toxicsoup

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

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

reading blogs at work?

If you're reading blogs at work and need a 'Web Fire Escape' for when your boss appears unexpectedly around the corner, I've now installed this button to the right of the screen, by my profile and also a bit further down in the 'buttons' section.


Reading blogs at work? Click to escape to a suitable site!


Please use them when you need them.
Don't break the glass...

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

drive-thru

There was an armed robbery at McDonalds at Cardiff Gate.

I can’t imagine who would want to run in to McDonalds waving a gun around... the danger is of course, that all the stoned spotty teenagers would stare at you blankly and continue grunting to each other about PlayStation before they understood your demands, by which time the local constabulary would have turned up - and manacled, you would be led away, potless and egg muffinless.

The other option, the drive-thru, would be just as bad. Everyone knows you have to talk into the robot-voice thingy about twelve times before they get it right.

“What do you want” (they are no good at customer relations at McDonalds. This is due to hiring gormless, brainless teenage winos).

“Give me all your money”

“What?”

“Give me all your money”

“Do you want maple syrup?”

Yeah. Can’t see that one going well. And of course you’d have to queue to get out then, behind the Fiat crammed full of mucus-smeared four-year olds. And one adult, obviously. The four-year olds wouldn’t be driving. Obviously.

Oblivious to all the armed-robbery goings-on, I trundled past in Toby, who was thirsty and needed some petrol from the petrol station next door. We both squinted blankly (it was well before 11am) at the police vans, the coppers standing around looking bored and at Columbo, wandering around muttering to himself in the car park.

There was a humungous queue at the petrol station and little bits of paper taped everywhere saying ‘unleaded at pumps 1 and 2 only’.
Curious.

I waited impatiently, swearing with finesse, until I finally fuelled up and pulled in at the kiosk.

“Why all the loads and loads of no petrol?” I asked the petrol-lady, expecting some flimsy excuse about armed robberies.

Not so. It seems that the petrol depot hasn't delivered to the station and everyone is panic-buying. Panic-buying? Bloody hell, I haven’t heard anything about petrol shortages… people will panic-buy at the drop of a hat, these days.

Shops gonna close for a full 24 hours over Christmas?
“Quick darling, we must hire a small truck and buy all the bread we can carry, so that we can store it in the cupboard-under-the-stairs and watch it go stale and turn into green sponge once the shops have re-opened again the day after….”

Disappointed, I drove away, winking at Columbo as I went…

Monday, December 19, 2005

queer cheer

Britain's first gay couple were 'married' today. Fantastic.

The sad thing was that outside the registry office, between 30 and 40 people (depending which news site you read) were outside protesting. What a shame for that couple.
So these fundamentalist Christians were busy trying to impose their narrow-minded bigoted views on everyone else...? Er.... What a surprise.

The bit of the Bible where God tells you not to judge other people must be optional then?

Fine.
It gives that instruction quite a few times in the Bible, as it happens, whereas the Bible only mentions homosexuality three times.
If the Christian Practice of Ignoring is now an official doctrine - then I'll ignore the bit that God obviously considers less important, as he quite obviously didn't feel the need to talk about it as much.

One last point. Take a close look at these protestors.










If they're the alternative, I'll stick to my gorgeous girlfriend, thanks very much.
Live and let live, eh?


links:
Sky Privileged and Blessed
BBC 'Gay weddings' first for Belfast
Ananova First gay couple 'tie the knot'

related:
Independent Gay couple 'threatened by troops' over civil ceremony

Sunday, December 18, 2005

Sunday Game

Zuma

This game is perfect for playing when your boss isn't looking, or while you're on the phone to your Mum.

It satisfies these criteria:

(i) Can play with one hand
(ii) Has Sound On/Off feature
(iii) Is brainless, but not too easy
(iv) Stops you doing housework

Good enough for me.

Friday, December 16, 2005

poorly car

I had the day off work today so that I could miss the works Christmas do… and so that my car could visit the Nice Car Man who makes it better when it’s looking a bit peaky.

