arse cheek - as if you're trying to sniff their farts. At the same time, grab round their legs and bring them down. Face to arse - Cheek to Cheek - that's the secret.
However, it is a secret that has to stay secret. If you're watching your son play rugby and he's about to tackle, do not shout "Go for the arse!" You will be asked to leave.
I realise that I missed out on a lot by not playing Rugby. And by not taking up ballet, come to that. Mostly have the shit kicked out of me once a week. But I also missed out on the bonding rituals - burning off each others pubic hair; spraying Deep Heat onto each others hemorrhoids; lighting each others farts... .... in the roaring log fire of a pub and of course, the tours.
This is a Rugby tour story told to me by a friend. The 'what happens on tour stays on tour' rule that would normally stop this story being told, was broken when the story-teller felt that he'd better do the decent thing and save a team-mates marriage. Up until this point, he was happy to keep schtum - not because of what he did but because it simply isn't the done thing to 'fess up to tour activities. At no point, did the story teller - let's call him L__ - feel that he'd done anything wrong or indeed, anything gay.
It was a tour in France. The team had played some French town and then did the usual bout of stunt drinking, minge-burning, fart lighting etc. About 1am, L__ got back to the hotel room and found his room mate asleep on the bed - flat out, face down and stark-bollock-naked. L__ is a responsible sort of guy so he checked his room mate was ok and got him into the recovery position.
Then, as L__ is a Rugby player on tour and therefore un-fettered by the laws that bind the rest of us, he went to his kit bag and got out the Vaseline. Not sure why Vaseline in needed in Rugby but apparently it is. L__ gets a teaspoon from the tea and coffee facilities - it was quite a posh hotel for rural France - and gets a spoonful of Vaseline. He then very casually spoons the Vaseline up his room mate's arse. But it's ok - it's a Rugby tour and therefore not gay.
Because L__ is a considerate sort of chap, he washes the spoon and puts it back for the next guest.
L__ then plays a c***s trick. He shakes his room mate awake and starts to question him. "Are you alright? Who was that bloke in here? I came in and there was a Frenchman. I thought he was nicking stuff. He ran past me when I opened the door. Come on - help me see if anything has been taken."
And then...
"What's that stuff round your arse?"
Bleary room mate checks his back passage and finds he's all lubed up and ready to go. He goes pale and then into the shower where he stays until he's washed himself raw. For the rest of the tour, he says little and drinks less. When he gets home he makes excuses to avoid sleeping with his wife. It's only a few weeks later that L__ fesses up and - unbelievably - they all laugh about it.
So... Dancing with beautiful women - gay! Ladling lubricant up an unconscious mate's trademan's entrance - not gay! Am I missing something here?
*Taz - the inarticulate Warner Bros cartoon Tasmanian Devil
No. This is about Rugby. For American readers, this is a sport when the men don't ponce about in armour and tight disco pants.
My 8-year-old son has just taken up Rugby and is very keen on it. He has size, speed and strength that all come from his mothers' side of the family. He does tend to dick around and avoid getting stuck into tackles - that comes from me.
When I started at the local Comp at 11, they'd just started playing Rugby there. There wasn't much of a pitch at that time - they marked out an area of boggy thistles that was more like Eeyore's field than a sports ground.
None of the teachers really knew much about Rugby and so the games were pretty much an extended bout of British Bulldogs played in horizontal, freezing rain.
Some 11 year old boys are far, far bigger than others. It was carnage. I was 6 foot tall but about 8 inches wide. I was snapped like a twig as enormous Taz*-like boy-men came running straight through me. Put me off for life.
Part of me is a little sad that my son is so keen on Rugby. I'd wanted him to take up Ballet instead as I felt that that would be better for him when he is an adult. Playing adult Rugby involves a lot of hanging round with other Rugby players and getting cocks out etc.. If he'd become a professional Ballet dancer, he'd be hanging round with attractive girls who can put their ankles behind their ears and have to live on on high-protein diet. How can Rugby be better than that?
Sadly, Ballet is seen as gay and effeminate whereas Rugby is, of course, manly and not gay. .
His training sessions are better organised than what we had at school. Last week they learned how to tackle. Seems that the proper way to tackle is to put your face cheek against the opponents arse cheek - as if you're trying to sniff their farts. At the same time, grab round their legs and bring them down. Face to arse - Cheek to Cheek - that's the secret.
However, it is a secret that has to stay secret. If you're watching your son play rugby and he's about to tackle, do not shout "Go for the arse!" You will be asked to leave.
I realise that I missed out on a lot by not playing Rugby. And by not taking up ballet, come to that. Mostly have the shit kicked out of me once a week. But I also missed out on the bonding rituals - burning off each others pubic hair; spraying Deep Heat onto each others hemorrhoids; lighting each others farts... .... in the roaring log fire of a pub and of course, the tours.
This is a Rugby tour story told to me by a friend. The 'what happens on tour stays on tour' rule that would normally stop this story being told, was broken when the story-teller felt that he'd better do the decent thing and save a team-mates marriage. Up until this point, he was happy to keep schtum - not because of what he did but because it simply isn't the done thing to 'fess up to tour activities. At no point, did the story teller - let's call him L__ - feel that he'd done anything wrong or indeed, anything gay.
It was a tour in France. The team had played some French town and then did the usual bout of stunt drinking, minge-burning, fart lighting etc. About 1am, L__ got back to the hotel room and found his room mate asleep on the bed - flat out, face down and stark-bollock-naked. L__ is a responsible sort of guy so he checked his room mate was ok and got him into the recovery position.
Then, as L__ is a Rugby player on tour and therefore un-fettered by the laws that bind the rest of us, he went to his kit bag and got out the Vaseline. Not sure why Vaseline in needed in Rugby but apparently it is. L__ gets a teaspoon from the tea and coffee facilities - it was quite a posh hotel for rural France - and gets a spoonful of Vaseline. He then very casually spoons the Vaseline up his room mate's arse. But it's ok - it's a Rugby tour and therefore not gay.
Because L__ is a considerate sort of chap, he washes the spoon and puts it back for the next guest.
L__ then plays a c***s trick. He shakes his room mate awake and starts to question him. "Are you alright? Who was that bloke in here? I came in and there was a Frenchman. I thought he was nicking stuff. He ran past me when I opened the door. Come on - help me see if anything has been taken."
And then...
"What's that stuff round your arse?"
