Nothing funny happens to me anymore. Perhaps it never did. Either way, I've got 30 or so barely-started blog postings that aren't going to go anywhere. So instead, I've harvested all the funny-ish bits for one - maybe two - posts.
This post is made up of disjointed, random and sometimes disturbing items that I find funny and you probably won't. Pretty much like any conversation with me, really.
These were all ideas that should have been fleshed out. Maybe one day they will be. But for now, I present the tagnuts and dangleberries of my blog.
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Whern I turned 45, I read some great advice.
1. Never trust a fart
2. Never miss out on the opportunity to use a toilet
3. Never waste an erection.
It's only now that I've written them down that I realise that 2 and 3 are just an invitation to go cottaging.
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On being lazy
I am the laziest person I know. Everything I do that is more than
meeting my basic human needs is something that I have to force myself to
do. Eating and sleeping is something that I'll always find enthusiasm
for. I've not yet got to the stage where I can't be arsed to go to the
toilet and so choose to enjoy the brief sensation of warmth followed by
the long cold wetness. However, I do remember that as a small child, I
kept up with the the bedwetting simply because I didn't feel much like
getting out of a nice warm bed just to go for a wee.
Why
am I so lazy? It's because I have this lazy-arse voice in my head
telling me to not do stuff. Think of a slacker generation Jiminy
Cricket. Living inside my head. Let's call him 'Jiminy C***y'. Jiminy lies around in bed, smoking,
drinking, tugging and eating junk food. His role is to try to lure me onto the
rocks of laziness. He is good at his job.
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Drugs in Sport
The Lance Armstrong scandal rumbles on. Did he? Didn't he? Is he
sorry? Is he not? I'd like to put forwards a further question - does
anyone really give a low flyer?
Drugs must improve
sport. Sport is mostly fucking tedious and needs any improvement it can
get. For example, it should be mandatory for all sports people to have
a line of speed before they are interviewed. They'll still utter
mundanities, platitudes and cliches but at least it'll be over quickly.
Drugs will make sport better. Period.
After
all, look at what drugs have done for music. Whilst drugs may have
ended many careers and many lives, the music produced while under the
influence is so, so much better than it would otherwise be.
It
is a sobering thought that if there were no drugs in music, we'd all
think Chris De Burgh was a bit edgy and pushed the boundaries of music.
Fuck. And I've got a Lady in Red earworm. Fuck. Again.
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I think this one was about the beach game of seeing how many pebbles can fit in your foreskin. But perhaps not.
Sandy Balls is a camping and caravan site in the New Forest of
Hampshire, UK. It is named after dome-like sandy outcrops near the
steep cliffs. It is a lovely place and of course, a very funny name.
Sandy
balls are a common problem for beach lovers. A quick swim in the sea
will guarantee that a small amount of sand finds its way into swimming
trunks. There is acts like emery dust, grinding away at the knacker
sack until the plums are like Christmas decorations. I found out that
you can get rash vests for surfing - to stop sand rashes. Does anyone
know if it's possible to get rash pants?
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Originally written for Feb 2nd - Groundhog Day
I've never seen the film but that doesn't stop me from using it to
describe any situation that keeps on re-occurring. Same as I've never
watched the Godfather but I do like to leave horse heads in peoples
beds. (well actually it's turtles heads in their loo but it's almost
the same thing).
There's a lot to suggest that not
knowing anything about a topic is no barrier to gobbing off about it and
becoming an expert in one's own mind. The easiest thing in the world
is to find someone who has been to school and is therefore an expert on
teaching. We can only hope that as Michael Gove has been on a plane,
he tries to fly an airliner. Or as he's been to a hospital, he tries to
do his own brain surgery.
My second job was very
repetitive - not quite Groundhog Day - but still mind numbingly
repetitive. I worked in a factory that screen-printed the glass for
fruit machines (slots / pokies / one-armed bandits). We started out
with a hundred sheets of glass and printed them one colour after another
until they were ready to be put into the machines. Every sheet of
glass had to be wiped clean before it was printed. That my my job.
Hundreds of times a day, I'd wipe a piece of glass and hand it to an
aimable bloke who farted a lot. He'd screen print a pattern on it.
Another bloke would pick it up, check the print for fit and then put it
on a rack to dry. Repeat for ever.
Despite the boring
work and the fumes from the printer inks - it was like sniffing glue
all day - it was still one of the best jobs I ever had. Most of the
lads working there were very bright but hadn't taken to school. They
could do bookie maths and dart scores like a computer but had left
school with nothing.
The culture was very much
sink-or-swim through taking the piss. I joined as a naive know-nothing
doler who'd had nothing to do with any of these guys when we'd been at
school together. I'd been a stuck-up swot and they didn't
like me much. I was also shit at taking the piss and was regularly
owned by anyone who fancied an easy target.
I toughened
up and became good at taking the piss. I'm far from match fit now but
in my day I could usually win over a hostile crowd by getting the bully laughing. At themselves.
When I left a year or so later, I wouldn't
necessarily say that I was loved by all but in their own way, they sent
me off with a lot of affection.
A lot of affection,
some printers ink on my bollocks and the removal of all my clothes. We always got paid
and Friday lunchtime. Instead of going to the bank, getting the cash
and going to the pub, the Friday of my leaving had an extra item on the
agenda - drag me out into the road, strip me start bollock naked, daub me and
drive into town with my clothes. I put up a fight and skinned my back
on the road. The blood gave me some cover but I was pretty much in
public in the nip.
A mate brought me back my pants and
I scavenged around until I found enough to be decentish. At the
factory, dressing decently wasn't easy - we worked with a lot of acid
and it burnt through our trousers so that we were never far from being
plums out.
An hour later I was in the pub doing some
drinking games and was stark bollock naked again - this time
voluntarily. The game ended - as any game should - when the naked
ginger guy (not me - another one) ran out of the front door of the pub and into the street.
We locked the door.
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A paragraph removed from the Christmas blog-storm. Can't think why - it's back now.
And while we're self-helping through tattoos, some sort of Plimsol Line
'lobometer' markings on the cock to measure tumescence would be useful -
if only for keeping a log of angle over time. Apparently, a splayed
hand roughly represents the angle of dangle for lobs - thumb is the
angle at 20 years, index finger at 30 years and so on. Can't really
comment as I don't keep a protractor handy - that's why some sort of
permanent gauge would help. You could record the angle every morning
and plot a graph over time. In fact, there's an app for that. Strava
and RunKeeper are so last year - you want to get LobLogger - £1.99 from
the iTunes store.
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Have I already done this one? No? OK. Fancy a few pints then?
I've also taken more notice of the additives in food and drink. One of
my hobbies is to go drinking with an Australian or an American and get
them onto the real ale. Then, when they're hammered, I give them a big
wink and let them know that the only chemical we put in real ale is
Rohypnol.
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Crime and Punishment
Never go on holiday with someone who says that prison is a holiday
camp. Unless you like being locked in a small room and being
constantly bummed, it's going to be a crap holiday.