The thing is, Toby (my car) was assaulted a few days ago by a man-in-a-van who reversed up onto the bonnet and then drove off without so much as a ‘Sorry’ or a cheque for £212.
Bastard.

So Toby has had a crumpled bonnet for the last few days and I’ve been driving around looking very stern and cross and glaring at people in vans.

It's a well-known fact that men in white vans are the worst drivers in Britain and most of them in fact, are wanted by the police.
It always worries me that the police seem to find them so hard to find. It's not as if they are undercover (the van-men, I mean, not the police) as they all drive white vans. Maybe it's something scientific to do with light particles and mirror sunglasses and refraction. Somehow.

I delivered him (Toby) this morning to the garage and then sat around at home waiting for a phone call to tell me when it was done and how much it would cost.
It reminds me slightly of being laid gently, face-first over a barrel and then being brutally shafted. You know, getting the work done before you know how much it will cost.

Actually, I’ve never had that barrel-thing happen to me as such, but I’ve got an active imagination and I had lots of time to think while waiting for the verdict.

I’ve used the day wisely. I walked TinyDog and then played GTA San Andreas for a bit, deliberately smashing up as many cars, bikes and men as possible. I’ve eaten vegetarian hotdog sausages in baps followed by Ferrero Rocher, and TinyDog had gravy on her Bakers Complete. We both comfort-ate for Wales, the truth be told.

Just as I was wondering what other debauched non-SlimmingWorld food I could eat, the phone rang. I received the news that I would be soon parted with £212 like a grown up. That is, I quietly hung up after thanking Nice Car Man and then swore generously and creatively before writing a cheque, tears just discernable, gilding my eyelashes.

Snapping the lead on TinyDog, we both plodded toward the garage. I could see that she too felt my pain. No more gravy for a while, I told her.

Toby sat patiently, dent-free, with TinyDog on his back seat while I paid up and wept freely on Nice Car Man's shoulder when he told me that the car has a terminal hole in his exhaust and an even more serious hole in the radiator. This will mean life-support and major surgery.
Choked up and a couple of hundred quid poorer, I chugged slowly home through the rush-hour free-for-all, gently reassuring Toby that No, it won't hurt and Yes, I will visit.

Thursday, December 15, 2005

things I carry everywhere..

I keep a strange mix of things in my car, in both the boot and the glove compartment. This is a result of years of experience after being caught in traffic jams or staying out unexpectantly.
I'm not a dirty stop-out; I just like to be prepared.
So I'm saying now - if you see my car, don't break in, it's all my stuff. Hands off, or I'll break your legs.

The boot:

Plastic crate containing things that make a car go, including:
Jump leads, Duck Oil, Motor oil, Anti-Freeze, Screen Wash, De-ionised water, A cloth
A massive First Aid kit containing OP Airways, bag and mask, etc.
A unicycle
A bike helmet
A flourescent medic jacket
An emergency book (Metro by Alexander Kaletski)
Some emergency underwear
An atlas
A skateboard
A set of waterproofs

    The glove compartment:

    Some fruit tea bags
    Windscreen wipes
    Strepsils
    Chewing Gum
    A Bible
    Emergency deoderant
    Emergency hair putty
    About 8 pens
    Emergency tampons
    A carrier bag
    A packet of tissues
    An emergency can of diet Red Bull
    Jack Dee - Live at The Hammersmith, cassettes

    As you can see, they are all essentials that no one could do without.

    Having been stuck in traffic this morning waiting for an accident to be cleared, it occurred to me that I still don't know what I'd do if I needed a poo, though. Maybe I should carry an empty box...

    Sorry to bring it back to that.

    Wednesday, December 14, 2005

    better out than in

    "You're very windy at the moment", Imp says while we lie on the sofa watching the log fire.

    We've reached that comfortable stage in our relationship where I can fart in front of her. Imp doesn't fart anywhere near as much as I do, but I assume it's because she doesn't eat as much beans-on-toast as me.

