toxicsoup

Well, not toxic, exactly... maybe just a little bit rank. But in a nice way. With a garnish.

Wednesday, November 30, 2005

buggery diet


I've noticed a curious thing: whenever I can eat what I like, there is a cake famine at work. Not a sugary morsel for miles. Maybe a mouldy old Rich Tea biscuit if you're desperate or some manky old funny-tasting chocolate from America that no one eats, but no cakes.

I assume this is because there must be a nationwide cake famine. I expect the shelves of Tesco are eerily empty... the odd hardening crumb of brioche and carrot cake lying unnoticed in the corners.
I haven't heard anything to this effect on the news, but perhaps this is because everyone is too weak to be able to even talk about it.

The opposite is also true. When I jump back aboard my somewhat shaky diet, the surfaces in the work kitchen are instantly groaning under the weight of mince pies, doughnuts, custard tarts, cream cakes.

Today, for instance, I walked into the kitchen, holding my tub of salad to be greeted by stacks of lovely-looking crunchy crumbly oaty buttery biscuits. These however were but a mere shadow of the luscious gooey sugary delights of naughtiness filling the fridge. Cream cakes* and gateaux by the lorry-load. A cheeky-looking fruit cake on the bottom shelf.

There seems to be a Tardis effect when there are cakes in the building. Normally you can only fit in three shelves-worth of sandwiches and tubs of last night's tea, plus a bottle of milk and a couple of out-of-date yoghurts into the fridge.
Introduce cakes into the equation and suddenly you can cram in a couple of hundred-weight of eclairs.

I peered in and whimpered with emotional turmoil (and from biting through the end of my tongue). Blood dribbling down my chin and regret filling my chest-cavity, I turned around and made away as quickly as possible, promising myself an extra apple to make up for it.

Bugger.

*Does anyone actually buy cream horns? I never do, in case I laugh at the till and spurt snot over the till-lady.

honesty online

I suppose I'll have to experiment with Flickr.

Grr.

honesty online

where have all the pictures gone?

What's happened? It seems that all the pics hosted by Blogger have disappeared... well that buggers up my post for today, then.

Anyone got any ideas?

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

Escape!

I will be doing this with my students tomorrow. It's provided much debate in the office and of course, the opportunity to stop working for... oh, about an hour and a half. I love a good debate.

See what you think.



In 40 minutes the Earth is about to be totally destroyed.
There is a rocket ready to take you to look for somewhere else that you could colonise, but there is no guarantee that you will find somewhere safe. There is enough food and fuel to last for 30 years.

The accommodation is a bit cramped and there isn’t much privacy.

You and your friends have a place on the rocket. You cannot offer your place to someone else. There are 5 places left, but there are 10 people hoping to board the rocket to escape from the world.
Who should be chosen?


1. Priest. Age 35, white. He used to be a vet. He is a quiet person who is often able to calm and comfort others.

2. Pregnant woman. Age 25 and seven months pregnant. Pakistani, a good cook of Indian foods. She is in good health and expects a normal delivery. She is a practicing Moslem.

3. Pregnant woman’s husband. Age 26, Pakistani. he runs a successful building business and is competent in all the basic construction skills.

4. Armed policeman. Age 38, white. He is trained in the use of firearms and electronic communications. He was commended for bravery after rescuing two people from a burning car. He will be leaving behind a wife and two children. He is carrying a loaded pistol.

5. Footballer. Age 22, male, white. He has a knack of encouraging the team when they seem demoralised or about to face defeat. He is also trained as a butcher.

6. Nurse. Age 26, male, white. He is qualified in both general medical and psychiatric nursing. He is gay and will be leaving behind a partner of 5 years. He is a regular attender of a Protestant church.

7. Blonde actress. Age 22, white. She trained as a primary school teacher before becoming a successful actress in TV comedies. She had a nervous breakdown four years ago.

8. Geologist. Age 32, female, white. She has two children and is divorced. She works for a mining company identifying rock specimens. She has been actively involved with the Moonies.

