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Christmas. Woo. Hoo.

There are 40-ish days left until Christmas and already plans for the day have changed numerous times. But then, that's nothing new. My wife's sister's birthday changed from going to a restaurant, to Exeter, to Bristol, to Clark's Village in Dorset, back to a restaurant and then to my mother-in-laws. There are at least 12 hours before B-Day so it may change again.

Christmas in my wife's family is a 'special' time, for a given meaning of 'special' IE we do what my mother-in-law wants, which is generally along the lines of COME TO ME MY CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT MWA-HA-HAAA--HAHAAAA. Ahem. We, that is me and my brother-in-law have to suffer under the weight of countless relatives while being bored out of our brains.

You might ask where my own relatives figure in all this. They don't, them being all the way up north. I'd consider spending this festive time with them but, you know, they're common. And my stepmum uses a vat of salt in all her cooking.

So there's 'Ben' and I generally trying to amuse ourselves by stealing one of the cousins PSP or other activities that are entirely frowned upon. And pretty much everyone except mother is bored to tears. This year, the daughters have rebelled. Hurrah. We are to go to my sister-in-laws. This is both a positive and a negative. For Ben it's a bonus. He can now drink alcohol and get merry. For me it's the same as usual. I long for a lonely Christmas: me, the wife and the TV?Internet. This would involve everyone dying obviously but I like to think I'm not that callous. I'll let the dog survive.

Saturday! Saturday!

Before I start I just want to say Strictly Dancing today. Kate Garratasaway. Yowzer. Ahem.

When I was young I used to watch television. A lot. This was in no small part to having no friends (what changes?), me being totally inept at all things social (what changes?) and there being some quality stuff on (to the eyes of a ten-year-old). Saturday's were my favourite day. I'd get up at ten and pretty much watch TV until bedtime. Depending on my age this may have been interrupted by a visit to the chip shop, a trip to town or a trip to the shops with my mum. But then it was back to the telly.

We didn't have Strictly Dancing. We didn't have the X-Factor (which is a good thing seeing as how this years contestants are uniformly awful). We had Noels House Party. Looking back it was shite although I actually believed the studio was in the Channel Tunnel at the time of breakthrough to the french side. Noel's inheritors seem to be Ant & Dec who I wouldn't watch if you paid me. Funnily enough I still watch Noel on Deal Or No Deal and it's him that makes it compelling viewing. Ant & Dec on that poker face thing they do just bleed the tension out of the moment. That may be because I'm always trying to preempt them saying to the camera "the vote has never been so close - you must vote" - yeah, feck off yer irritating tits.

So, the point of this? Bring back Noel Edmonds onto everything on TV! Imagine him on Millionaire - I'd watch again! Give the bloke a chat show! A travel show! A DIY show! You may shoot me at any point if you want but that's only because you know I'm right.

I Don't Have Time For Facebook

Aah, the good old days. In them days I read books. I talked to my wife (if she was lucky). I listened to music. I trawled the Internet. 'These' days though I go on just the one: Facebook. It has to stop.

It's taking over my life. I have four games of Scrabble on the go. I have a vampire, a zombie and a slayer. I take tests (Tests?? Not done that since I was eighteen!). I read groups.

I don't have time to contact the people I joined the site for!

I need a plan. I need to set a certain amount of time aside for Facebooking and stick to it. Except my wife will demand I have my turn at Scrabble. I'll get an email telling me someone's left me a message. There's a statistic that says 90% of Internet traffic is videos via Youtube or torrents. This is incorrect. It's actually the millions of Facebook owners pressing F5. I understand now why Facebook is hated by employers. It should be banned. I'm planning on petitioning my MP to raise the issue in Parliament. I wonder if he's got his own page....

Join Me In Misery

When I was younger, so much younger than today, I was as thin as the proverbial pencil. I was nearly taken to the doctors. Well, I would have been if my mother had cared enough. Anyway, I was so thin I could have been a model for . But the years have not been kind. The years have in fact been force feeding me sugar whilst locked in a small cube two feet to a side.