    Obviously I still only fart about half the amount that I would if I were on my own, but this is because I have been brought up well.
    However, even operating on skeleton crew is progress. In my last relationship I went I full five years without farting within earshot of anyone other than myself.

    Now I politely warn everyone around me before I do the deed - "Erm, I'm just going to fart, okay?"
    It's a rhetorical question.

    I let one rip, making sure it's a good one because I don't want people to think I have abnormally gassy bowels. This means I can only sneak them out after this for at least an hour.

    Now that Imp has pointed out that she has registered the excessive windiness of my bottom, I blame it on the beans and clench my buttocks. I don't want to come across as common.

    We watch the logs for a while. They hiss and crackle and the flames gradually die back and the fireplace glows a deep red.

    My insides grumble.

    "I'm just going to er... rotate the spider plant" I explain, as I nip out to the kitchen to fart.

    Monday, December 12, 2005

    How to win an argument

    Some people just aren’t happy unless everyone else is miserable.

    Radio 4 have been running a series, Mastering the Universe, starring Dawn French as Professor Joy Klamp, whose aim in life is to train in the art of being a miserable sod.

    'Passive Aggression' is the name of the game; how to make everyone else around you completely miserable while appearing to be quite reasonable.

    I could have learned loads from her, had she been invented back then. Bastards.

    However, this is something I think I could be quite good at. I spent five years training to be a professional misery-guts but finally got out before I went completely stark, raving, loony-bonkers.
    I could have won the gold medal in the Winning An Argument By Sounding Hurt awards, had they existed back then. Maybe I should suggest it for the 2012 Olympics.

    The truth is, I needed to be pissed to get on with my last girlfriend. We could talk for hours about complete and utter bollocks in a friendly way, but only when pissed. Before we hit ‘amiably tipsy’ we argued constantly, usually about the same stuff we’d argued about the day before.

    The best and most effective way to argue is to use psychological warfare. Take it from me. The object? To see who can come out sounding the most hard-done-by.

    "Don’t worry about me, I just haven’t had any sleep for nearly twelve days because you snore so loudly, but I’ll just go and curl up on the concrete outside - maybe I’ll manage a few fleeting moments before I wake up again from the agony of my fingernails dropping off, what with the frost-bite and everything…"

    Life was a minefield of mind games and point-scoring.
    We should have been compatible; we liked the same music and we liked the same TV programmes... we liked making the other person miserable – guilt was a great card to play and we both played it well.

    "I suppose I’ll have to do the cooking again tonight, what with your partial amputation just below the elbow after messing with that Mitre Saw… I did tell you not to press that button, but no one listens to me."

    We just didn’t like each other.

    After 5 years of getting completely arseholed just to be able to be civil to each other, it was difficult to believe that some relationships aren’t like that at all… I limped along like some kind of lobotomised nutter, always looking for a fight and always expecting the worst from everyone.
    (This was until I met Imp, who is the best thing that ever happened to me.)
    You wouldn't have wanted to piss me off at all because the odds are I would have floored you with sarcasm and then stamped on your face just to be sure I'd finished the job properly.

    Never mind. My skills will not be wasted… if ever Dawn French needs a script writer for the next series, I expect she’ll come to me.

    I really don’t understand why she didn’t ask me this time around to be perfectly frank, maybe it slipped her mind... or maybe she thought I'd be too busy, what with all my er.. social committments. Not to worry, it's not like I need the money or anything, I'll just keep living off stale bread out of the bins down at Greggs until I can afford a jar of gravy powder so I can soak the crusts in something to make it a little easier for my poor, diseased, toothless gums to get through.

    Don’t worry about me.

    Saturday, December 10, 2005

    poo story

    - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

    Background: This is an email I sent to my Newcastle friend a couple of years ago.

    At the time I lived in a tiny room in a small house in Cardiff, just me and Mrs Malice, the evil landlady. She was the laziest, messiest, dirtiest person I had ever had the misfortune to share a house with. I can honestly say that in the nine months that I lived there, she probably only washed up about four times.