Bleary room mate checks his back passage and finds he's all lubed up and ready to go. He goes pale and then into the shower where he stays until he's washed himself raw. For the rest of the tour, he says little and drinks less. When he gets home he makes excuses to avoid sleeping with his wife. It's only a few weeks later that L__ fesses up and - unbelievably - they all laugh about it.
So... Dancing with beautiful women - gay! Ladling lubricant up an unconscious mate's trademan's entrance - not gay! Am I missing something here?
*Taz - the inarticulate Warner Bros cartoon Tasmanian Devil
Thursday, 19 September 2013
Great Inventions of Our Time - II - The Vajingle
This one has been kicking around for a while - since I first heard about The Only Way Is Essex in fact.
Funny place, Essex. My Mum was born and brought up there. Her Essex was a 1930s 1940s Essex of pin-striped & bowler-hatted commuters, evacuation, raising rabbits for the pot and generally living in a Miss Marple story without the murders and the hats.
After the war, Essex filled up with bombed-out East Enders. Suddenly the bucolic Essex countryside was filled with knacker-tweaking* Arsenal and West Ham fans, settling all over the place and bringing with their Cockney ways - jellied eels, rhyming slang and traditional Pearly King and Queen suits with matching white stilettos.
The great-grandchildren of these settlers have become adults and are making their way in the world. Only it seems that their world is quite small and for a 'select' group of them, is focused on strangely quiet nightclubs in Dagenham or wherever the hell TOWIE is set.
I'm not going to bang on about TOWIE - it's been done to death and every place has more than its share of orange-painted, self-obsessed, post-lobotomistic retards. But what TOWIE has given us is something unique and creative - the Vajazzle.
The Vajazzle is genuinely delightful idea - body jewellery that aims to brighten up the rather barren plains left after a full Hollywood. Less painful than piercings and less Paul Daniels than a merkin, the Vajazzle sounds lovely. Have I ever seen one? No. Am I likely to? Well, the kids have got some stick-on plastic jewels in an art set...
Quite literally on the other side of the Vajazzle is the base-of-spine tattoo - rather cruelly called the slag tag. Like the Vajazzle, these could be things of beauty. However, all too often they're poorly presented - peeking out from behind an over-stressed G-string - itself like a rubber band stretched round a sponge - or standing out like a warning sign above a crack of doom that would be the envy of any builder. Mind The Gap.
What is less well known is that the very best base-of-the-spine tattoos have some subtle cleverness to them. Remember the Magic Eye pictures from the 90s? When you get your eyes exactly the right distance away, a 3D pattern leaps out at you. Remember? Well... the very best of these tattoos have a magic eye effect - get your head in the right place and you'll see a magnificent 3D pattern. And that's not all. No... There's more. The very, very best of these tattoos are set up so that when you can see the 3D pattern, you're in exactly the right position for the optimum angle of approach for anal sex. This is *exactly* the same technique that is used in airports around the world to guide planes in to land.
Meanwhile, round the front, there are improvements that could be made to the already near-perfect Vajazzle.
The Vajangle (TM) - very similar to the Vajazzle except instead of jewels, it features a pair of minature cow bells. Perfect for helping find you way in the dark. The downside is that it'll sound a little like you're humping Father Xmas.
The Vajingle (TM) Do you remember those noisy greetings cards? The ones that, when you opened them, Cliff Richard sang 'Congratulations' in a tinny voice? Combine one of these devices with Vajzzles and the music on your iPhone and you have the Vajingle - On hand (well... on fanny) at any time to provide the ideal "Vajanthem(TM)" for every occasion. As soon as the legs are opened, the Vajingle is activated and the music starts. There may be a need to sort out the sound to counter the echoes but fundamentally, it's a great idea.
I wouldn't necessarily recommend using the Cliff Richard jingle. Unless it was used as some sort of contraception / chastity belt device.
Christmas is coming - get your Vajingles while you can. They're going to sell out quick.
*Knacker Tweaking. Watch anyone born and brought up in the East London / Essex area and you'll notice that every few minutes they'll give the old boy a little tweak, just to make sure it's still there. This habit dates back to the Middle Ages when thievery in olde London was so rife that even the family jewels could be stolen. Cockneys even now have to habitually check every few minutes to make sure that no-one has stolen the meat and two veg. It used to be said that you could tell what part of London a man came from just be observing how he checks his package. Chaucer wrote of the "dubbled bollok lifte of the Vagabondes of Hockley-in-the-Hole" and later, Shakespeare makes a passing reference in the Merry Wives of Windsor to Bardolph's "sinister shifting" of his "pizzle". This pretty clearly alludes to the brushing the front of the old chap with the knuckles of the left hand, a technique peculiar to 15th century Spitalfields.
In the 21st century Essex, the style have curiously adapted to the place names - perhaps deliberately or by co-incidence - no-one knows. In Clacton, they bang them together while holding the penis (like crap 70s toy Clackers) . In Maldon, they mould 'em (never said it was going to be funny - that's both the local style and local humour). The technique in Dagenham frankly looks painful whereas in Billericay, it is a gentle testicle/hand ballet that is a joy to watch.
Funny place, Essex. My Mum was born and brought up there. Her Essex was a 1930s 1940s Essex of pin-striped & bowler-hatted commuters, evacuation, raising rabbits for the pot and generally living in a Miss Marple story without the murders and the hats.
After the war, Essex filled up with bombed-out East Enders. Suddenly the bucolic Essex countryside was filled with knacker-tweaking* Arsenal and West Ham fans, settling all over the place and bringing with their Cockney ways - jellied eels, rhyming slang and traditional Pearly King and Queen suits with matching white stilettos.
The great-grandchildren of these settlers have become adults and are making their way in the world. Only it seems that their world is quite small and for a 'select' group of them, is focused on strangely quiet nightclubs in Dagenham or wherever the hell TOWIE is set.
I'm not going to bang on about TOWIE - it's been done to death and every place has more than its share of orange-painted, self-obsessed, post-lobotomistic retards. But what TOWIE has given us is something unique and creative - the Vajazzle.
The Vajazzle is genuinely delightful idea - body jewellery that aims to brighten up the rather barren plains left after a full Hollywood. Less painful than piercings and less Paul Daniels than a merkin, the Vajazzle sounds lovely. Have I ever seen one? No. Am I likely to? Well, the kids have got some stick-on plastic jewels in an art set...