9. Science student. Age 20, male, black. He has completed two years of a degree-course in micro-electronics and computers. His parents are from the West Indies and he is interested in Rastafarianism.

10. Teenager. Age 14, female, white. She is still at school and is interested in sciences. She tends to be moody which could just be her age, but her parents had arranged for her to see a psychologist next week to get advice about this.

Monday, November 28, 2005

results

The result for the kittens for feet/children for teeth survey are as follows:

The survey is now closed.

One person would prefer to have children in their mouth than to chomp on their legs. I'm astounded. Words fail me.

That's just stupid.

Sunday, November 27, 2005

The Argos Experience

Whoever it was who invented Argos needs to be shot.
Similarly, the British public also need to be shot for going there.

I'm completely baffled by the whole thing. People around me seem to like going there... they get their catalogues and pore through them in their lunchbreaks and then join the queues of brainless shell-suited shoppers at Collection Point C for, oh, about 2 and a half bloody hours to buy a Bob The Builder alarm clock and a rack for their saucepans.

The reasons I object to Argos are these:

1. The Agony Drawn Out

Firstly you have to go to the shop to get the catalogue so that you can go home to decide what you want, before going to the shop to get the thing you want and eventually arriving home with your shopping, approximately 3 weeks later. See diagram 1.

diagram 1

2. The Queueing

Once you return with a vague idea of the item you want, then the anguish truly begins. Queueing is entered into with gusto, as though it is about to become a sport in the Olympics... and Argos is the official sponsor. It takes a special type of individual to be able to queue for this long without developing DVT.
Muscovites would be proud of us.

You queue to get your little mini pencil (obviously you forget to bring one with you... no normal person has a pencil on their person) and then you queue to look at the catalogues because you somehow failed to remember the 8-digit code and you can't find the scrap of paper you wrote it on, although you could swear you put it in your pocket (after putting it on the kitchen table and then moving it next to the computer while you just checked your emails...).

3. The Queueing

Next you queue to pay, where they mumble something about not having the exact item, but trust me, it will be just as good, whatever it is they give you instead.... and you get issued with a tiny slip of paper and ordered to wait at Collection Point B.

4. The Queueing

Obediently you join the back of the queue where you get stared at by the snot-covered kid in front (some of which will get smeared on your legs) and commence a three-hour wait.

Finally, just as your will to live is tiptoeing away, you get your reward: a box thrust at you with true contempt that only working in Argos could possibly nurture and, feet aching, nerves clanging, brain teetering on the edge of locking up and going home for the rest of the day, you trudge to the car.

Friday, November 25, 2005

planes, no trains and 3 automobiles

I haven't seen any of these around, but I'll be looking out for them...







Thursday, November 24, 2005

Bush Tucker

I'm in a bad mood.

We're going out for a working lunch next week.

This makes me sound very important, but I'm not. This is our annual grilling by the Assistant Director, where he draws our positions around the table on a napkin so that he can remember who we are... and we then get the Third Degree one at a time over a homemade tomato soup as to what it is, exactly that we do.

I will be working this out frantically over the weekend in readiness.

So, the fact that it is free food barely makes up for the fact that it is potential public humiliation when it comes to light that someone else could do my job on Monday and Tuesday and have time to spare to single-handedly educate the illiterate of South Wales by Thursday lunchtime.

It is therefore essential that I rehearse my speech where I point out that I need daydreaming time. It's an important part of my working day, but I don't think they'll see it like that.
Obviously, suggestions will be welcome.

The other problem is that until yesterday, it was going to be in a reasonably upmarket Chinese Restaurant. That was the Bright Side.

However, somewhere between yesterday and today the venue has changed to a grotty little pub called the Queen Vic.
The name might be shared by the pub in Eastenders, but the similarity ends there. No general bustle, no interesting regulars or exciting arguments. No regular-as-clockwork disaster on Christmas day, no explosions or beatings or blokes returning from the dead and then dying again.
Believe me, this place is about as exciting as my armpit*.

To make it worse, the food is crap if you are vegetarian.
Last time I went there I ended up with an overcooked jacket potato, dry as anything, black inside and so revolting that it went through revolting, to emerge triumphant at the other side into Truly Hideous.