I was sat on my bed the other and looking in the mirror. I found I'd developed a new ability. I could now, much to the amazement nee disgust of my wife, life my stomach and literally place it back on my lap. Up. Down. Up. Down. This was a form of exercise in itself.

A plan was formed.

Henceforth I shall be near vegan. (For one lives next door. Ho. Ho. Ha.) I'd only eat vegetables, fruit and salad (which my actually be vegetables or salad - I've never quite got the distinction) with chicken and tuna. Yes, this was to be the start of a diet. Oh yes. That was a week ago. In that time I've lost half a stone, a lot of money and very nearly my sanity.

The weight was easy; it just kind of happens. The money was slightly more problematic in that good quality F&G&S costs a fucking fortune. But that was nothing compared to the shock of very nearly going without sugar (except in tea and that intrinsic to Frosties and Sugar Puffs, the only breakfast cereals that are edible IMO). I actually went Cold Turkey. My mood went swiiiiiiiiiiiiiinging all the way around the room, I had the shakes and I couldn't concentrate. God that first hour was hard. My normal diet consisted of a Frostied breakfast with biscuits, a cakey elevenses and mid-afternoon sugar-attack with a dessert for dinner. (I just had a whole treacle sponge pudding once. Best. Dinner. Ever.) There was left a gaping whole in my world.

It's getting easier to control though mainly due to my new addiction - Facebook . I'm a new convert having always been against FB and Myspace. No friends means an embarrassingly lonely time on there, see? Somehow though my hours are being filled with tests, quizzes, scrabble and annoying people I know (mainly those on the SFX forum) into talking to me.

I'm not sure this is a good thing.

He's Back In The Room

And....I'm back. OMG I didn't realise how much I'd miss this. It turns out that rambling about nothing is very cathartic. Which interprets as 'became a moody bastard'.

Since we last spoke I joined Facebook which it turns out really is addictive as crack cocaine. Who'd have thunk? Proper post tomorrow....

Me Get Bored

Hello

I know, I've been neglecting you. But I got bored and it's not the same anymore. I used to vent my anger but...things happened. So at the minute I'm watching far more television than is good for me as I catch up with past things that I've missed. If you want to be informed when I re-start leave a message with your email address and I'll pop a note along.

The following is just a list of terms that are relevant to me, for Google, in case anyone wants to find me.

Bulwell
Alderman Derbyshire Comprehensive.
Merchant Street
People College
Nottingham
Jamie Starbuck
City Electrical Factors

A Dietary Miracle

I used to be a scientist. I'd be sat in my Psychology A-Level class and we'd be talking about...something. "Well", said the lecturer, "Blokey had a big thought and did an experiment, whereby he found if you whack a dog enough times with a big stick, after a time, the dog will avoid the stick". Well blow me down. I'd only gone and worked that out literally days before. (Which is not today's story).

Well, recently I made another big discovery. I'm fat, see? Well, tubby. Podgy, maybe. My 'ideal' weight, being six feet tall, is 13 stone which even as a child I have never been. I currently reside somewhere between 14 and a half and fifteen stone (depending on how my digital scales feel). This is not a problem. The problem is that I also feel like shite. My general fitness is awful. SO wifey, bless her, is trying to get me fit and insists I eat 'healthily' and exercise 'every day'. Scoff.

I am now the proud owner of a stepper machine. It fulfils the joint requirements of a) being silent b) doesn't require me to leave wifey by herself and c) means I can read while I exercise. I formerly had a treadmill, went for walks, ran up and down the stairs and many others, all of which transgressed Asimov's rules of exercise.

I'm Some whole but most in smoothies in my new blender courtesy of Rosemary Conley. Yummy. Blended you tend to be able to fit in far more fruit, see? In a standard day I can get through three apples, half a punnet of strawberries, two peaches and a banana and that's without the veg in my main meals. And this is my discovery. The more fruits and veg you eat, the more you go number twos. You'd think it'd be a one for one trade. An apple in, an apple-sized amount of pooh, out. But no. See, I swear I'm going for far more than my fair share of visits to the defecation throne. Each visit could be measured in litres (note the liquid measurement). And thus I'm losing weight.