    She used to hide the telephone (landline) in her room so that I couldn't use it and would pile open, overflowing rubbish bags of rotting, filthy kitchen rubbish in the dining room, rather than go to the effort of carrying it as far as the front door.

    Other important note - the bathroom was downstairs... down the stairs, through the tiny galley-kitchen into a miniscule porchy-thing and then the bathroom.

    Needless to say, I detested her with a vengeance and avoided her at all costs.

    - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

    Hi Witty,

    Just gonna share this little experience with you, 'cos I know that you'll appreciate it......!

    I'm sat at this very moment in my room, waiting for Mrs Malice to disappear so I can get rid of the poo in my cupboard.
    Yes! It's true, I've got a poo in my cupboard - it couldn't be helped.

    "How can this be?" I hear you snort.

    I went out last night to see some bands (Eighties Matchbox B-line Disaster and Little Hell.... both fantastic) and managed to squeeze in a modest 6 pints. So naturally I woke up this morning needing a wee... not a problem.

    Next on the list.. hangover prevention.
    I need to be out and about pretty sharpish this morning so I fortified my body with pure orange juice (vit c intake..... does it actually work??!) and some paracetamol, and 2 yoghurts (can't face a lot more right now) and came back upstairs.

    It's an unfortunate fact that my body works in a very specific way: morning wee - food - then an instantaneous need to poo. No hanging around, mind, this poo is powered by muscle contractions a Thai ping-pong artiste would be proud of. Peristalsis second to none.

    Unfortunately by the time my body had registered the fact that I'd eaten, it was of course also inevitably registering the fact that I needed to go and dispose of the largest poo known to man that had somehow brewed in my back-passage without me realising on my first toilet visit, and was now clamouring to get out.

    The reason that this was unfortunate was that during this time, Mrs Malice had got up and RUN HERSELF A BATH (AAAAAAAAARRRRGGGH!) and was now luxuriating in the bathroom for an unspecified amount of time, while I was trying to find out whether sitting or lying down is better for holding a poo in (lying down).

    I lay in torment for about 10 minutes, talking to myself in pure panic, sweat squeezing from every pore my body owns. There truly is nothing worse than holding in a poo that's made up it's mind that it wants to see the big, bad world.

    It reached the stage where there was NO WAY that it was HUMANLY POSSIBLE to keep it in any longer and I had to run round looking for a suitable receptacle for said poo.
    Luckily I have my car-washing bucket in my room (I'm glad about that because I was beginning to panic, and had briefly entertained the idea of pooing into a carrier bag) so the disaster was averted.
    I breathed a sigh of relief and popped it out.

    I must add at this point that it was one of the best poos I've ever done. It was (Is!! It's lurking not 2 feet from me as I speak) HUGE. I can't believe that my bowels are that big! No wonder it needed to come out.

    As with all beer-poos, alas, although I was quite lucky with texture and consistancy (not runny... surprisingly solid, in fact) the smell was somewhat over-powering. Smells like a mixture of garlic, beer and... erm.... oh yes!! Poo!

    We all know that poo is smelly, but normally the worst is masked by the fact that it languishes under a few inches of water before it's sent on it's way.
    However, do a poo in a bucket and believe me, you know about it.

    I've had to drape the offending item with kitchen roll, and I've put the bucket in the cupboard.
    I've now got the window open (it's freezing in here) and I've sprayed industrial amounts of under-arm deodorant around the room, which makes breathing somewhat difficult.

    Problem. I need to go out, but I can't leave the poo in the cupboard because the heating controls for the entire house are in this cupboard. They would be, wouldn't they.
    Bugger.
    That's all I need. I go out, she goes to flick the heating on/off and finds that her lodger keeps turds in a bucket in the cupboard. Homeless hostel, here I come.

    Mrs M has emerged from the bathroom, and has now spent the last 20-odd minutes clattering around in the kitchen. I think she might be washing up. She never washes up.