I hear that the non-celebrities will be tackling a few plates of bugs, later tonight in the Bush Tucker Trial.
That's nothing. I just want it to be known that by the end of next week I shall be proclaimed victorious over the crappest plate of food known to man... and yet do I have a camera crew following me around in the hope that it might lead to a cameo on Blue Peter?

Do I, my arse.

*My armpit is very nice, but as entertainment goes, it's lacking.

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

motherload

It’s been a while since I posted a game, but this one is great!

You mine for minerals, sell them and use the money to pay for upgrades. Easy-peasy.
Watch out for pockets of explosive gases though. Nothing to do with the beans on toast I had for lunch….

The best thing about it is that you can save it and carry on where you left off. If you’re really handy with the Alt-Tab keys on the keyboard, you should be able to manage a couple of hours before your boss notices.

Click

Monday, November 21, 2005

winter warmers

Winter has well and truly hit Wales.

This year, due to a good dose of global warming, we completely skipped Autumn.
I hear this means that it could be disasterous for some wildlife... polar bears have no ice to walk on in order to reach their food sources, birds are flying south too late, hedgehogs didn't hibernate in time to get roasted alive in village bonfires on November the fifth.

I expect we'll be overrun with hedgehogs now - who knows what effect it could have on the foodchain? I hope they don't eat Quorn sausages because they are a important staple in my diet and I shall be forced to fight any hedgehog in front of me in the queue at Farmfoods. I might be vegetarian, but it doesn't mean I have to be better tempered toward fellow earthdwellers.

This week has started off a bit parky, it would be true to say. I chucked a load of warm water over my windscreen this morning to save sitting with the engine running waiting for the ice to melt... and it promptly stuck two fingers up in my direction and froze there.

I even wore a scarf to work. This is a truly momentous occurance as I haven't worn a scarf since the last Ice Age. Well, maybe that's a bit of an exaggeration. Last winter, then.
But generally I'm quite I warm-blooded soul... Imp refers to me as her Human Hot Water Bottle.

I do however, (as alluded to in previous posts) have the advantage of Big Pants*. This is my secret weapon. In fact, maybe the government should cut out Cold Weather payments to old people and just issue them with Big Pants. They're great.

The reason I'm blessed with so many pairs of Big Pants is that my mum keeps buying me packs of size 12-14 extra comfortable fit pants-with-room-for-a-friend. I think she's got this idea that my arse is around the size of a Ford Fiesta, whereas even a casual glance would confirm that it is, in fact smaller even than a Vauxhall Corsa.

Can I just point out that I am more than happy to buy my own pants. This is unfortunately an area of shopping that my mum seems to have taken upon herself, no matter how many hints I drop about having to tuck the waistband in my bra.

The only other piece of Pants-news worth writing about is that I've seen Imp casting covetous glances towards my more-than-generous bloomers and I'm sure she would like a few pairs herself, come the Big Freeze. I'll have to get her a few.

*Note for Americans. 'Pants' are knickers, not trousers. We snigger helplessly whenever you refer to pants, this provides us with hours of hilarity. Similarly 'fannies', which are ladies' front-bottoms, not bums. Please try to talk properly.

Thursday, November 17, 2005

smile

"I'm afraid we'll have to put you through to the Fraud Department, miss Funny Thing", the bank-lady said, and my heart stopped beating long enough for my stomach to nip up to my mouth to have a quick look around before it went away again.

I don't remember committing any kind of International Bank Fraud recently, but you never can tell. And anyway, being innocent isn't enough of a reason for me not to feel guilty.

It would be true to say I've been a bit naughty in the past... done things like constructed a living room in the middle of a mini-roundabout for a laugh... but lying to a policeman is a different matter.
Not that I need to lie to a police officer but I can't stop my mind leaping that tiny bit further forward to where I'm sitting at a table with my solicitor, denying all knowledge of secret tax-free accounts in Jersey and having my shoelaces removed before they beat me up in private in my own little police cell.

