Sign of the times

The photo says it all. And I love it. Hat sellers outside Trent Bridge cricket ground have a readymade market of stupid hat buyers passing their stalls. However, with grammar and prices (4.99 pence!) so badly misjudged, you have to wonder what sort of simpleton they're targetting.

I bought one.

Too busy?

I'm actually too busy to write a post. Apart from this one which is explaining why I'm too busy to write a post, even though I'm writing one. Er. This is confusing. Anyway, I am indeed busier than Mr Busy McBusy from Busytown in Busyshire. I'm recording podcasts, making video's (nothing shady, honest Guv) and have lots of hectic things going on. So, why post about this dear, loyal readers?

Guilt.

Yep. I've been perusing my old postings, right back to my first ever one on New Year's eve 2005 and I realised how inconsistent I've been. Part of the problem seems to be that I am writing quite a lot of stuff for my Twitter and Facebook chums. The thing is though, social network and micro-blogging sites just don't allow one to fully express themselves. As you know if you're a regular reader of YBATYD or, indeed, a newcomer, you'll see that my musings always require far more space than is acceptable or even allowed on Facebook, Twitter etc. And anyway, a blog should be a fuller, more rounded experience for it's readers. Hmmm. I seem to have solved my own problem. A blog is not the same as any other medium and so deserves its own style and freedom of expression. Phew.

Crikey. This is a bit of a serious posting. That's not like me at all. Maybe I should lighten the mood. Er ... Oh yes, this is amusing. A colleague of mine told me today that when she was at school there was a craze going round whereby the girls would cake lipstick on and then plant a big kiss on the mirror in the girl's loo. God knows why but hey, who needs a reason for a craze?

Anyway, the Head Teacher was a tad miffed at this and made numerous attepmts to get them to stop. Finally, she gathered a bunch of the naughty gals in the lav, along with one of the school cleaners. The teacher addressed the throng by asking the cleaner to show the girls exactly how much work went into cleaning the lipstick off the mirror. The cleaner picked up a rancid, grey dishcloth, dunked it in the toilet and used it to wipe the lippy off. The girls never 'kissed' the mirror again.

Hooray. Normal service has been resumed.

A slice of bad luck

Picture the scene: you're enjoying a bit of James Bond on DVD (Casino Royale no less), with your best friend. You've enjoyed a fab, gut-busting meal and the world is a happy place. Then you decide to make it just that little bit more perfect. Melons. Yes, you suddenly remember that you have a ripe one, nestling in the fridge between the Onken yoghurt and the 2 litre bottle of Strongbow. I'm a classy geezer you know.

So, without a moment's thought, the DVD was paused (no, not the bit many of my female colleagues get all excited about - Daniel Craig emerging from the sea in his pants) and I leapt over the sofa, did a forward roll into the kitchen and threw open the fridge door with gay abandon. Er...

Seconds later, the juicy melon was at my mercy, held down upon the chopping board by my manly hand. I whipped out my knife and got to work. Slice after dripping slice of sweet melon fell away as I powered through the powerless fruit. The it happened.

I think I may have said something along the lines of "OH F*CK!". This was because, in my haste, I had almost sliced the end of my thumb off. That knife was terrifically sharp and I had sliced two-thirds of the way through the tip of my innocent finger. The second I felt the blade slicing through one of my favourite digits, I knew I was in trouble. Bravely, I called out to me lovely friend that I was in a fair bit of pain, before almost fainting. Well, when I say fainting I mean that my natural defence system kicked in and decided that the best way to help me would be to make me sweat profusely, develop tunnel vision, tinnitus and a desire to rest my head on the cold floor. I obliged.

After several agonising minutes and a fair amount of horror-film-style blood splattering (the bottle opener and salad bowl took the brunt of it), my friend had stemmed the flow and helped me administer a rather nifty looking bandage. I knew my First Aid training would come in handy one day. Finally, we cleared up the red mess, tidied up the blood-soaked pieces of kitchen roll and headed back to the telly to resume our film. Then I remembered the melon.