I should write this up in Nature. I could call it Fruity Pooh.

Family Dysfunction

The wife is not relatively challenged. She's got 'em everywhere. We have functions to go to on more than a regular basis. I hadn't counted on this when I became her husband. I do more than my fair share of stuff for her already, don't I? I'm not quite sure she sees it that way.

Thus, on Saturday I was dragged (rope around my wrists attached to a tow-bar on her 'chair) to a wedding. Not that we were invited to the daytime do, oh no, mere cousins were only to attend the evening buffet and disco. Chavtastic. It was the usual case of half the family not talking to the other. Luckily, I was sat facing a mirror near the door so could see all the fit birds as they walked in. It was only later that I realised I could even see them on the other side of the room. This was a first and one I put down to the simple fact of the smoking ban. What a wondrous thing that is. When I got home my shirt went straight back in the wardrobe and not to be incinerated. I didn't need a shower. The wife and I could cuddle in bed. We could breathe all night!

My god it was a boring night only enlivened by the groom's parents doing 'professional' dancing. They were shite, too. It's at times like this that realise the entertainment value of my brother-in-law. He's a twat but he's someone to talk to, to have a laugh with. I couldn't talk to my mother or father-in-law obviously. Wifey wasn't in the mood. So I was left to my own devices, sitting in my chair singing cheesy disco songs. And not once did I think of going to have a wank in the toilets.

Media Schnobs

Ever read Dan Brown's Da Vinci code? I have. It's really very poorly written and has massive logic gaps. But OMG it's exciting. I'm currently reading The Runelord series by David Farland. They're poorly written too. Truth be told I'd have stopped with book one (of four!) but it's impossible to put down. I simply must know how, with only 250 pages, Gaborn is to kill all the Reavers and destroy Raj Ahten. No doubt it'll be some massively contrived cop out but gawd I love it. Latest Harry Potter? Utter tripe, as they all have been. And yet, I've read them all because I just have to know what happens next.

Recently I've developed the ability, indeed you might call it a preference, to watch only rubbish films. I tried to watch Syriana, I did, honest. By God it was boring. So I put on The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe instead. Crackin' film. Just what is happening to me lately? Formerly I'd have been of the opinion that it's populist shite (Armageddon shall forever be in this camp) but in reading certain forum opinions I've now decided to embrace all that is crap for although a lot of it is, some of it is actually quite enjoyable. If still crap.

Some people seem to campaign against the Dan Brown's for appealing to the Lowest Common Denominator. Well, so what? If more people like it surely that says something? Stop trying to be elitist. It's not that I disagree with the schnobs, I just feel disgusted at people's attitudes and want to stick up for the crud.

On Boredom

Gawd I'm fickle. I can spend days on this laptop doing absolutely nothing - where the fuck does the time go? It's the same with XBOX - I bought one and spent days (which seemed like five minutes just tossing time out the window trying to increase my power meter just one more notch.

But now I can't be arsed. I can't be arsed about a lot of things lately. I'm just so - meh. Lifeless even. See that film Trainspotting with Renton with the scene featuring Renton in the pub being clean for a change and life whizzes past? That's me that is. Content to sit and do nothing. Except, at the same time I feel I'm wasting my life. Shouldn't I be doing something worthwhile? Is there a whale somewhere that needs saving?

When I left school I was a cock. But that's irrelevant. I had one career option in mind: something to do with computers. Hmm. Bit of a wide span of options there. I just couldn't narrow them down. Programmer? Too boring. Office worker? Maybe generic enough to warrant a 'yes'. And that's as big as my list got. You see, 'ambition' wasn't in my vernacular. It's not that I don't like my current vocation. Caring for my wife enables me to perform the one thing I'm actually good at - slobbing. (Talent! Another thing I lack. I excel in being not very good at pretty much everything).

So, if anyone has good ideas of how I can make proper use of my copious amounts of spare time and you think I may enjoy it as much as watching series' of TV programs and reading the latest Sci-Fi opus, let me know. Please.