Quite literally on the other side of the Vajazzle is the base-of-spine tattoo - rather cruelly called the slag tag. Like the Vajazzle, these could be things of beauty. However, all too often they're poorly presented - peeking out from behind an over-stressed G-string - itself like a rubber band stretched round a sponge - or standing out like a warning sign above a crack of doom that would be the envy of any builder. Mind The Gap.
What is less well known is that the very best base-of-the-spine tattoos have some subtle cleverness to them. Remember the Magic Eye pictures from the 90s? When you get your eyes exactly the right distance away, a 3D pattern leaps out at you. Remember? Well... the very best of these tattoos have a magic eye effect - get your head in the right place and you'll see a magnificent 3D pattern. And that's not all. No... There's more. The very, very best of these tattoos are set up so that when you can see the 3D pattern, you're in exactly the right position for the optimum angle of approach for anal sex. This is *exactly* the same technique that is used in airports around the world to guide planes in to land.
Meanwhile, round the front, there are improvements that could be made to the already near-perfect Vajazzle.
The Vajangle (TM) - very similar to the Vajazzle except instead of jewels, it features a pair of minature cow bells. Perfect for helping find you way in the dark. The downside is that it'll sound a little like you're humping Father Xmas.
The Vajingle (TM) Do you remember those noisy greetings cards? The ones that, when you opened them, Cliff Richard sang 'Congratulations' in a tinny voice? Combine one of these devices with Vajzzles and the music on your iPhone and you have the Vajingle - On hand (well... on fanny) at any time to provide the ideal "Vajanthem(TM)" for every occasion. As soon as the legs are opened, the Vajingle is activated and the music starts. There may be a need to sort out the sound to counter the echoes but fundamentally, it's a great idea.
I wouldn't necessarily recommend using the Cliff Richard jingle. Unless it was used as some sort of contraception / chastity belt device.
Christmas is coming - get your Vajingles while you can. They're going to sell out quick.
*Knacker Tweaking. Watch anyone born and brought up in the East London / Essex area and you'll notice that every few minutes they'll give the old boy a little tweak, just to make sure it's still there. This habit dates back to the Middle Ages when thievery in olde London was so rife that even the family jewels could be stolen. Cockneys even now have to habitually check every few minutes to make sure that no-one has stolen the meat and two veg. It used to be said that you could tell what part of London a man came from just be observing how he checks his package. Chaucer wrote of the "dubbled bollok lifte of the Vagabondes of Hockley-in-the-Hole" and later, Shakespeare makes a passing reference in the Merry Wives of Windsor to Bardolph's "sinister shifting" of his "pizzle". This pretty clearly alludes to the brushing the front of the old chap with the knuckles of the left hand, a technique peculiar to 15th century Spitalfields.
In the 21st century Essex, the style have curiously adapted to the place names - perhaps deliberately or by co-incidence - no-one knows. In Clacton, they bang them together while holding the penis (like crap 70s toy Clackers) . In Maldon, they mould 'em (never said it was going to be funny - that's both the local style and local humour). The technique in Dagenham frankly looks painful whereas in Billericay, it is a gentle testicle/hand ballet that is a joy to watch.
Thursday, 8 August 2013
Squirrels - Fluffy ****s
Story told to me by a mate who had a squirrel invading his house and garden. I've re-spun the story for my own amusement. Facts may have been circumvented during this process.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Working at home is a breeze if you have the house to yourself. You can sit there in your pants and quietly work / watch Jeremy Kyle / masturbate / all three at the same time.
If you have a colleague working at home, phone them up and at the same time, send them an instant message. If you hear an ear-splitting 'new instant message ding' down the phone, it's a pretty sure sign that they're spending the day well away from their laptop and probably tugging over a Jeremy Kyle guest. Seeing your colleague in a new light now?
If the house is full of kids, not only is it poor form to do any of the above; you're not going to get any work done. Wherever you secrete yourself off to, they'll find you and want to play Minecraft / print off some colouring-in, play on the swivel chair etc. etc.
But if you're working from home and you have to share the place with a squirrel, you're opening up a whole new world of pain.
Squirrels like open windows. They like to go into open windows and look for food. But once they're in, they can't get out - they haven't worked out that open windows work both ways. Instead, they get panicked and do a wall-of-death run around the room, leaving a trail of shit and piss on all your walls. Kind of like those 80s wallpaper strips we used to put up at waist height, only made out of squirrel piss. Or a dado rail made entirely of squirrel shit. What has a hazelnut in every bite? Your living room wall.
If they get into your roof, it's even worse. They use your insulation to weave ornate Baroque costumes and wigs and use your roof tiles to make giant platform boots. Then, dressed like Elton John on his 50th birthday, they stomp around your attic all night. FACT.
Luckily, in the UK it is legal to kill a squirrel. You have to trap it and shoot it or simply shoot it. It is also legal(ish) to shoot an airgun on your own propery. Therefore, it should be pretty easy to get rid of your squirrel problem. You can pop a cap in its ass. Whatever that means. If it means what I think it does, then I'd have to say that I can't see the point of putting a contraceptive device up a squirrel's bottom. Pregnancy is very unlikely that way.
The lure of hunting is primeval and irresistible. In many cultures, you're not a man until you've killed, eaten and worn your prey. In parts of Gloucestershire, you can add 'fucked' to that list. Live or dead - doesn't matter. Country ways. Squirrel is edible so that's not a problem. Wearing squirrel fur is more difficult - there's not a lot of it on a squirrel and the best you can do is make a rather tight little Davy Crocket beret / forage cap thing with little squirrely feet, tail and bollocks hanging down like the ornaments in Keith Richards hair.
Alternatively, you could use its skin as a kind of posing pouch - tuck each testicle into the skin of the back legs and use the body as a kind of fluffy condom. The tail gets coiled up and velcros to your pubes as a kind of luxury fur merkin. You can even animate it by travelling on a bus to get the squirrel to stand up.
You can get airguns over the internet. Don't get an air pistol - they look so much like the real thing that if your neighbour sees you with it, they'll get the armed police round to shoot you. Get an air rifle - ideally one that looks like a kids toy. I shit you not - you can get a pink plastic air rifle.
It's pump action. I imagine Freud's head would explode at the thought of a pink, pump-action gun. It looks like a perfect toy for Little Miss Gun-Nut but if the neighbours see it, they're just going to assume (probably correctly) that you're a transvestite cowboy. Far better that than having half the local police force looking down gun barrels at you.