Look, you have to get your priorities right. I may have nearly lopped the end off my thumb, experienced exquisite pain and bled like a halal pig, but food is food. Just because you've suffered a major, life-threatening trauma (am I exaggerating a tad?), it shouldn't mean you have to neglect your tum. So I zipped back into the kitchen, grabbed the plate of succulent (and blood-free) slices and returned to Jimmy B and his trunks. Life was once again, good.

But now I have a phobia of melons. The fruit that is.

Tiny car

Capers and such like

Do you ever wish you liked a food, but didn't? But wish you did? Even though you didn't? No? Well I do. There are at least three foods that I didn't like but made myself like them because, well, they just looked so much fun to eat.

The first one is .... celery. Yes I know. People think it's dull and that it takes more calories to eat it than it actually contains. Aside from all that though the reason I yearned for celery so much was that it just looked so crunchy, easy to use and brilliant for scooping up yummy stuff like houmous, peanut butter and salsa dip. When I first tried it, naked ... er, the celery was naked, not me. Or was I? Anyway, the celery was 'au natrel' and I thought it tasted like crunchy water. But I was determined to be a 'crunchy dunker' and I persevered with the little green stalk until I finally came to love it's fresh, bland taste. I always remember one summer's day, when I was but a child, my dad sitting in the garden, his belly button full of salt and him dunking his celery in it... Aaah memories.

My second hated food was .... olives. When I first tried an olive, the taste made my mouth feel violated. I thought they were disgusting. But olives just seemed to be the darling of the social event. They were, and still are, bloody everywhere - parties, restaurants, pubs and clubs. And they're just so, well, handy. Easy to nibble on their own or with a plate of exciting goodies. I needed to get to like olives. So I re-visited them and discovered that black olives tasted rather like metallic courgettes diced with a little bit of cat vomit but if I had them with something else they were bearable. Admittedly, I had to eat them with things that helped disguise the flavour slightly. Cheesey Doritos worked quite well, but eventually I had to 'go it alone' with an unaccompanied black olive. I liked it. The next step was to tackle the gag-inducing green efforts. Surprise surprise. My black olive training had taught my taste buds to actually enjoy the weird flavour imparted by olives. I loved the little green buggers. Then I discovered stuffed olives: pimento (what the hell IS pimento?), almonds, anchovies, sun-dried tomatoes and more. Nowdays, there is always a jar of fat, stuffed olives lurking in my cupboard.

My final challenge was .... beetroot. I blame my schooldays for my acquired abhorrence of this stupid-coloured vegetable. They used to put beetroot in loads of meals and as the meals themselves were generally unfit for human consumption, the lowly 'beet' quickly became associated with all that was vile, inedible and an insult to all things cullinary. Plus, I thought that beetroot was just showing off, by bleaching it's sodding purple-ness onto every other foodstuff on my plate. There's no need for that is there? Then, one day, about 25 years after my last beetroot-infected school dinner, I was treated to a delicious meal which was essentially a fresh tuna salad (I'm dangerously obsessed with tuna by the way) that also contained, dear God - beetroot. Unfortunately, I wasn't in a position to grab a fork and flick the offending bits into the nearerst bin/flower pot/pram and so I had to actually eat the stuff. It was delicious. It was amazing. It was beautiful. It was angelic. It was ... purple heaven. All these years, I'd shied away from, despised, loathed and reviled beetroot. And there, in one glorious moment, I discovered that it was, in fact,delicious. And did you know that if you eat enough of it, it can even make you wee go pink, which is always a hit at parties. Bonus.

And so, my life, like my tum, is now fuller because I made myself like three foods which I had just naturally avoided or disliked. I can't imagine not enjoying them again and know that I will always be happier for including them in my diet.