Inventions that should be invented #2

Have you ever tried to give an animal a pill? It's a very tricky procedure. At one and the same time you have to hold all four legs, open it's mouth, hold it still and, balancing the pill on your finger, force your finger to the back of it's mouth, risking life, fingers and the possibility of losing various amounts of skin.

So, I propose this: a device for holding the animal still. It shall be called Parapet (Paralysed Pet obviously).

Imagine a mitre saw. There shall be four holes, two at the front two at the back into which the legs can be placed and they're all fixed into place, with struts between them. This shall all attach to a neck collar so the head can also stay still. And a horsey type bit to keep it's mouth open. If Peter Jones, entrepreneur extraordinaire, is reading, I'll let you have 20% in exchange for £250,000.

And he's out! Yay.

He's free. Is he? Great. Nice one....but who the fuck cares? Apart from his family obviously.

He's been on the news nightly "Today is the 53rd day of Alan Johnson's capture", and the 54th, 60th, 61st and every one in between. If I was kidnapped would they do the same? They're not even still talking about sweet, photogenic Madeleine. That's what fucks me off about the media and people in general: always out to protect their own little group.

Take the police (or their televised versions anyway): someone is knifed and an incident room is set-up, knife a copper and GRRRRRRRR Inpector Knacker of the Yard brings along his 3000 mates, jack boots (for the stomping of fingers) and knuckle dusters (not for cleaning). Is the original victim less worthy? No.

Terry Waite, being kidnapped for a 'long time' should have been on the news nearly 2000 times but probably numbered his appearances in the tens (have you noticed how well researched these articles are? I could work for the Sun).

Satan is an Insomniac

Aaah, Paddy, my gorgeous kitten tom cat. You play, you fight, you look generally cute. If you could just let me have some sleep now and again I'd be most appreciative. To that end, I've got to start being not nice to you.

I am going to prod you, shake you, forcibly play with you and do pretty much anything else I can think of to keep you awake. You shan't go to sleep before my bedtime, you shall be so tired that you shall lay motionless all night. No longer will you jump on my head with all claws extended. You will not hit me in the eye. And hopefully you won't need a shit and stink my bedroom out.

You don't like punishments. This isn't to say you don't like being punished, I just really don't think you give a toss. A spray of water in the face? You don't flinch. A shout? A slap? You carry on regardless. Throwing you from the bed to the floor three hundred times a night? You still come back for that three hundred and first time. So I will play with you and by god you will play with me. You're on me right now trying to get to sleep. Your eyes are drooping. I'm going to put you on the floor now and make you walk. Soz.

Stupid Boy(s)

See that there terrorist that attacked Glasgow Airport? He was a doctor, he was. Isn't it a prerequisite that doctors have to have brains? Shouldn't his intelligence have at some point asserted itself in the form of the thought "hold on, what I'm about to do is monumentally fucking evil and stupid"?

But then, terrorists, or freedom fighters depending on your viewpoint - let's not forget Che, the original celebrity terrorist, is beloved by students everywhere - are stupid in general.

Play Pick-A-Target. Almost anywhere would be better than half the places these people come up with. Central London? Dya think they might be expecting that sort of thing? Much? Here in Plymouth we have the largest naval base in Europe and yet not a single incident happens. CND don't even demonstrate here. Drive past the base and there's an old fart on guard reading the Sun and smoking a fag. Half the time the barrier isn't even down.

Or hows about sending a one man army AKA Jimmy Suicide Bomber to a football match? Stand in amongst all those fans and KABOOM! Up goes half of the supporters for Plymouth Argyle.

Or walk around a car park, a tiny bit of dynamite per car, you could blow up thousands of the things without being caught. All those angry owners would soon lobby Parliament to pull out of Iraq or your country of preference (perhaps a handy note left under the windscreen wiper?).

But no, let's (mostly) attack the highly defended places in the country where the police and Fire Brigade practice daily for just these things. Stupid.

NB Previously you could walk into Plymouth Airport and onto the runway almost unhindered.