(If anyone knows of any that I can have, let me know. Bank accounts in Jersey, I mean, not private police cells. Thanks).

I was planning my appeal by the time I realised the Nice-Fraud-Department-Lady was telling me that they had rescued me from an Evil International Bank Robber.
Not like Superman and Lois Lane... I hadn't been about to be kidnapped or anything, but it was still quite impressive.

Turns out the reason I haven't been able to use my bank card... or my replacement bank card is that someone has been trying to spend Two-and-a-half-Grand (get that? £2,500) on my card somewhere in Canada.
My lovely bank got wind of it and had a little think. The fact is, I don't even have £2,500. They also noticed that I have never been to Canada, have never spent that amount of money before in my life.. and probably don't know any Canadians and said "Oy! This is Questionable Spending!". They promptly slapped a clamp on my card.

Now the only Canadian I do know is k d lang, and I suppose it would be true to say that I don't actually know her. I've stood in the same room as her, twice. Which is practically the same thing, but let's not talk about that.

So I can't really accuse her of trying to pilfer my money.

Now I'm not saying anything about the Canadians that read my blog, but I'm just saying, just mentioning that you might want to watch your step.

I don't know how many people there are in Canada (Couple of hundred? Yeah, probably about that) but I'm sure it won't take long for InterPol to track down the fiendish criminal that got hold of my bank number and throw them into a cell with all the other fiendish criminals on Death Row.

Just saying.

c-c-cold

This office is freezing.

I know I seem to be moaning about the cold quite a lot at the moment, but it's true - it's bloody freezing.
All day yesterday I thought it must be me. Is it cold, or is it me?

I've been a bit run down recently and put it down to that; shivered a bit, moaned a bit and made a mental note to wear extra big knickers and a huge woolly jumper from now on.
(I haven't got a woolly jumper actually, but now we're nit-picking. I've got some huge pants though. More about those another time).

Anyway, I found out today while whinging about the pain in my fingers (I mean, GOD, doesn't anyone know anything? It's gonna be the coldest winter in HISTORY!!! And that means ever. Since the world began. Blimey, it's cold in here) ...that the heating stopped working in the office a few days ago.

That'll explain it then.
It's not me, it's bloody freezing.

Bastards.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

log run

Logs are really difficult to find, it seems.

You would imagine that they are everywhere, just lying around in the undergrowth and beside bus stops, waiting to be foraged for and burned. But they actually are all bagged up in little orange netting things, a bit like mutant ninja monster satsumas, in all the posh antique places in Cardiff.

Plan A

Obviously you have to take out a second mortgage for these lumps of firewood if you're going to go somewhere posh and antiquey. Either that or go and put in a couple of nights working down the docks.
This is quality that we're paying for. Not any old log... this is a log that has resided in a bourgeois bag in an up-and-coming part of antiqueland and costs money, darling.

Supply and demand, normally, is the buyers saviour.
This market, however, has been mugged. Supply and demand has been briskly bashed with a short smart tap across the back of its neck and has fallen flat on its face.
It seems that the only people who have logs to spare in Cardiff are antique dealers. So as a result we forked out four quid, left all our valuables on the counter and the promise of the use of our internal organs should anyone need them more than us.

Two fires later and we're huddled together under a fraying blanket, calculating how much it would cost to heat the house for the winter. Maybe we could send the kids out to work? Surely they don't need Ejucation that bad? University of Life and all that. It's amazing what you can learn gutting fish.

Plan B.

Thinking laterally, I trundled down a very remote and very bumpy lane a few days later. My thinking? Drive north out of the city and log prices will fall.

This is obviously a stroke of genius, should I ever find this bloody place.
I'd been driving up the steepest hill in the world and saw a sign, proudly advertising its mis-spelled wares, promising Logs and Choped Firwood.

So here I was, edging down a narrow, seemingly endless track, starting to panic about getting stuck. What if my car broke down? What if I got a puncture? What if I had to reverse and misjudged and went off the edge of this narrow (narrowest in South Wales) track into the muddy (muddiest in South Wales) ditch at the side and couldn't get out and then I'd get hypothermia and die?