    As you know, you have to walk through the kitchen to get to the bathroom.
    I'm sure she couldn't fail to notice that I would be squeezing past her, carrying an extremely large, extremely smelly turd in a bucket.

    Now I'm anxiously hovering around waiting for Mrs M to go into the front room so that I can dash through undetected with the poo.
    ..............And somehow extricate it from it's position, nestling in the bottom of the bucket, and of course... CLEAN the bucket!! Not looking forward to that bit.

    But hey!! My bottom feels better!

    Friday, December 09, 2005

    recycling worries

    I started wrapping Christmas presents last night. So that's a couple of trees, then.
    It occurred to me that it's all okay, really, as long as it all gets recycled and made into jiffy bags or A4 paper (for my office to waste).

    Recycling. Great if you can get it.
    Let’s face it… the council doesn’t exactly make it easy. In Cardiff they turn up every two weeks, which is nowhere near often enough. We should be recycling at least 80% of our rubbish, which means they should be coming more often than the bin lorry.

    In Barry (approx 10 miles south of Cardiff) they turn up every two weeks. But just to make it more complicated they take only paper and glass one week. A fortnight later they take plastic, tin, foil.
    If you accidentally get your fortnights mixed up or stick a bean tin in with your beer bottles they leave the lot. Don’t take it. So you’re lumbered with a rapidly growing pile of newspapers and packaging for another month.
    You end up sticking it all in the bin, bugger the environment.

    Now to get to the absolute root of things…. Bottoms.
    I make it a point of honour to always buy recycled toilet roll. Let’s face it. Of all the things we buy, this is the one thing that doesn’t need to be made from freshly slaughtered ash trees. Last week’s Guardian is fine, thanks (in a fluffy form, please).

    I buy Nouvelle, which is great as bog roll goes. It’s not sandpaper and it’s soft enough not to leave you with a seriously scarred rear end. In fact, it’s indistinguishable from any other bog roll.

    I really fail to see why any bog roll can justify not being recycled, as we just end up wiping it on our collective arses.

    Go into Asda and you will be faced with approximately 15 metres of shelving, groaning under the weight of scented, moisturised bog paper. Pink, purple, lilac, white, magnolia, triple thickness, nice pretty embossed roses and gold plated arse-lick material. All of this will end up smeared with excrement and flushed away.

    If you squint carefully at the top left of the shelves (just above short-people height) you will see one line of recycled paper.
    You have to know it’s there to find it.

    I emailed Tesco (who claim to be committed to sourcing and producing enviro-friendly products) a few months back suggesting that they lead the way and make all their own-brand bog roll out of recycled paper, but I am clearly either

    i) barking mad
    ii) not worth replying to
    iii) talking out my arse

    …so I didn’t warrant a response.

    This really bugs me. Bastards.

    If you feel even a tiny bit pissed off by this, please email the Corporate Responsibilty department at cr.team@uk.tesco.com telling them they are money-grabbing capitalist pigs.
    I thank you.

    Thursday, December 08, 2005

    lost

    I lost my set of keys to Imp's house and Imp's car.

    Somewhere between Saturday night and Tuesday morning.

    I could have kicked myself, but then I would be down a set of keys and my leg would hurt, so I didn't.
    But I've been very, VERY sorry though.

    After searching high and low, retracing my steps, lying awake at night, always thinking about the keys, I still hadn't found them.

    Imp searched her house too and I tried to think of all the other people I could blame. But really I knew that it must have been me. Due to the fact that I'm the only person who uses them and everything.
    Bugger.

    Frantically I looked in my car, I rummaged in my sock drawer and in the bin and in the washing up bowl. Still nothing.
    Hope fading I checked under the bed and behind the drum kit and wondered whether I might have left them on the table in the poncy coffee place that Imp and I went to on Monday afternoon. Perhaps I knocked them behind a muffin?

    I started to walk around with a haunted look on my face, only half concentrating on anything and never really paying full attention to anyone.
    "Maybe I put them in the freezer?" I'd think and hurry off looking fraught.