As well as having an innocuous-looking weapon, you have to use stealth and camouflage. You have to disguise yourself as a part of the garden. For most of us, it's probably easiest to pretend to be a large chiminea. Sooner or later, we all get to be that shape. Assume your chiminea pose and and then stand there - like the rock-hard sniper you clearly are not - until the squirrel comes into range. Then shoot and miss. Repeat until you get pissed off and buy a trap over the internet.
The trap will be (and should be) a humane trap. Inhumane traps involve smashing, crushing and severing - and that's just the fingers of the guy setting the trap. Humane traps are baited and capture the squirrel alive and unharmed. Bait the trap with peanuts. Do not make the mistake of baiting the trap with cashews. Squirrels are terrible inverse snobs - they will simply kick the trap over and chitter "Fucking cashews! You middle-class ponce!" at you. I've heard that in Cheltenham, it's the other way round. If you put in cashews, they'll still kick the trap over but they'll snootily chitter "Cashews? We want Macademias, you common oik!"
If the trap eventually works, you're going to have a the worst problem of all. Up until now you were Travis Bickle, clearing out the vermin - the cold-blooded hunter of a pestilent foe. But now you have big-eyed, innocent-looking, cute and fluffy Tufty at your mercy. It sits there, curled up and terrified, chittering to it's mates "Help! I've been trapped by a transvestite cowboy disguised as a garden heater and I've eaten all the Macademias!"
Can you shoot it in cold blood? Even if takes the piss out of your pink gun (and it will - listen - you can hear it laughing at your shit gun), you simply don't have the heart to murder it. So of course you let it go. By way of thanks, it'll bite you, shit in your house and bugger off into your roof for a banging Elton disco party.
But.... by letting it go, you've broken the law. Once an animal considered as vermin has been trapped, it must be killed - it cannot be released. But how to kill it?
You have to kill it humanely. For a human, I reckon the most humane way of killing someone would be to let them die like John Entwhistle, who died full of cocaine, underneath a groupie. Whilst it would be possible to arrange a trip to Switzerland, where drugs, prostitution and euthanasia are all legal, this does seem like a lot of effort just for a squirrel. However, for humans, this is a great business idea - "Entwhistle Tours - Go out with a smile on your face!" or "Entwhistle Tours - Go out with a bang!" or my favourite - "Entwhistle Tours - Spunk away your kids inheritance". One for Dragon's Den maybe?
The obvious solution is to use a flame thrower. Who doesn't love the smell of burning squirrel in the morning? However, flamethrowers aren't easy to come by. You could try the James Bond improv. flamethrower - a can of Lynx aerosol and a cigar - but frankly, you'll most likely blow yourself up. And being found dead with a cigar, a can of Lynx, a caged wild animal and a pink gun is going to out-Michael Hutchence Michael Hutchence.
Sword? Finally a use for those crap Ninja swords you bought when you had more money and even less sense. But trying to stab a squirrel in a cage with a sword is going to make you look like the worlds cruellest magician. Plus you'll need a lot of swords - squirrel move fast. You're going to keep jabbing at it until the cage looks like the Game of Thrones version of KerPlunk.
Breaking its neck? You'll need thick gloves and a strong grip. You have broadband - you'll be fine. Simply get the squirrel out of the trap and break its neck. Or, eventually get the squirrel out of the trap after being repeatedly bitten through the gloves and then watch as it escapes into your attic, via your lounge.
The only solution is to shoot it. With your pink gun. And you have to kill it first shot - right between the eyes. Because, not only is it illegal to release a trapped squirrel, you can't injure it - you have to kill it. Injuring squirrels is a big no-no. Ask your masturbating colleague - the ad breaks in Jeremy Kyle are full of specialist claim companies. "Squirrels! Have you been injured by a middle-class ponce with a crap pink gun? Did they deprive you of Macademias? Did they try to make you eat Cashews? Mr S. Nutkin of Cumbria was caught in a trap and sprayed with Lynx, causing him to smell like a teenager for days. Thanks to us he was able to claim over a ton of peanuts in damages".
Bloody squirrels - it's the compensation culture gone mad
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Working at home is a breeze if you have the house to yourself. You can sit there in your pants and quietly work / watch Jeremy Kyle / masturbate / all three at the same time.
If you have a colleague working at home, phone them up and at the same time, send them an instant message. If you hear an ear-splitting 'new instant message ding' down the phone, it's a pretty sure sign that they're spending the day well away from their laptop and probably tugging over a Jeremy Kyle guest. Seeing your colleague in a new light now?
If the house is full of kids, not only is it poor form to do any of the above; you're not going to get any work done. Wherever you secrete yourself off to, they'll find you and want to play Minecraft / print off some colouring-in, play on the swivel chair etc. etc.
But if you're working from home and you have to share the place with a squirrel, you're opening up a whole new world of pain.
Squirrels like open windows. They like to go into open windows and look for food. But once they're in, they can't get out - they haven't worked out that open windows work both ways. Instead, they get panicked and do a wall-of-death run around the room, leaving a trail of shit and piss on all your walls. Kind of like those 80s wallpaper strips we used to put up at waist height, only made out of squirrel piss. Or a dado rail made entirely of squirrel shit. What has a hazelnut in every bite? Your living room wall.
If they get into your roof, it's even worse. They use your insulation to weave ornate Baroque costumes and wigs and use your roof tiles to make giant platform boots. Then, dressed like Elton John on his 50th birthday, they stomp around your attic all night. FACT.
Luckily, in the UK it is legal to kill a squirrel. You have to trap it and shoot it or simply shoot it. It is also legal(ish) to shoot an airgun on your own propery. Therefore, it should be pretty easy to get rid of your squirrel problem. You can pop a cap in its ass. Whatever that means. If it means what I think it does, then I'd have to say that I can't see the point of putting a contraceptive device up a squirrel's bottom. Pregnancy is very unlikely that way.
The lure of hunting is primeval and irresistible. In many cultures, you're not a man until you've killed, eaten and worn your prey. In parts of Gloucestershire, you can add 'fucked' to that list. Live or dead - doesn't matter. Country ways. Squirrel is edible so that's not a problem. Wearing squirrel fur is more difficult - there's not a lot of it on a squirrel and the best you can do is make a rather tight little Davy Crocket beret / forage cap thing with little squirrely feet, tail and bollocks hanging down like the ornaments in Keith Richards hair.