Not funny jokes

I'm currently being made to watch the concert being performed in memory of Princess Diana. As a sign of protest I thought it might be nice to remember the jokes that came out after her death. If you remember any, please add them.

What does DIANA stand for? Died In A Nasty Accident.

Bob Geldof is walking through Heaven and approaches the pearly gates (having just died).
"Yo, St Peter" says Bob.
"Erm...hello" Says Pete.
"So when do I get ma fuckin' halo, then?"
"Aaah. There are many years of being a junior angel before you my son for you to receive that most precious gift of our Lord".
"You what? What about her?" Bob points to his left where Princess Di is gliding serenely along, complete with ring about her head.
"Ah, no" says St Pete, "that's a steering wheel".

I look good

Toiletry Wipes

There's an advert on TV at the moment. It's been on for awhile. A young boy (I'm guessing to be honest) is sat on the loo and - oh no! - all of hi special wipes are 'all gone, they're all gone'. None of this toilet paper for this little tyke. Well, a cuter specimen of the human race you've never seen...

Yeah, right. What this kid needs is a thump with a length of wood. Not only is his voice that of [insert your own nasty voiced thing here] but he can't even synch his words with his mouth movements! It's almost like the sanitary company are using a Japanese advert the world over and dubbing it to save money. Tight bastards. I hate it when they do that.

What's worse (but only just) is the make-up adverts where Hollywood beauties are dubbed! It's like they think we won't realise they aren't their real voices. Penelope Cruz is Spanish for frig sake!

TV would be so much better if I was in charge but I don't want a job so it's not going to happen. Sorry.

A tad excessive?

This rating was determined based on the presence of the following words:

pain (5x) gay (4x) kill (3x) porn (2x)

American censors are so...blah.

Gawd Morning

I was up, awake and downstairs at 6am this morning. As Adrian Kronauer (completely guessed at the spelling there), it was also 0600 - what does the '0' stand for? Oh my god it's early.

Why was I awoke so early? Did my wife have a yearning for canoodling? No. Was there a fire? No. Did I have a need to pee? No. My cat was tearing around the fucking house, twatting me around the face on a regular basis (every five minutes), biting my nose (no, really) and scratching my arse. So, up I got. This has been going on for four days.

He's a gorgeous cat and cute as hell when he's sat still. When he moves he becomes Satan incarnate. The sooner we can chop his balls off the better. I'm all for brotherhood solidarity but he seriously needs to lose some energy. We play with him whenever he's awake and he goes to sleep fairly quickly but come the middle of the night - bastard.

All white? All white at the back?

For the second time in a week I'm going to skirt one of the most potentially explosive subjects (no, not dynamite) that can split an audience (insert your own obvious joke about atoms 'here'). Today, we shall be asking 'Is Plymouth, indeed the South West, so far off the beaten track that only the white folks from BC (Before Cotton) bother coming?*

I've worked for two of the biggest, maybe even actual hugest, employers in Plymouth IE the local newspaper (upwards of 600 employees including reporters and advertising staff) and the local hospital (upwards of 6000 staff). How many non-whites dya reckon I saw? Here's one hand; we won't get to the thumb...Cumulatively, I worked there for four years.

What does that say about Plymouth? Either both are massively racialist or not many non-whites live here. Personally, I can't blame them but why? Don't ask me, I'm no anthropologist. At a guess though I'd say there's nothing here for migrant workers (although in Cornwall apparently if you're Polish you can pick daffodils 7 days a week 14 hours a day for approx. £0.50 per kilogram). As for the rest of the proper working population...gawd knows.

Maybe that's why Plymouth is so shite: Lack of diversity. I should picket Plymouth City Council.

Dear Ms Pengelly (for she is currently leader)

Please to run some adverts in the African subcontinent for people with some life to spice up this hell hole you pretend to govern.

Many thanks.

If all my readers could send this, I'd appreciate it. Ta.

*Obviously it's a given we have a certain amount of asians for all those Chinese restaurants.

On a lighter note, see my new kitten, Paddy.