Capers however are rank. They taste like soil, laced with battery acid and covered in algae. They actually make me want to be sick. So why then, did I buy a jar, specifically to include in a tomato salsa recipe, as part of a meal from a Jamie Oliver cookbook? Because the recipe said so. I had faith in Jamie 'Olive-Oil". I truly believed that, despite including the single most revolting food item know to humanity, the recipe would just work. I really believed the flavours of all the ingredients would work in perfect harmony and produce a salsa of such joy, taste and sensation, I would actually need to spend some time alone for a while. I was wrong. It tasted of soil, laced with battery acid and covered in algae, but with the addition of garlic and onion. I felt my intestines trying to force their way up my oesophagus in a bid for freedom. The evil, hateful, murderous capers had invaded and pillaged all the lovely flavours from my salsa and killed them in cold blood. Well, a tomato-based juice actually, but you get my point. So, I tried. I really tried to like capers. But no. Capers are horrid. Truly awful. Utterly repellant. They are wrong!

But the jar's still in my fridge and I'm afraid. Very afraid.

Apprentice joy

I watch The Apprentice on the telly. For those of you who don't know, or are lucky enough to live another country, it's a sort of reality TV show where 'contestants' are chasing a dream job with a major international company. They spend what feels like 244 weeks being 'interviewed' by way of a myriad number of tasks and challenges, all designed to test their business acumen, leadership qualities and decision-making skills.

Unfortunately, most of them are tossers.

OK, that's a little harsh, but I wanted to raise a laugh early on. None of them are tossers. Well some of them are. Actually most of them have an 'air of the tosser' about them to be honest. We're on about the fifth series now and I'm constantly amazed at the staggering levels of ineptitude, arrogance and well, tosser-ness which they manage to display. There have been some monumental examples of stupidity. One that springs to mind was from an earlier series:

"I'm outstanding in everything I've done," lawyer/artist/tosser (allegedly) Nicholas de Lacy-Brown assured us in the opening episode. However, Nick's wide and varied life experiences clearly didn't include selling lobsters - a grave omission that saw him offloading £20 crustacea for the cut-down price of a fiver in London's Chapel Market. He totally cocked up on his maths and flogged all this top-notch aquatic grub for practically nowt. And this was a man/tosser who was earning shed loads of cash in his chosen profession. How the hell do these people do it? Let's not forget that these people must have got their amazing jobs by either luck, nepotism or by shagging the boss.

I'm sure you all have your favourite examples of unbelievable idiocy from the show, but surely who could forget, as part of the Marrakech task when the two teams had to find items in the city's huge souk? A kosher chicken was on the list. Michael, who called himself a "good Jewish boy" on his CV, didn't know what kosher meant and bought it from a halal butcher before getting the Muslim chap to pray over it, thinking that would be enough. I'm sorry but the word 'tosser' leaps from my fingers and onto this blog once again. You have to laugh though don't you? And so from this plethora of simpletons, Sir Alan (Brillo-head) Sugar must pick a winner to become a part of his uber-empire. Well, Sir Alan, when it comes to choosing a brilliant new apprentice, I have to say:

"You're fired".

Spend & save

Well happy new year and all that jazz. However, the question is, exactly how happy a new year is it? With a world economic recession circling us like vultures over a dead water buffalo, what does 2009 hold for mere mortals like you and me?

Well it depends on how you look at severe financial trauma. Me? Well, I look at my spending and cut back where I can but not to the point where I'm eating soil and making my own pants from leaves. I still treat myself to things. Like margarine and tiny oil paintings. However, some people view things like closing down sales as a retail bonanza, not to be missed at any cost, regardless of the financial situaion.

Certain people manage to convince themselves that by spending money, they are actually saving money. I knew this female, lady-woman who told me she'd saved £3 on a toilet roll multipack, so she bought a £50 coat to celebrate. Is it me or is that mental? So with all these stores like Woolies, Zavvi, MFI and The Pier disappearing from UK high streets, it's like a Pandora's box for many folks. They're like shopping-zombies, lurching trance-like through the doors of the latest collapsing retail giant. And once inside, that bonkers 'spend & save' logic takes over their enfeebled minds and they start shelling out wads of cash to buy things they don't need and can't afford. But it's such a 'brilliant price', they just can't pass up the opportunity. What wisdom.