Alternatively, you could use its skin as a kind of posing pouch - tuck each testicle into the skin of the back legs and use the body as a kind of fluffy condom. The tail gets coiled up and velcros to your pubes as a kind of luxury fur merkin. You can even animate it by travelling on a bus to get the squirrel to stand up.
You can get airguns over the internet. Don't get an air pistol - they look so much like the real thing that if your neighbour sees you with it, they'll get the armed police round to shoot you. Get an air rifle - ideally one that looks like a kids toy. I shit you not - you can get a pink plastic air rifle.
It's pump action. I imagine Freud's head would explode at the thought of a pink, pump-action gun. It looks like a perfect toy for Little Miss Gun-Nut but if the neighbours see it, they're just going to assume (probably correctly) that you're a transvestite cowboy. Far better that than having half the local police force looking down gun barrels at you.
As well as having an innocuous-looking weapon, you have to use stealth and camouflage. You have to disguise yourself as a part of the garden. For most of us, it's probably easiest to pretend to be a large chiminea. Sooner or later, we all get to be that shape. Assume your chiminea pose and and then stand there - like the rock-hard sniper you clearly are not - until the squirrel comes into range. Then shoot and miss. Repeat until you get pissed off and buy a trap over the internet.
The trap will be (and should be) a humane trap. Inhumane traps involve smashing, crushing and severing - and that's just the fingers of the guy setting the trap. Humane traps are baited and capture the squirrel alive and unharmed. Bait the trap with peanuts. Do not make the mistake of baiting the trap with cashews. Squirrels are terrible inverse snobs - they will simply kick the trap over and chitter "Fucking cashews! You middle-class ponce!" at you. I've heard that in Cheltenham, it's the other way round. If you put in cashews, they'll still kick the trap over but they'll snootily chitter "Cashews? We want Macademias, you common oik!"
If the trap eventually works, you're going to have a the worst problem of all. Up until now you were Travis Bickle, clearing out the vermin - the cold-blooded hunter of a pestilent foe. But now you have big-eyed, innocent-looking, cute and fluffy Tufty at your mercy. It sits there, curled up and terrified, chittering to it's mates "Help! I've been trapped by a transvestite cowboy disguised as a garden heater and I've eaten all the Macademias!"
Can you shoot it in cold blood? Even if takes the piss out of your pink gun (and it will - listen - you can hear it laughing at your shit gun), you simply don't have the heart to murder it. So of course you let it go. By way of thanks, it'll bite you, shit in your house and bugger off into your roof for a banging Elton disco party.
But.... by letting it go, you've broken the law. Once an animal considered as vermin has been trapped, it must be killed - it cannot be released. But how to kill it?
You have to kill it humanely. For a human, I reckon the most humane way of killing someone would be to let them die like John Entwhistle, who died full of cocaine, underneath a groupie. Whilst it would be possible to arrange a trip to Switzerland, where drugs, prostitution and euthanasia are all legal, this does seem like a lot of effort just for a squirrel. However, for humans, this is a great business idea - "Entwhistle Tours - Go out with a smile on your face!" or "Entwhistle Tours - Go out with a bang!" or my favourite - "Entwhistle Tours - Spunk away your kids inheritance". One for Dragon's Den maybe?
The obvious solution is to use a flame thrower. Who doesn't love the smell of burning squirrel in the morning? However, flamethrowers aren't easy to come by. You could try the James Bond improv. flamethrower - a can of Lynx aerosol and a cigar - but frankly, you'll most likely blow yourself up. And being found dead with a cigar, a can of Lynx, a caged wild animal and a pink gun is going to out-Michael Hutchence Michael Hutchence.
Sword? Finally a use for those crap Ninja swords you bought when you had more money and even less sense. But trying to stab a squirrel in a cage with a sword is going to make you look like the worlds cruellest magician. Plus you'll need a lot of swords - squirrel move fast. You're going to keep jabbing at it until the cage looks like the Game of Thrones version of KerPlunk.
Breaking its neck? You'll need thick gloves and a strong grip. You have broadband - you'll be fine. Simply get the squirrel out of the trap and break its neck. Or, eventually get the squirrel out of the trap after being repeatedly bitten through the gloves and then watch as it escapes into your attic, via your lounge.
The only solution is to shoot it. With your pink gun. And you have to kill it first shot - right between the eyes. Because, not only is it illegal to release a trapped squirrel, you can't injure it - you have to kill it. Injuring squirrels is a big no-no. Ask your masturbating colleague - the ad breaks in Jeremy Kyle are full of specialist claim companies. "Squirrels! Have you been injured by a middle-class ponce with a crap pink gun? Did they deprive you of Macademias? Did they try to make you eat Cashews? Mr S. Nutkin of Cumbria was caught in a trap and sprayed with Lynx, causing him to smell like a teenager for days. Thanks to us he was able to claim over a ton of peanuts in damages".
Bloody squirrels - it's the compensation culture gone mad
Tuesday, 6 August 2013
Cleaning out the Potty Mouth.
Swearing is big and clever. Swearing has been my hobby for years. Swearing has probably ruined a few things but it has also helped my career. My years spent working all over Europe were a result of my ability to teach all the definitions of 'bollocks' to non-English speakers - willing and keen to learn how to speak English like the English do. I think I was supposed to be there to do something with computers but I was always asked back. "Send us the English guy who talks about wanking - he doesn't know shit about IT but we need him to teach us the difference between 'bollocks' and 'the bollocks'!"
I travel a lot less now. I rarely get to meet delightful, educated Europeans who are hungry to learn about the 1001 words for nadgers, the dangers of sheep jokes* and the Cock Words Vowel Hierarchy(copyright)**. These days, I just get to meet Americans, who are all very nice but really haven't got a good grip on their bollocks.
So perhaps it is time to cut back on the swearing. After all, I have young children. Luckily (for me), I've been able to keep a civil tongue in my head most of the time. They've not been entirely protected. On holiday a while ago, my six-year old daughter asked "Are we going on the bloody fucking cable-car? That's what Mummy calls it."