Quarter of a mile later I reached a group of houses. A hamlet. Three houses. It didn't look like they even had phones up here. No wires. No cars. Eerie.
No one in sight, no Choped Firwood sign, not a single movement to be seen.

I turned the car radio down and looked around, hoping to see someone.
There aren't even any birds, I thought to myself.

Silence. Grey sky, no wind.

I turned the car radio back up and spun the car around, hoping not to see anyone.

I drove as fast as my little car could crash through the potholes back toward civilisation.

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

ouch

The weekend started well but then slid rapidly toward 'Hellishly Crap'.

Saturday - Not Christmas Shopping

I survived the crowds of shoppers and lived to tell the tale, narrowly missing getting arrested for gouging the eyes of a sprog-runt for walking into me and getting tangled in my spiked boots.
I bought a walking magazine (for me), a bunch of bananas (for me), an egg microwaver thingy (for me) and a toasting fork (for Imp, which I promptly gave her the second I saw her).

I don't think I've got the hang of Christmas Shopping.

We can make toast by the fire, though.

Sunday - Not Eating Wonderful Food

Sunday started off well as Imp and I had invited a friend around for Sunday Lunch so we decided to have a day off the diet. Fantastic! Almond Croissants for breakfast, then.

However, as I was driving Friend towards lunch, I realised I had the beginnings of a headache.
I couple of hours later I was nursing the beginnings of a migraine.

The greatest tragedy of all is that by tea time I felt so ill I was unable to take full advantage of all the debached food waiting to be eaten. No leftover Imp-Trifle for me, no glass of wine, no cheese and scones and chocolate and whiskey.

Instead I lay on the sofa and rolled around clutching my screaming temples until I finally gave up all hope of making a timely recovery and went to bed accompanied by a bucket.

Monday - Not Going to Work

Ditto Monday. Poorly girl.

I've put in an order for a better weekend next weekend. I will be making sure that:

i) I take some more time off diet
ii) I eat far too much
iii) I get drunk
iv) I make myself violently ill

Er...yeah.

Saturday, November 12, 2005

chicks with bricks


Suggestions, please.
I need you all and your creativity.

If I was to start my own business that went something along the lines of:

Landscape design / landscaping / plumbing / electrics and other trade skills...... but was made up entirely of women, what should I call it?

Silly suggestions are welcome but you will be severely spanked afterwards.

Friday, November 11, 2005

fireworks, my arse

Imp and I walk along behind a tiny little white blob, just visible in the darkness.
It's freezing cold and we're both wrapped up in winter coats, huddled in our own body heat, faces kept low, necks tucked low into our collars like turtles.

Late night dog walk.

Dog owners across the country know about this... about dragging yourself out of the lovely warm house just when you're getting warm and sleepy and you would like to carry on sitting there, crouched over another can of Caffreys.
The problem is, TinyDog needs a walk... and my flat doesn't have a garden. So to save the carpets, we wrap up and enter the night.

This would be fine, but there's an added gamble: fireworks.
Diwali, Bonfire night, Christmas on the horizon, then New Year. Months of bangs and whistles and piss-takingly loud, earsplitting explosions that the dog hates.

She doesn't just hate them; she's terrified of them.
Her tail drops down, her ears press down onto her face, her rectum refuses to cooperate and she pulls with surprising force in any direction - OhMyGodOhMyGodOhMyGodIt'saBombMustGetAwayMustGetAway...
She launches herself off in horror and blindly runs backward and forward as far as the lead will allow, like a SwingBall on a spring.

And here we are now, in the dead of night, hoping it's past Fireworktime.
Apparently by law you're not allowed to set them off after 11pm but no one pays any attention to that law. Who ever heard of anyone arrested for setting off a firework after 11pm? (Should be banged up! Boom boom).

We can't see further than a few feet ahead because we're walking under a long row of trees, but we know there's a stream just to our left. TinyDog loves the stream - she always saves her serious bowel action for alongside the stream, in the gloomiest shadiest spot she can find.
We curse ourselves every time for not bringing a torch; finding a mini dog turd on the banks of a stream in pitch black... groping around with a Tesco carrier bag. Needle in a Haystack? Arse to that.