Important questions

This was going to be an idea for an invention but I've forgotten what it was. Not much point saying so then really but I like wasting your time. It amuses me.

Let's talk dust. It gets everywhere and comes from nowhere. Take my bedroom. I dust every day and yet the next day there are literally layers of the bloody stuff. This is part of the reason we got rid of the carpet - it just lies there and you can't get it out, especially from under the bed. Get wooden floors and you can see tumbleweeds rolling along...so, why??

Most dust is human skin apparently and today I made the connection that most dust in my house is a generic grey/white colour (intellectual discussion always available here, see?) which led me to wonder, if you're black, asian or other coloured denomination, does your dust match your skin tone?

Bum fluff is the same. Except I've yet to meet someone that is actually blue. Wifey comes close sometimes (Fnarr Fnarr) but that's because of a lack of oxygen (now there's an idea for an invention - a device that helps you remember these important details...10 points to the inventor of such a device....).

A Day Off Sick

Mexico is a dirt, filthy and very poor place. Except the bit where we went to on Honeymoon (Puerto Aventura fact fans). All inclusive, large pool, 10 restaurants and not a Mexican to be seen except the staff who customarily bowed and scraped as only the very poor can. It was bourgeois heaven.

The route there was a bit circuitous, consisting of a plane from Plymouth to Gatwick, via Newquay ie going west, then east and finally back west crossing Plymouth a total of three times on the outbound journey. But all was good.

I melted on a regular basis and had to make use of the available shelter by gorging on food 24/7. I'm not sure but they may also have let us back in our hotel room during the day if we'd asked - or is that just B&Bs? The food was fir for a slightly well off king. Huuuuuuge buffets for the most part with each restaurant serving national dishes of different countries. Italian, Japanese, English etc I tried pretty much every dish available. The wife had cheese omelette and chips at pretty much every mealtime. Looking back I wish I had too.

Two weeks this cycle of food storage in my stomach and gut went on for. It was only later that I realised I hadn't been for number twos during the entire time.

We flew back on the Wednesday and I was back at work Thursday. On the Friday I woke up....no, sorry I was woken up by the most horrific pain experience by man. The kind of pain that bitch Pandora let out of her trinket box. Cramp went my stomach, cramp, tight cramp, punch, cramp and so the cycle went on. An ambulance had to be called eventually as I couldn't get out of bed. Actually, that's a bit of an understatement: I couldn't actually move. Apparently, when you breath really hard really fast (to try and control your pain - oh the memory hurts still) you hyperventilate. Do it long enough and you lose feeling in your extremities. Even longer and your hands start to curl and you can't talk. This is the state I was in when the paramedics walked in.

"Is he always like this?", they asked.

Fuck off, mate.

According to the junior doctor at the hospital I was suffering Montezuma's Revenge . Well aint Montezuma a bastard?

I lost a stone in weight that weekend as the two weeks worth of food was flushed out of me.

L.A.M.P.

Do you get your local newspaper? We have the Plymouth Herald delivered cuz we're lazy bastards - it's at least a two minute walk to the shop every day - and it often has delights. Generally it bangs on about the navy and how the local shipyard is the lifeblood of the city. Today though was an exception. Two things there were that were worthy of mention and mention them I shall.

Ever been to Cornwall? It takes forever to get anywhere and it's crap when you do eventually arrive. Its all fishing villages on the coast and Emmerdale inland, all of them with the same Fudge and Pasty shops. Liskeard is trying to go one better. With a population of 8,478 an enterprising chap from Plymouth (not me) is opening a massage parlour. Not a 'legit' one either. A full on get your norks around me plums type one. Uproar has ensued. The village is rising up: Liskeard Against Massage Parlours is acting en masse to stop it. Unfortunately no internet link exists so you'll have to take my word for this. Personally, I think a petition should be started by all the men of the village (fortunately nowhere near where I live thus negating the need for me to sign thus allowing me innocent status where the missus is concerned - Hello Darling!) clamouring for such an institution. Have you seen a Cornish woman? Gawd...And let's not forget the employment opportunities: Bar workers, door workers, slappers...