So I'm resolving to no longer use the C word. This is a sacrifice. It is one of my favourite words. It's a word I use to describe my mates - frankly, for some of my mates, it is the only suitable word. It has a thousand uses but all of them now seem rather too vulgar. I think the problem is that I don't like it when I hear other people use it. It's a bit like farts - my own farts are lovely but other peoples farts are awful - there are fart molecules up my nose that only a few seconds ago were up their arses. Gick!
So from now on, I'm resolving to no longer inflict the C-word on an innocent world. If you hear me use the C-word, please bring it to my attention and I will donate a quid to the nearest charity tin. I suppose I should solemnly swear but I suspect that'll see the first quid in the tin.
There will of course be exceptions. I reserve the right the use the C-word in the following circumstances:
1. Any conversation involving Michael Gove. For the non-British readers, Michael Gove is the Schools Minister. Think of the sneaky, weaselly kid at school who would grass up anyone and had to be protected by the teacher. No imagine that kid grown up, owning the school and spending his time humiliating the teacher before sacking them. Only worse. For Gove, the C-word stays.
2. Reciting the words to the Alexei Sayle's 1984 hit "'Ullo John, Got a new motor?" Part IV The Mr Sweary Re-mix. (Opening line "F**k-C**t! F**k-C**t! F**k-C**t! F**k-C**t C**t Piss Bollocks Wank Shit!)
3. Taking ownership of a parrot. It's the law to teach a parrot to scream the C-Word.
4. Grey squirrels. The next post in this blog will have the details as to why these fluffy ****s are such fluffy ****s.
5. Drunkenly and pretentiously misquoting Shakespeare. "We few, We happy few. We bunch of ****s."
That should be enough caveats to let me use the C-Word on special occasions. In any other circumstances, pick me up on it. I thank you for your support.
*The Dangers of Sheep Jokes - I was a shepherd (true). I've heard them all. I've even tried most of them. Some of them are not physically possible and I hurt myself trying them out. That one about wellies is a dangerous myth - sheep feet really hurt my instep if they're in my wellies. And the one about them pushing back on a cliff edge is lethal (and doesn't really work - even if it does feel a bit like the rural version of a Stephen Milligan / Michael Hutchence hotel stay)
**Cock Word Vowel Hierarchy. As far as I can tell, I've invented this using the vowels 'i','a','o' and 'u'. The scale is as follows:
Tidger - Small
Tadger - Getting bigger
Todger - Healthy size
Tudger - HUGE!
Plainly there should be no 'tedger' as this is an obselete Victorian farming implement.
I travel a lot less now. I rarely get to meet delightful, educated Europeans who are hungry to learn about the 1001 words for nadgers, the dangers of sheep jokes* and the Cock Words Vowel Hierarchy(copyright)**. These days, I just get to meet Americans, who are all very nice but really haven't got a good grip on their bollocks.
So perhaps it is time to cut back on the swearing. After all, I have young children. Luckily (for me), I've been able to keep a civil tongue in my head most of the time. They've not been entirely protected. On holiday a while ago, my six-year old daughter asked "Are we going on the bloody fucking cable-car? That's what Mummy calls it."
So I'm resolving to no longer use the C word. This is a sacrifice. It is one of my favourite words. It's a word I use to describe my mates - frankly, for some of my mates, it is the only suitable word. It has a thousand uses but all of them now seem rather too vulgar. I think the problem is that I don't like it when I hear other people use it. It's a bit like farts - my own farts are lovely but other peoples farts are awful - there are fart molecules up my nose that only a few seconds ago were up their arses. Gick!
So from now on, I'm resolving to no longer inflict the C-word on an innocent world. If you hear me use the C-word, please bring it to my attention and I will donate a quid to the nearest charity tin. I suppose I should solemnly swear but I suspect that'll see the first quid in the tin.
There will of course be exceptions. I reserve the right the use the C-word in the following circumstances:
1. Any conversation involving Michael Gove. For the non-British readers, Michael Gove is the Schools Minister. Think of the sneaky, weaselly kid at school who would grass up anyone and had to be protected by the teacher. No imagine that kid grown up, owning the school and spending his time humiliating the teacher before sacking them. Only worse. For Gove, the C-word stays.
2. Reciting the words to the Alexei Sayle's 1984 hit "'Ullo John, Got a new motor?" Part IV The Mr Sweary Re-mix. (Opening line "F**k-C**t! F**k-C**t! F**k-C**t! F**k-C**t C**t Piss Bollocks Wank Shit!)
3. Taking ownership of a parrot. It's the law to teach a parrot to scream the C-Word.
4. Grey squirrels. The next post in this blog will have the details as to why these fluffy ****s are such fluffy ****s.
5. Drunkenly and pretentiously misquoting Shakespeare. "We few, We happy few. We bunch of ****s."
That should be enough caveats to let me use the C-Word on special occasions. In any other circumstances, pick me up on it. I thank you for your support.
*The Dangers of Sheep Jokes - I was a shepherd (true). I've heard them all. I've even tried most of them. Some of them are not physically possible and I hurt myself trying them out. That one about wellies is a dangerous myth - sheep feet really hurt my instep if they're in my wellies. And the one about them pushing back on a cliff edge is lethal (and doesn't really work - even if it does feel a bit like the rural version of a Stephen Milligan / Michael Hutchence hotel stay)
**Cock Word Vowel Hierarchy. As far as I can tell, I've invented this using the vowels 'i','a','o' and 'u'. The scale is as follows:
Tidger - Small
Tadger - Getting bigger
Todger - Healthy size
Tudger - HUGE!
Plainly there should be no 'tedger' as this is an obselete Victorian farming implement.
Thursday, 27 June 2013
Heaven knows I'm not miserable now.
Johnny Marr - Wedgewood Rooms Portsmouth 27th June 2013
It could so easily have been a booty call. Revered music legend turns up, mutters platitudes, does his stuff for half an hour and then fucks off. A couple of whispered sweet nothings and poor, simple, sure-shag Portsmouth would happily take a mouthful of pillow and let the star go in dry. He promised to love us but in the morning he's gone and all we have left is a rather bad taste in our mouths. And not from the pillow.
But it wasn't like that. It wasn't like that at all. Like an omnipresent, high-class gigolo, Johnny Marr coaxed long-forgotten pleasures out of several hundred middle-aged bodies. Sensations and excitements buried for 20 years returned, breathless, frantic and sweaty.. We shared a cigarette afterwards.