Then, 5 months later when they've defaulted on their eleven credit & store cards, Mr Bailiff turns up on the doorstep and removes all the lovely stuff purchased in that whirl of discount-infused excitement. And the result? Cheap, nearly-new goods on sale at a reposession auction near you!

Winner.

Slooowly coming back

Well, maybe I'm finally ready to start with my eccentric musings again after a long old break. Did you miss me dear reader(s)? Well, I moved house just before Xmas and of course, being a man-bloke, my priorities were clear: LCD telly, Internet, food, beer ... then everything else.

So, all the other stuff got sorted nicely. Then came the internet. Now my need for the internet is similar to most people's need for oxygen, Kerry Katona's need for Iceland ads or George Bush's need for an 'I used to be the president' bumper sticker. So imagine my joy when my 'super-fast broadband' kit arrived from BT. Where I lived previously, I'd enjoyed mega-fast 10mb speed with Virgin via a nice little cable buried beneath the pansies in the garden. Now I wasn't expecting anything as speedy as that, using ye olde copper phone lines. However, I was expecting, er, a connection.

I set up the whole thing and fired up my browser (Firefox in case you care) and waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited.

The page loaded!

Then the internet died.

I re-installed everything, re-set the wireless modem and tried again.

It couldn't find the network I'd just created. Bugger.

I re-installed everything, re-set the wireless modem and tried again. Again.

It didn't like the password I entered. This is the password it gave me to enter. The one in writing on a card that told me to use the password when prompted. No luck.

Then one day I struck lucky and the whole setup sort of shuffled, like an ancient Tibetan monk climbing a hill, to some sort of working state. I decided to run an online speed test to see how fast my broadband really was. Now this may be rather boring and tedious dear reader, but the following bit is actually quite impressive reading.

When I had my Virgin broadband, my average Internet speed was 9.8mb. That's 9,800kb (or kilobits) line speed. When I tested my BT broadband I got .................. 9kb. Yes, that's 9. To put that in some persepective, the age-old ;dial-up' way of connecting to the Internet, that no sane human uses anymore, had a line speed of 56kb. My 'broadband' was over 5 times slower than dial-up. I cried tears of techno-woe.

Over several days, I did many things including connecting the modem directly to my Mac with an (if you care ... ethernet) cable. That is, the modem was connected - by a wire, physically - to my computer. Couldn't see it. What? That's like punching someone in the face and them not being aware of the massive physical impact you've just made on their cranium. I was a little hacked off by now as you can possibly sense.

So I rang the little man at BT - in Lahore, which it appears, is my local point of contact for the East Midlands of England. Anyway, he was a marvel and despite my deeply non-festive mumblings about 'narrowband' and 'worse than dial-up' he did me proud and sorted the problem. It was all to do with the 'channel' on which my modem was set or something. Anyway, the result is that I now average 3mb-4.5mb line speed which is wholly marvellous and sufficient for my needs. So I'm a happy, web-connected bunny at last.

And I can receive all that lovely spam again too....

Maybe. Just maybe...

Never say never is what I say. So hold on to your bits and pieces.....

Closed

This blog has now ended. I hope you enjoyed reading it and thank you to everyone who contributed. Thanks again.

Can you spare any change guv?

Now don't get me wrong. The current situation in Zimbabwe is atrocious for the people who live there. I'm not going to get political - that's just not what YBATYD is about, so don't worry. I just want you all to know that this post is about a situation and not about people. Right? Good.

The situation in Zimbabwe at the moment is brilliant. Why so? Because they have the most unbelievable inflation in the history of ever, coupled with a simply bonkers approach to dealing with it all - print more money. And not just print more money, but keep re-launching the currency and issuing notes in quite staggering denominations.

OK - time for some numerical fun.

Today, the rate of inflation in the UK stands at 3.3%. In Zimbabwe it is slightly higher at almost 10,500,000%. Yes that's ten and a half million percent. Crackin'.