    One of the rules about being British is that you never, ever trust anyone else to be honest. No one hands things in; they take what they can use and chuck the rest. This is compulsary and any deviation from this rule can result in being labelled an arselick and getting beaten up.

    So I didn't bother asking anyone.

    Until today when I retraced my Monday-steps and ended up on a really rough estate where the buses refuse to go and the police walk around in threes.
    I teach there every Monday morning and turn up sans bodyguard like clockwork, delivering a dose of knowledge and genius in my usual pre-11am dazed gloom.

    I stuck my head around the kitchen door of the Resource Centre.

    "Don't spose anyone's seen any keys?" I asked in as morose a voice as I could muster, already backing out again knowing that no one would care even if they had. And they would probably have melted them down anyway, to make bling for their kids or to sell down the market.

    Amazed, I stood corrected.
    The keys had been found and even more unlikely, they had been delivered to the police station.
    Bloody hell, it's like being in Enid Blyton-land!

    I skipped to the police station in a delerious haze of reliefness and after gratefully snogging the policeman behind the desk and forgetting to ask him the time I floated back to my car, reunited both with the keys and my happy-smiley face again.

    Wednesday, December 07, 2005

    powerpoint presentation

    I've spent hours and hours and hours preparing for today's presentation.

    You'll have noticed that I haven't had time to write posts for my blog... and those of you who know me in the flesh will know that I've barely had time to wash.
    I'm not joking.

    I arrive at the venue early in order to bag the prime position for my stand. After the many evenings I've put in alongside the many days I've spent perfecting and tweaking, I now am in possession of the best PowerPoint presentation this planet has ever seen and there's no way I'm going to lose out on the opportunity of dominating the room.

    I grapple with the stand for a few grunt-filled minutes and stand back to admire the effect. Amazing. Labels set out 'just so', accompanied and juxtaposed with a truly melodic set of photographs.
    If you were a professional stand-setter-upper, you would take one look at my stand and weep with the sudden realisation of the futility of your existance. But really, no need to hand in your notice, I'm just saying, Mine Is Best.

    I feed the cable through the tiny gap at the back of the display so I can plug the laptop in, remembering to switch the plug off so that I don't electrocute myself. I make a mental note to switch it back on again, knowing that I have an excellent short term memory, fortunately.
    I very rarely, if ever, forget things.

    With the stand up, PowerPoint ticking over nicely, I make some final notes and sit back feeling very smug indeed. By now my counterparts have arrived with their (it has to be said) inferior presentations and they settle for the booby-prize positions and erect their stands.

    I lean back in my chair and read an article about John Peel, a tiny mental tear appearing in my mind, mourning the loss of the music genius quietly. On the outside, though, I'm confident, I'm smug, I'm the Top Dog.

    The talks begin and I sit back, watching my presentation looping in it's own superior way, catching the attention of the others and distracting them from the other talks that are going on. My stand screams Superiority and I can see that subliminally I am already triumphant.

    Then it switches off.

    I stop breathing.

    What the..... ?
    Maybe it's hibernated? Maybe I need to write to Microsoft and give them a piece of my mind. Bastards.
    I spend the next hour squinting at the front of the laptop from my boxed-in seat at the other end of the room, trying to send mental orders to it, hoping blindly that perhaps a particularly heavy speck of dust will fall on the touchpad and nudge it back into operation.

    We're giving the last talk and we stop briefly to grab a coffee before we go. I sprint across the room in a *casual* way and, fear running through my veins, try to start the laptop up again.

    It splutters and raises a tired eyelid at me before giving up all pretence of working and rolls over and falls asleep.
    I stick my head around the back of the display and with surprise, notice that the power isn't on.

    Who could have done that? Someone must be trying to sabotage my display.
    I flick the switch and reboot the laptop just in time for the talk, where it happily chugs along, illustrating everything with ease and professional flair.

    I sit back and glare at all the potential sabateurs in the room.

    Bastards.