This time we're not so lucky.
TinyDog sniffs around, hunches up and assumes the position with that posture full of concentration that dogs have when they're about to pop one out. Too late. Some smallminded git with a hard-on for gunpowder lets off a rocket and it screeches somewhere overhead and explodes. TinyDog leaps sideways and we curse and complain and try to calm her down.

We trudge home in defeat preparing ourselves for another crap on the carpet before morning.

update:

Thursday, November 10, 2005

pavement behaviour

I bowed to pressure and panic last Saturday and started my Christmas shopping.

Due to the presence of roughly 70,000 rugby fans in the city centre (let's not talk about that match... it's just too painful...) Imp and I adjusted our plans and headed merrily into Barry.

Note: Barry is a place, not a fat old man with a prickly chin and yellow teeth. Glad we've cleared that up.

Let's face it, shopping is bad enough without the added volume of bodies due to the inevitability of Christmas. Add on top of that another 70,000 people, all with painted faces and stinking of Carlsburg, cramming into the same record shops and you have a recipe for Extreme Grumpiness on my part.

I'm not good at shopping.
I have a set of pavement rules in my head, but no one seems to abide by them.

But just in case you're interested, here they are:

1. You should never stop walking unexpectedly.

There's nothing that drives me into a frenzy of pissed-off facial expressions more than people who come to a halt suddenly, without any kind of gradual slowing down and general I'm-going-to-stop-soon clues.
It's rude and pervy. If I had a pound for every fat, unattractive stranger I've inadvertently embraced (Ugh) or bounced off their large, polyester-clad arses, I'd be a rich woman.
*Well, I'd have about erm... £20.

2. You should always walk at a consistent, reasonably brisk speed while on the outside of the pavement or in the middle of the pedestrianised area.

Window-shopping is for the side nearest the windows. Blatent dawdling should be outlawed and punished by death or removal of the feet at the ankles. Some of us know where we want to go and WANT TO GET THERE, GRANDAD.

3. Don't smoke.

No one wants to breathe your smoke, idiot. Shopping is hard enough as it is without either having an asthma attack and/or getting home smelling like you've been clubbing all afternoon.
Added to that is the fact that we are milling around like a cross between sheep and battery chickens and I don't want blim-burns on my arse. Got that? Neither would I want my kids' eyes cauterised, should I be unlucky enough to have reproduced sometime previous to this shopping trip.

4. Never carry an umbrella.

These are lethal weapons. I've noticed that as a general rule, people who carry umbrellas also have an IQ around that of a lump of Blu Tack and leave a trail of people in their wake, clutching at their gouged eyeballs, bleeding profusely over their freshly roasted chestnuts.
An eye for an eye, I say.

5. Don't stand around chatting.

Especially near shop displays, doorways or cash tills.
This is inconsiderate and a total pain in the arse. I suggest that if you are going to be bloody sociable, go and find a narrow alley somewhere and squeeze between the stack of boxes and piles of half rotten fruit, out of the way. Better still, don't talk to anyone and get on with your shopping. That way you'll be finished quicker and out of the pigging way.

I'm going to be braving Cardiff City Centre this Saturday.
So can I suggest that if you were planning on heading this way and being frivelous... that you DON'T. Or if you insist on taking your life in your hands, keep an eye open for a wild-eyed, pissed-off looking dyke with clenched fists and a furious look on her face... and leg it in the other direction, 'cos I'm not taking any messing.

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

confused?

Last time I looked, discrimination was illegal.

So I logged on to confused.com and set about trying to get a quote for my car insurance, which would, of course include Imp as a named driver.

Handy site - it searches for the best quote for you, and you only have to enter your details once.

However, if you are gay, there's a problem.
It won't accept your same-sex partner as 'Common Law Partner'.

I could register her as either my sister, daughter or mother... but call me old-fashioned, there's a bit of an incestuous feel to that.
Plus, naturally, she is my partner and I love her. That is a valid relationship in my eyes.... and prod a little deeper into matters of human rights... and it's a valid relationship there, too.