It could so easily have been a Smiths cabaret act. He could have played the whole back catalogue and we'd have loved him for it. But no. Smiths songs were sparsely distributed in a 90 minute set packed with strong 'new stuff' that held it's own in exceptional company. We had "That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore" and later on, my karaoke favourite, "Bigmouth Strikes Again". However, most of the set was from Marr's surprisingly rocky 2013 album "The Messenger". Influences from New Wave, through Krautrock to Alex Harvey and Synth Pop - Marr plucked the best bits and improved on them. His young band - the target demographic when This Charming Man was aired to bemused pre-teens on Cheggers Play Pop in the early 80s - laid a tight foundation for Marr to casually torture melodies out of his guitar. Even standing next to a man who knew all of the words but none of the tunes couldn't dampen the rare pleasure of hearing songs for the first time and really liking them.
Marr took us shandy-drinking Southern Jessies to his heart - defending Portsmouth's 'Crap Town' reputation and dedicated 'How Soon Is Now?' to the audience - "To those on the inside not those on the outside." Or something like that.
A middle-aged man needs a bit of rest after playing on stage for an hour or so and after a long comfort break, Marr and the band returned in new shirts and let rip with a faithful cover of the Clash's "I fought the law". Unexpected and delightful. This segued into Electronic's "Getting away with it", played almost dub and heavier than a fat monks ballbag.
Finally, the Smiths back catalog got a look in. "How Soon Is Now?" took me back to a frankly shitty time in the 80's when I wasted my youth reading sci-fi and lying around being miserable when all I needed was a double-dose of St John's Wort and a firm kick up the arse. I went through an existential moment of thinking was a gloomy little shit I was back then and what I would have thought back then if I could see me now with my Talking Heads wife, house, car, kids and middle-aged spread (that wasn't in the song but it's there alright). I'd have probably hated me.
Maybe the rest of the crowd also felt pangs of regret for those wasted years and tedious melodramatic adolescent emotions - but they didn't seem to. Instead they were singing along and having far more fun than any Smiths fan should rightly have. Only the girl in the cloakroom seemed to get into the proper Smiths spirit - sitting quietly reading throughout the gig. But when I spoke to her, she wasn't reading Oscar Wilde or Keats - she was reading the Zombie Survival Guide. Youth of today... *sigh*
The show finished with a lengthy and lovely "There Is A Light That Never Goes Out". We sang along, we took over, we grinned, we cheered, we went home happy. If that was a booty call then Johnny Marr can go in dry anytime he wants to.
It could so easily have been a booty call. Revered music legend turns up, mutters platitudes, does his stuff for half an hour and then fucks off. A couple of whispered sweet nothings and poor, simple, sure-shag Portsmouth would happily take a mouthful of pillow and let the star go in dry. He promised to love us but in the morning he's gone and all we have left is a rather bad taste in our mouths. And not from the pillow.
But it wasn't like that. It wasn't like that at all. Like an omnipresent, high-class gigolo, Johnny Marr coaxed long-forgotten pleasures out of several hundred middle-aged bodies. Sensations and excitements buried for 20 years returned, breathless, frantic and sweaty.. We shared a cigarette afterwards.
It could so easily have been a Smiths cabaret act. He could have played the whole back catalogue and we'd have loved him for it. But no. Smiths songs were sparsely distributed in a 90 minute set packed with strong 'new stuff' that held it's own in exceptional company. We had "That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore" and later on, my karaoke favourite, "Bigmouth Strikes Again". However, most of the set was from Marr's surprisingly rocky 2013 album "The Messenger". Influences from New Wave, through Krautrock to Alex Harvey and Synth Pop - Marr plucked the best bits and improved on them. His young band - the target demographic when This Charming Man was aired to bemused pre-teens on Cheggers Play Pop in the early 80s - laid a tight foundation for Marr to casually torture melodies out of his guitar. Even standing next to a man who knew all of the words but none of the tunes couldn't dampen the rare pleasure of hearing songs for the first time and really liking them.
Marr took us shandy-drinking Southern Jessies to his heart - defending Portsmouth's 'Crap Town' reputation and dedicated 'How Soon Is Now?' to the audience - "To those on the inside not those on the outside." Or something like that.
A middle-aged man needs a bit of rest after playing on stage for an hour or so and after a long comfort break, Marr and the band returned in new shirts and let rip with a faithful cover of the Clash's "I fought the law". Unexpected and delightful. This segued into Electronic's "Getting away with it", played almost dub and heavier than a fat monks ballbag.
Finally, the Smiths back catalog got a look in. "How Soon Is Now?" took me back to a frankly shitty time in the 80's when I wasted my youth reading sci-fi and lying around being miserable when all I needed was a double-dose of St John's Wort and a firm kick up the arse. I went through an existential moment of thinking was a gloomy little shit I was back then and what I would have thought back then if I could see me now with my Talking Heads wife, house, car, kids and middle-aged spread (that wasn't in the song but it's there alright). I'd have probably hated me.
Maybe the rest of the crowd also felt pangs of regret for those wasted years and tedious melodramatic adolescent emotions - but they didn't seem to. Instead they were singing along and having far more fun than any Smiths fan should rightly have. Only the girl in the cloakroom seemed to get into the proper Smiths spirit - sitting quietly reading throughout the gig. But when I spoke to her, she wasn't reading Oscar Wilde or Keats - she was reading the Zombie Survival Guide. Youth of today... *sigh*
The show finished with a lengthy and lovely "There Is A Light That Never Goes Out". We sang along, we took over, we grinned, we cheered, we went home happy. If that was a booty call then Johnny Marr can go in dry anytime he wants to.
Wednesday, 27 March 2013
The weather may still be shit but even so, it's nearly time to start taking some outdoor exercise. I've signed up to do the London to Brighton bike ride in June. I think I've already wittered on about arriving in Brighton with a sore arse but I'm old now and am allowed to repeat myself. Sponsor me or I'll continue to repeat this 'joke'.
I've done a bit of running. Instead of an MP3 player, I listen to the thwat-thwat-thunk of moobs and beer-belly knocking together when I run. The trick is moobs is to get them small enough to hide but big enough to play with. There's almost certainly a Jimmy Saville joke in there somewhere but I guess it's too early.
Not strictly exercise but I went Karting recently. I was rubbish of course - some of those corners were so tight, the nodding dog looked like something from the Exorcist.
What I hadn't expected was how hard the steering was. The force needed to turn the steering wheel was eye-popping and by the time I'd done fifteen minutes of right-hand circuits, my right arm was more tired than it was the day I got broadband.