Today the official exchange rate for the Zimbabwe Dollar against the British Pound is fairly impressive. If you exchange one, solitary Pound for your Zimbabwean Dollar you will get Z$21,450,168. Not bad at all. Oh and if you do the currency exchange the other way you find that Z$1.00 is equal to one-five millionth of a penny. "Can you spare any change guv?".

So, let's look at a real-life situation shall we? This is fun.

Imagine I want to buy A Rampant Rabbit Wave vibrator from Ann Summers in Harare. The UK price for this, er, internal massager is £49. Now let's all whip out our Casio calculators and just see how much that would cost in Zimbabwe. And the answer is:
Z$1,051,058,232. Yes that's over a billion Zimbabwean dollars! Mind you, the Rampant Rabbit Wave does give you "3 levels of ripple intensity and 3 speed buzzy ears". I'd say that's a bargain.

OK. Here are a few more incredible facts about the currency situation:

In February 2007, the central bank of Zimbabwe declared inflation "illegal". Genius.
They do have coins but due to their minuscule value, they only function as gambling tokens in Zimbabwean casinos. Handy.
To help people avoid carrying wheelbarrow loads of cash around, the bank have cleverly now issued mega-banknotes. The highest value one is for Z$50 billion. Simple solution.
And finally - the government are spending £382,000 a week to buy in printed notes with a value of Z$170 trillion.

And we think we have a credit crunch .....

Wii-ow!

I own a Wii. Now as a Wii owner, I have come to excpect a plethora, nay a myriad of injuries to be caused by excessive physical exertions. Due to the nature of the Wii, one is required to thrash around like a psychopath on crack, in order to reach the next level of Guitar Hero 3, or the Wii Sports boxing. There are a ton of videos of people on YouTube, causing themselves harm due to over zealous attempts to conquer the beast from Nintendo.

My niece even told me about a friend of hers who played one game solidly for a week, whilst on holiday, and ended up with RSI (Repetitive Strain Injury) from her efforts. She was 20.

So, I wasn't surprised when I began to feel various aches and pains following a frenzied session of Wii Sports Boxing and Tennis. I have to admit that the day after this Wii-binge, I actually thought I had appendicitis. That was until a very sweet friend of mine pointed out that my appendicitis was located on the wrong side of my body.'Nuff said.

So, I began to learn about the types of aches and strains I might expect whilst playing on the console. Funnily enough, my Xbox 360 caused me no problems whatsoever. This is probably due to the fact that the only movement required to play on the Xbox is that provided by my ten digits. And even then, it's not exactly strenuous. Also, I can play whilst lying, like a beached whale, on the sofa. Physical exertion and the Xbox 360 are not natural bedfellows.

So, back to the Wii. As I said, I felt I had learnt all the physical dangers of the little console. Howevr, it appears I was slightly wrong in this assumption.

One evening whilst playing Wii Sports Baseball, I was becoming more and more frustrated at not being able to hit a home run. Now with this game, you hold the controller as if it were a real baseball bat and swing it, with gusto, to 'hit' the ball. I was trying harder and harder to achieve a good 'hit' with the result that my right leg was sort of following through, with the momentum of each thrashing strike at the virtual baseball.

I was unaware that each time I lashed out with my controller, I was edging closer and closer towards the telly .... and the heavy, wooden unit on which it stood. Eventually, I took an almighy swing at the baseball and followed through with a massively powerful follow-through kick with my sock-clad foot. It struck the wooden unit with an impressive force. I believe I was heard to scream "F*cking f*ck!!!" before collapsing to the floor in quite exquisite agony.

I feared I may actually have fractured three of my toes. A bag of frozen chips was swiftly placed upon my battered tootsies and after a few minutes the pain began to subside. A quick check of my toes proved that they were still fully intact and so, bravely, I continued the game - complete with the bag of frozen chips sitting on my battered foot.

Two weeks later and the toes are still a little tender, but otherwise OK. So the lesson here is quite clear: don't act like a complete tit when playing on a Wii

And wear some shoes.

New postings

Coming soon. I promise! oooh, I've been a very naughty boy.

Forgiveness welcomed.