I emailed Confused, who replied by saying that gay partnerships were not legally recognised.

Not being picky, but 'Common Law Partner' isn't legally recognised either - and hasn't been since the 17th century.

Spot the bias toward straight couples? I call that discrimination.

I'm not interested in whether Confused think my relationship is valid or not. I just want to stick someone else's name on the certificate. Big bloody deal. You would think that gay relationships are old hat by now. I can't be the only queer in the country with a driving licence. I can handle a steering wheel fine, thanks, and I don't even have a limp wrist.

So I can't register my girfriend on my car insurance because I'm gay. Or she's gay. Or maybe it's because I'm a woman and she's not a man. Or perhaps because she's a woman and I'm not a man? Is that sex discrimination too, because she's not a man? Makes my head hurt...

*Pay attention, you at the back... :)

In reply to this, Confused said that it's not them (honest, guvner..) but all the nasty insurance companies. Obviously I will have to promise to reform, get a boyfriend and let him do the driving while I sit in the back reading Woman's Weekly before they take me seriously.

In less than a month, civil partnerships will be available to same-sex couples. Does that mean I will have to get 'married' to conform or will I be allowed to have a girlfriend then?
Someone needs to tell the insurance companies about this because they obviously think all us deviant poofters are locked up in a prison cell somewhere, about to be lobotomised and beaten to within an inch of our lives with a Cat o' Nine Tails.

Bollox to them all.

Monday, November 07, 2005

"Can you tell what it is yet?"

Genitalia are quite funny things.
Especially at the wrong place at the wrong time. When I say at the wrong place, I mean for example, a stray breast in Dorothy Perkins, not a physical anomally such as a spare neck-scrotum.

Anyhow. Surly Girl very evilly and heartlessly dangled a huge willy in front of us (metaphorically speaking) and then snatched it back. How we wept.
Well, to be exact, it was a story about an advert depicting an unintentional ghost-willy. Don't read it, she's toying with you.

However, to make up for this monster bit of cruelty I've got two (not one but TWO!) treat adverts for you in the general area of genetalia. One willy, one fanny, to be exact. Got to be fair.

Reportedly, this ad appeared in the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette on
Thursday June 17th 1998. The unfortunate photographic illusion was quickly
noticed (look at the bike seat) and action was taken to correct the
advertisement, but not before the image made it to the news-stand...
They should have used a bike seat that was not tan in colour.





















And this is my personal favourite:

The innocence of 1950's advertising.

Enjoy.

We let them win

On Saturday, Wales suffered a defeat against the All Blacks. Unfortunately we lost 41-3.

This was obviously a blip. It is a well-known fact that the Welsh are the best rugby players on the planet.

My granny plays for Wales, in fact. Along with her next-door neighbour, Olwen Myfanwy Thomas.
Unfortunately Olwen couldn't play this Saturday as she had just had a hip replacement, last Wednesday morning.
Luckily she'll be playing on Friday aginst Fiji. We'll win, then, just you watch.

Friday, November 04, 2005

Thousand-hand Bodhisattva Dance

It's probably time I concentrated on getting my blood pressure back down after getting all worked up about trees.

I would go and do some pilates but I'm worried it will make my arms ache and besides, my knee crunches a bit. Plus there's the fact that all my friends might laugh at me.

So in that case, no better way to do it than watch a load of lovely ladies waving their arms about. They don't seem to have clicky joints at all. Maybe they eat fish.
Take some time out and spend a couple of minutes going Wow-aah-it's-so beautiful!

time to die

I’ve won my battle against the trees.

I looked out of the window this morning and couldn’t help noticing that they have all lost most of their leaves. This brings me joy and happiness as it was their leaves that caused me many months of car-washing misery over the summer.

Much like cursing a bunch of kids who kick a football *accidentally* into the side of your head, and then watching them all get mashed under a bus (this didn’t ever actually happen, I just wish it had), the trees have evidently crumpled under my cries of ‘die’ and are finally losing their lives, while I type. I expect they'll be completely dead when I get home tonight.