Also in the news was the rather exciting announcement regarding the new erection (snigger) at the local B&Q retail park. Plymouth, get this, is to get a second Marks & Spencer but not just a normal store, it will be, much to the orgasmic joy of the missus a food only store. M&S is just about the only reason we go into the city centre these days; their puddings are sugartastic.

On sticking with it.

I went out last night. I went out with 'Ben' my penis with a personality of a brother-in-law. I had been foisted into things as his companion to go see Paul Weller at the local village hall. I wasn't really bothered about it but tagged along. During the course of the evening I had more beer than I'd drank in the last two years IE two pints. I was a little...smashed. Well, that made the evening fly by. Until we got in the venue anyway. We stood waiting for an hour before the support came on (Brinkman - have you ever seen a decent support act? Me neither. Even when going to see Kylie - three times and counting - you'd think Kylie could have Sugababes! I'd like a Sugababe. Just one; I'm not greedy.). Well, Mr Weller came bounding on and didn't stop bounding for 90 minutes. I hope to have as much energy when I'm the same age. He also friggin' rocked, man. I only recognised four songs but still.

I write this, as I really need a pee and wanted to see how far I could go without having to divert off. As it turns out, quite a way.

As an aside it turns out 'Ben' shouldn't have gone to the pub. 'Kate' was a little peeved. He only had two pints you stroppy, immature bint! Jeez. If only you knew he lived with you 'for convenience'; that he thinks you're a bitch (which you are) and he's massively bored. Still, you keep on moaning, love.

Service shall shortly resume....

Decorators! Gone! In the process made lots of mess. And made my internet....not possible. Gah. Still, I'm back, from outer space, but I've not got, jizzum upon my face (unlike the lady I saw in a video yesterday - drowning? Nearly.)

I may post later. Before Midnight. Or I may post tomorrow. It all depends on my wife's addiction to Scrabble. Find your F5 button and keep pressing for my return is imminent...

I'm Freeee-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

to do whatever I.............whatever I choose do-do-do do deee dooooooo.

The decorators have moved in and the wife has moved out. Temporarily. To her mothers. Dust, is a bad thing for the wife. It gets, cough, right on her, choke, chest and plays havoc with her, going blue now, breathing. Which leaves me able to play, rest and do no work. For a period of about two hours at a time as I'm going back and forth. Never would I leave her in the clutches of my mother-in-law, she who makes Dr Harold Shipman look caring.

http://www.thingsmygirlfriendandihavearguedabout.com/ is a very funny thing.

A Wasted Day

NB This has nothing to do with being a) drunk b) a drunk.

We were going out. I was dressed. Wifey was making herself look pretty(err). I made a phone call.

Me: Dear BOC. Why are you so crap at delivering oxygen to my wife?

BOC: I'm sorry. Again. He came on Wednesday. Even though he has a key he did not use it for he is not allowed.

Me: Then what is the point of him having it?

BOC: Err....He'll be coming today.

And so we waited in.....and waited....still he's not here. It's lovely outside. We were going to B&Q but I was to surprise the wife with a visit to the pub luncheon department. We wait...

I'm right!

I used to love a good argument. That's why I joined an internet forum. Oh, the fights I used to have...Good times.

These days, I just can't be arsed. Over on the SFX forum right now they're having a ding-dong over wether games should be excluded from the Fun & Games section and it's getting rather over-heated. I'm not going to venture an opinion as I really don't care (although the entire debate centres around a thread I started ages ago). Formerly I may have waded in and decried all the points thus far no matter which side I stood on but now I just can't see the point; It's all a bit 'meh'. I'd rather be reading Scaryduck's Condensed Films to be honest.

A case in point in how I've changed: about a year ago I apparently sent an email to one of the forum saying I didn't like her. I can't imagine doing that now. I'm so indifferent to people I'm almost sociopathic. Look! I've killed me a catholic! Anyway, I apologised. What I was offended about is that she called me insincere! The cheek! Things I'd rather do than be insincere (I'm talking the wasted time factor not the moral obligation to honesty):

Watch Titanic.
Listen to Beyonce Knowles warble.
Read the Bible.