Sunburn

My head hurts. And it's all my fault. When the sun comes out in England everyone goes bonkers-mental. The lids come off the convertibles, the shirts come off the fellas and the legs come out from the girls. Yes, as soon as there's the slightest hint of summer, or even a half decent spring day, we all behave like simpletons.

This is extremely uncool - they don't behave like this in Holland or Yemen or Turkmenistan. No, it's only here in good old Blighty that we treat a bit of sun as something akin to the second coming. We flock to the nearest park, beach, garden or section of un-urinated-upon city centre bench, remove as many items of clothing as is legal and attempt to turn our fetid, clammy, winter skin into a gorgeous, Amazonian bronzed body. In about 4 hours.

The result of this clearly stupid activity is of course - sunburn. Yet millions of us do it every year despite all the warnings and advice to stay out of the sun, cover up and live in a cupboard. At least some of us make a token gesture by slapping some suntan lotion on but even then we are crap. How often have you tried to apply suncream to your own back? You sort of contort you arms behind you whilst flailing around with your lotion-smeared fingers, desperately trying to make contact with that super-elusive area between your shoulder blades. Realising this is impossible and likely to dislocate one or both of your upper limbs, you concede defeat, leaving your back to redden, become crispy and cause your hours of relentless agony.

And that is the essence of sunbathing in Britain. It's like fast food tanning. We want to be brown and we want it now! And I too am one of those simpletons who despite some token lotion-applying, still secretly reckon that a tan comes much more quickly without it. I don't think I'll ever learn but I wish I had because my forehead is h-o-t .

If only I had hair.

Happy St Georges Day

Yay!

A SHAG do

Now don't go assuming the worst straight away. Honestly. The minds of some people. The word 'SHAG', as you'll see is in capitals. Had I written 'shag' I would have been posting about carpets. Or tobacco. In this instance I'm talking about love, marriage and a good night out.

Weddings are a curious mix of tradition and the new. There are traditions such as having a best man, the bride wearing a garter and speeches made after the wedding breakfast. However, these days people want to add a personal, non-traditional twist to proceedings. Things like getting married at a football ground (oh dear) or whilst sky-diving, the bride making a speech or the adult bridesmaids actually not trying to cop off with the best man. We have civil partnerships now too which allow same-sex couples to be wed.

So in this brave new world of weddings, it's only to be expected that more and more people are looking at their stag and hen nights with an eye for change. I've been on a number of stag nights and even one hen night. I really have. I was an honorary girl for the evening and I can tell you, it was scary. But I digress. There's is a distinct difference between a stag night and a hen night. Here are the key elements of both:

Hen night
> Lots of booze - starting early on in a bedroom as they all get ready
> Silly costumes/items such as 'L' plates, angel wings and penis headbands
> A stripper is usually involved and met with hysterical laughter, screams and prodding
> Pissed-dancing in a club and general falling over
> Back home, holding shoes in hand and collapse into big duvet, still giggling

Stag night
> Lots of booze
> More booze and watching footie on plasma telly in pub
> More booze, more pubs and leering at girls
> Drunken dancing, trying to impress girls and more booze
> A stripper who causes much bravado at first and then sudden shyness and fear of a naked woman, holding a whip and a can of spray cream
> More boozing and a bit of fighting
> Stripping, shaving and tying the groom to a lampost/street sign/train
> Back home, vomit and collapse onto said vomit. Sleep on floor.

As you'll see - the hen night is fun whilst the stag night is full of unpleasantness and fear for the poor sod / groom-to-be. Actually, to call it a 'stag' night is quite appropriate because often, the bloke concerned ends up wide-eyed with fear, much like a hunted stag. This is usually just before he has all his body hair shaved off, his testicles daubed with luminous paint/chilli sauce/cresote and he's is tied to an item if street furniture beside a major road intersection. Naked.

So to avoid this sort of testosterone-fuelled misery, a people are now combing the stag and hen parties into one - the 'shag' do. This has the obvious benefit of not becoming a booze-fuelled riot of groom-baiting but also, it means that everyone can meet everyone else. I always think it's a shame when you go to most weddings and you only know half the people there, because of the stag and hen separation thing.