What goes around, comes around. You mess up my car? You DIE.


It is now clear to me that I have a gift. Don’t get nasty with me, I can kill with a mere glance.

Thursday, November 03, 2005

Make Mornings History

It is far too early to be working. Anytime before 11 should be made illegal. I've been lobbying a while, but so far to no avail. Perhaps Tony Blair's been too busy to make all the arrangements until now. I expect I'll get a letter any day now inviting me to have my photo taken and a certificate for coming up with this ground-breaking social development.

Today's a bit of a marathon of people-meeting. 4 appointments in the space of two hours. Two of these illegal, under my new system.

So appointment number two is sitting across from me, resplendent in obviously very expensive motorbike gear. In fact, he probably could have paid off all Third World debt with what it cost to buy that gear... but he's on the dole. Not the type of guy to have nicked it, either. I expect he's been saving up his Giro for about... hmm... about Twenty Thousand years.

What makes him even more challenging is that he has a severe stutter.
Oh, and he seems to have no interest in listening to anything anyone else has to say.

me: "Going by the results of your assessment we could be looking at -"

him: "S-s-s-s-s-s-so I ripped out the wall in my s-s-s-s-s-s-"

me: Yes, I see. So going by the results of -"

him: "Cos wot you don't know is th-th-th-th-th-that the ceiling s-s-s-s-s-s- "

I sit and gaze out the window while he serenades me with long-winded body-lurching accounts of how he removed the false ceiling in his sister's bathroom. There are times I could quite cheerfully beat my clients over the head with my er... ringbinder, until they lie twitching and haemorrhaging at my feet... but that, alas, goes against council policy and I might get told off.
He cradles his four-grand diamond-studded effect motorbike helmet while demonstrating something to do with grouting... and time ticks by slowly, does a double-take, and stops to watch.

I sip my lukewarm coffee-machine pretend coffee and sink slowly into a pit of pre-11am despair.

padding

If anything could brighten up your day it would have to be being faced by a wall of breasts.


Can't really add anything to that, then.

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

one wheel

I grasped the wall once again with my grazed, bleeding fingers and hauled myself up.
This unicycling business has got more to it than meets the eye.

There is of course, the problem of staying above the wheel and not below/alongside/underneath it. This could be overcome a number of ways:

I think the most sensible method would be to stay away from it completely, but I've set my heart on joining a unicycle hockey team (it's true) and you can't do that without learning to unicycle.
Well, I suppose you could, if you employed a cunning method of distraction but I haven't thought of one yet that could reliably work for a prolonged period of time.

There's also my new ambition of becoming a Mountain Unicycle Instructor. Much more fun than sitting in an office, but it would be true to say that I haven't mastered the basics. It could be a way off, yet.

So stop dreaming and get cycling then.
The other way is to keep practising and for that you need nerves of steel and a bottom made up preferably, of a hell of a lot of arse. Mine is part way there, but could do with another layer of Big Pants.

I got back on the seat and wobbling rather, pushed off. Holding my breath, closing my eyes and crashing almost instantaneously to the ground, I again reminded myself that I'm supposed to lean forwards, look straight ahead and pedal as if my life depended on it.
Easier said than done.

Waving nonchalently at a passing dog-walker (who it has to be said, seemed to have a jaw-hanging-open-problem) I went for it again. Up on the seat, hang on for dear life, rock a bit, push forwards, wobble, WOBBLE, whoa-I'm-doing-it CRASH. The unicycle hit the floor but this time I managed to stay on my feet.

Removing the excess skin from my shins I measured the distance travelled.
A whole 2 1/2 rotations. That'll be about 4 feet then.

They say it's impossible to look cool while picking up a Frisbee. Big deal. Poor little Frisbee-picking-up-Victims. They must lie awake at night sweating and weeping over their image issues.
I, on the other hand am systematically removing my epidermis below the knee, changing the hue from pink to blue and spending an inordinate amount of time studying the floor. Try doing that while retaining an air of suave sophistication.

But even so... 4 feet!
A good job done.