    Monday, December 05, 2005

    Ms and Ms

    Britain is finally catching up.


    Today we're legal, so make sure you come round later with a bottle of champagne.

    Here's Stonewall's guide to getting hitched, check it out if you're thinking of tying the knot.

    At long last, eh?


    Sunday, December 04, 2005

    logs and prostitutes

    Imp bought a truckload of logs from a bloke in a van.

    There it was, advertised in the Barry Gem (Rupert Murdoch missed that one, but obviously it's a quality rag. Full of scandal and South Wales Sauciness. "Man falls asleep on bench!" "Woman runs out of Ketchup - Horror" Life can't get much more cutting edge than this.)

    We spotted it in the classifieds section while we were scanning the Female seeks female, Male seeks male bit at the back. 'Truck-full of logs, £40' it said cleverly, and wondering whether he had a tiny little Vauxhall Combi or a massive 7.5 ton tipper, we scrabbled for the phone and struck a deal. Bartering shamelessly we settled on... er.. well, forty quid, to be exact, and waited for him to trundle on by.

    Did you spot the bit where I said we read the personals? Thought I'd stick that in, to coin a phrase.

    It's my favourite bit of the paper.
    Imp always looks at the wedding photos so that she can cringe at all the ugly people with their Eighties hairstyles and gasp at the bloaters crammed into their two-sizes-too-small size 16 wedding dresses.
    Then she flicks through the obituaries just in case someone she knows has popped their clogs.

    I don't know why she bothers, if they're any kind of mate, I'm sure they'd let her know first.

    I always whizz to the personals so that I can feign righteous indignation at all the debauchery that I'm missing out on. 'Discreet' massage, Transvestite escorts, married couples offering their services to men and women, couples, singles, gay, bi, straight. Accommodating, to say the least. Blokes that just 'want to watch'. Ewww.
    Better than telly, the ads at the back.

    So the bloke turned up and the logs were deposited in a huge heap at the bottom of the garden, waiting to be carried, armful by armful, to the basement. Still waiting, most of them.

    Then I'm allowed to smash them and split them by wildly waving my axe and looking very important and making masterful grunting noises to impress the neighbours at how hard I work, while the kids hide away indoors in case I lose control of the vast, flying blade and remove one of their limbs.

    Wimps. Hospitals can do marvellous things these days, I don't know what their issue is.

    Generally I wait until it's dark so that no one can see if I miss the logs completely. I assume a kind of warrior-stance, legs apart, eyes wild, hair flinging sweat in all directions, spikes drooping more and more, mud smeared across my forehead.

    Aiming vaguely at where I think I balanced a log on end, I prepare to attack. Reaching backwards and screeching fiercely a bit like Wolf, from Gladiator, I swing the axe in a powerful arc and plant the blade neatly next to the log, where I then spend the next minute or so trying to retrieve it so that I can do it again.

    This is called 'chopping the wood'. When I say I'm going out to 'chop the wood', this is what I'll be doing.

    When I can do it in the light, I will teach Imp and she can take over the night-shift.

    Thursday, December 01, 2005

    Geordie news


    I've just finished my 1/2 hour drum practice and really should be looking for a band to join. After all, talent like mine shouldn't be wasted. Remember the Majorettes? Twirly prancy girlies in short skirts flinging spangley batons left, right and centre? (My mum always wanted me to join but I refused with the threat that Amnesty International would be after her if she made me...).
    I can twirl a stick better than them, believe me. I'm fierce, I've got spiky hair, I can just about hold a 4/4 beat and I need to show that girl from the Corrs who's Boss.

    Luckily, I heard that there's a rap group up north - just started, might want someone to do the 'BoooFFF' bits into the microphones for them, in case they lose their teeth doing it themselves.
    A gang of coffin-dodgers, hip-replacement-hopping to the beats of their pacemakers...

    Bless.

    Talking of the north, I wonder if the Geordie version of Windows ever took off? I would ask my mate, Witty (who lives there), but she can't read or write.

    WINDAZ20

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