See? It's never gonna happen.

Princess Die

Channel 4 are apparently screening a documentary tonight and may, shock! horror! be showing pictures of the car that carried our beloved Princess Di toward her certain crushing end. There is a furore. And the question is: who really gives a toss? I challenge everyone who does to leave a comment. Lack of comments will of course vindicate this post.

Harry and Willy have requested the photos not be shown. And Channel 4 are ignoring them. Respectfully, of course. The question is being asked on the news that if it was the boss of C4's mother in the car, would he still show the pictures? Is his mother the Queen of Tarts? Is she in the nations hearts? Is, in fact, his mother the only female personality with a bigger place reserved in Heaven ie Mother Theresa? No, I don't belive she is.

I wouldn't mind my mother being shown in this program but then my mothers a bitch and I wouldn't mind her being dragged by the ankles behind a Shire Horse with diarhoea. Channel 4 are presumably a veritible cock-a-hoop at the thought of all the publicity and the swarms of viewers. I propose a compromise: they can show it and no-one watches. Ideal.

Directions

When I started this blog I meant it as a place to review SF&F books and stuff. I don't do that enough. So...

I just finished watching Alias series 1. It was good. I shall now watch West Wing series 4. Anyone that posts spoilers shall be killed in a nasty way. Note the singular 'way'; I'm not wasting good ways on your skinny/fat non-specific coloured ass.

My hands itch. Is it scabies?

Justice the American Way

Some blokes have been arrested for plotting to bomb JFK airport in New Yoik. 'Plotting' is perhaps going a bit far as they were quite a way off even finalising the planning, let alone making the molotov devices (for you can indeed do much damage with a petrol lighter). So the question is: is America, Land of the Free, now arresting people for Thought Crimes? Let's see:

I'm currently thinking of assassinating George 'Dubya' Bush, President of the United States, POTUS, DOOFUS and all round twat.

I have got thus far in my planning: I've had the thought to do so.

Bring it on CIA! Read this and weep NSA!

I'll even go one further: I'm gonna kill all the Senators and Congressmen and women (for I'm sure there is actually a difference but I've yet to work out what it is) and all the Governors except Arnie cuz....you know....it's Arnie. He'd kill me. Using grenades. They wouldn't explode; he'd just insert them with Arnie-force into any available orifice. All the mayor's deserve to die, as do all the Sheriffs. And council members. And the street cleaners. In this instance only, all the smokers will be let off as they're going to kill themselves eventually anyway.

I await the FBI knocking at my door. The clock starts.....NOW.




Justice? Legal?

Bed + Sofa = Nothing!

Next week we have some people coming to invade our house. We invited them but they will turn us upside down. I decorated my bedroom, they'll do the rest of my house. It's only fair after all.

We've been deliberating about this for quite awhile and finally took the final decision when they phoned to say they were coming on Tuesday (we're great believers in waiting until five minutes past the final minute - nobody is too big to be put out). All well and good. Hmm. The decoration sorted we have today been ordering the new furniture; we planned on getting a chest of drawers and a sofabed to help with storage and multifunctionality. We hit. A. Snag. The sofabed we'd been planning on buying was again looked at. We then noticed the section in the Next catalogue that said 'Ahem. Measure your friggin' doors before you order this thing as we're not having it back just becuase you're stupid enough to order it'. Our doors? 74 cms wide. The sofabed? 88x86 on the ends. Now our doors are standard width so either the average Next customer lives in a mansion with barn doors or there's a trick for getting them in. If it had been one door it might not be a problem but we have three doors, two sharp turns and a banister to negotiate. So, no, we didn't order it.

On to www.Sofabed.co.uk They have a lovely one for £349.99. Little do they say that's exclusive of VAT, exclusive of delivery and exclusive of your choice of fabric. The final price? £453. If they'd said that price to begin with I'd have ordered it no question but to lull me into a false sense of security (that's fucking fraud that is!) is disgusting. Avoid this company. If by saying that I stop just one person visiting their shop, I'll have a wank in celebration.