After the Karting we went for a pleasant curry. The combined effect of the Karting and the curry meant that I spent the next day with a sore right arm and a sore tradesmans entrance. At least, I assume it was the Karting and curry - I could simply have been Rohypnol'd and taken to a reacharound party.
And now we've done Karting, the next thing is Paintball. I did paintballing for my stag night.. It hurts like a bastard and I finished up covered in bruises. During my speech at the wedding I was able to offer my new bride "something large purple and throbbing in my pants - although sadly it's just a bruise on my arse".
I had to do a long motorway drive recently. It'd been a long time since my last long journey and so I'd forgotten what a shower of bastards Britains' drivers are. Bloody tailgaters- surely the only way to deal with these fuckers is to have a large illuminated sign in the rear window that says "If I'd wanted an ugly bloke up my arse, I'd have gone to your favourite nightclub".
One behaviour type I'd not seen before were the arm-resters. Large numbers of male drivers resting their right arms on the window sill of the drivers door. How could so many men have tired right arms? I can only suppose that there is a large subculture of men who meet up in motorway services to play massive games of Australian Biscuit, probably using one of those huge, over-priced Starbucks cookies. Are these men members of Cookie Club? Due to the first two rules of Cookie Club, we'll never truly know.
Interestingly, until very recently, the Australians insisted that Australian Biscuit should be called English Biscuit. However, since their piss-poor Olympic performance, they have adopted it as their national sport and are now pushing for it to be adopted as an Olympic event for Rio 2016. It could be the only medal they stand a chance of winning. Unless BMW drivers put in a team.
I've done a bit of running. Instead of an MP3 player, I listen to the thwat-thwat-thunk of moobs and beer-belly knocking together when I run. The trick is moobs is to get them small enough to hide but big enough to play with. There's almost certainly a Jimmy Saville joke in there somewhere but I guess it's too early.
Not strictly exercise but I went Karting recently. I was rubbish of course - some of those corners were so tight, the nodding dog looked like something from the Exorcist.
What I hadn't expected was how hard the steering was. The force needed to turn the steering wheel was eye-popping and by the time I'd done fifteen minutes of right-hand circuits, my right arm was more tired than it was the day I got broadband.
After the Karting we went for a pleasant curry. The combined effect of the Karting and the curry meant that I spent the next day with a sore right arm and a sore tradesmans entrance. At least, I assume it was the Karting and curry - I could simply have been Rohypnol'd and taken to a reacharound party.
And now we've done Karting, the next thing is Paintball. I did paintballing for my stag night.. It hurts like a bastard and I finished up covered in bruises. During my speech at the wedding I was able to offer my new bride "something large purple and throbbing in my pants - although sadly it's just a bruise on my arse".
I had to do a long motorway drive recently. It'd been a long time since my last long journey and so I'd forgotten what a shower of bastards Britains' drivers are. Bloody tailgaters- surely the only way to deal with these fuckers is to have a large illuminated sign in the rear window that says "If I'd wanted an ugly bloke up my arse, I'd have gone to your favourite nightclub".
One behaviour type I'd not seen before were the arm-resters. Large numbers of male drivers resting their right arms on the window sill of the drivers door. How could so many men have tired right arms? I can only suppose that there is a large subculture of men who meet up in motorway services to play massive games of Australian Biscuit, probably using one of those huge, over-priced Starbucks cookies. Are these men members of Cookie Club? Due to the first two rules of Cookie Club, we'll never truly know.
Interestingly, until very recently, the Australians insisted that Australian Biscuit should be called English Biscuit. However, since their piss-poor Olympic performance, they have adopted it as their national sport and are now pushing for it to be adopted as an Olympic event for Rio 2016. It could be the only medal they stand a chance of winning. Unless BMW drivers put in a team.
Wednesday, 6 February 2013
Great Inventions of Our Time - The Smell Detector
Somewhere in this cellar there is cat shit. I can smell it - boy, can I smell it. But I cannot find it. It's lurking and laughing at me.
Smoke detectors can detect one part of smoke in several million parts of air. It can't be too hard to frig a smoke detector into a handheld device that could be used to :
But why stop there? Why not make the thing trainable so that it can learn and then detect smells. I accept that for many people, a trainable personal smell detector is another word for a dog. A smell detector that doesn't noisily lick it's own bollocks has to be an advantage though. Especially if you're holding it in your hand.
Armed with an adjustable smell detector, you'd never lose anything again. Train it to recognise the smell of your wallet and it'll find your wallet. The only downside is that the technology isn't quite there yet. To ensure that the thing works, you have to keep your loseable items steeped in your personal smell. As this simply means you have to stick your iphone up your arse, I see no problem at all.
Of course, this isn't true. But it might come true. It's a little known fact that those 'fat measuring' scales that send electrical pulses through your feet to measure the percentage of body fat, were invented in the 1890s. But at that time the technology was so primitive that the user had to place one buttock on each plate and pull the buttocks far apart to avoid a spark arcing across the luxury gap and setting hairs alight. It didn't sell in huge numbers.
Smoke detectors can detect one part of smoke in several million parts of air. It can't be too hard to frig a smoke detector into a handheld device that could be used to :
- Find cat poo in a place where it should not be.
- Find where visiting tomcats have pissed in your house. We've all spent time on all fours sniffing the floor, haven't we? And after that, we have to find where the tomcat pissed and clean it up.
But why stop there? Why not make the thing trainable so that it can learn and then detect smells. I accept that for many people, a trainable personal smell detector is another word for a dog. A smell detector that doesn't noisily lick it's own bollocks has to be an advantage though. Especially if you're holding it in your hand.
Armed with an adjustable smell detector, you'd never lose anything again. Train it to recognise the smell of your wallet and it'll find your wallet. The only downside is that the technology isn't quite there yet. To ensure that the thing works, you have to keep your loseable items steeped in your personal smell. As this simply means you have to stick your iphone up your arse, I see no problem at all.
Of course, this isn't true. But it might come true. It's a little known fact that those 'fat measuring' scales that send electrical pulses through your feet to measure the percentage of body fat, were invented in the 1890s. But at that time the technology was so primitive that the user had to place one buttock on each plate and pull the buttocks far apart to avoid a spark arcing across the luxury gap and setting hairs alight. It didn't sell in huge numbers.
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