This particular event was really great fun and we all had such a wonderful time. There was no ball-painting, no vomiting, fighting or lewd sexual conduct. And the blokes behaved themselves too. So it's a big thumbs up for the 'shag' party - the perfect mix of ladies and fella's having a laugh, being stupid, dancing badly and get delightfully hammered.

Perfect rehearsal for the wedding day.

Hairy business

I had my first haircut in four years today. Yes, really - four years. Now obviously it has actually been cut in all that time - just not by a professional. I did it myself. Oh and this is NOT a picture of me. Dear God - give me some credit.

Not only did I do it myself, I did it with real style. I utilised a pair of kitchen scissors for my cutting implements and the metallic lid of the flip-top kitchen bin as my mirror. Mind you, I often managed a quick trim without the aid of the bin-mirror by simply finding a clump of hair that felt longer than the rest and just sort of lopping it off.

I'm actually chuckling as I write this because I have amusing hair (where it exists) anyway and my long-term mutilation of my locks just added to the overall hilarity of my hair 'style' - often compared to a mad farmer or an Open University TV presenter from 1974.

Now though, I cut a dashing figure and even my slaphead has taken on an air of quiet confidence despite my less than hirsute bonce. It's been a long and sometimes rocky four years of self-coiffeuring but I finally realised that my 'special' hairstyle was doing me no favours, especially as I'm so naturally good-looking ... at night, in the shadows, from 1000 paces and facing the wall. So, my DIY barbering days are over and the bin lid is just a bin lid again.

I might try home dentistry instead though.

Crocoduck

This amazing photo was taken in Takadapis in Eastern Venezuela just a few days ago. It is an incredible genetic mutation of a crocodile and a duck. The astonishing creature was discovered near a nature reserve by a 12 year old boy who was walking his dog. The boy found the creature waddling along a small path with a dead fish in it's huge jaws.

Scientists are baffled by the 'Crocoduck' as it seems quite healthy and has clearly been able to exist in the wild since birth, which is assumed to have been about 8 months ago. Director of zoology at the Caracas Natural History Museum, Hugo Chávez has examined the animal and believes if to be completely unique. Mr Chávez said .......

Oh forget it. This is the sort of cobblers the tabloid press try to pass off as a real story, every bloody April 1st. I really wish they'd cut it out otherwise the simpletons who actually believe this sort of tripe will just keep buying their newspapers which in turn just makes these gutter press papers even more money and .... oh. I see.

April Fool!

Nail or no nail?

I've had my car for nearly six and a half years of it's seven-year life. And now I'm at that crucial stage in a motor's life when things start to go wrong. Big things. And all at the same time.

In truth, nothing major has gone wrong yet and since I've had the car it's been fantastic in the reliability, bits-not-falling-off department. However, the old girl has recently been giving me a few clues that indicate that some serious failures are not too far off. For example, when turning my steering wheel full lock to the right, I get a sort of metallic grumbling sound. Sometimes when I put my heater blower on, one of my speakers makes a fizzing sounds. The same speaker fizzes on occasion when the heated rear window is activated. Also, the number of creaks and squeaks seems to increase on a daily basis. My car appears to have developed arthritis along with irritable bowel syndrome, rickets, scurvy and manky hip. Oh and my gear linkage needs replacing soon or else I won't be able to change gear from 1st to 2nd. Or 2nd to 3rd. Or 3rd to 2nd. Or 2nd to 1st.

So I'm now in that quandary of quandaries. Do I spend some fairly serious cash on getting my car back to full health or spend some very serious cash (which I don't have - "oh hello Mr Car Finance") and buy a new(er) one? Hmmmm. Or should I just set fire to it and push it over a cliff into the sea?

Answers on a postcard.

What the ... ?

Oh the joys of political correctness. I got sent a nursery toys magazine at work the other day. God knows why as I definitely do not work in a nursery. Anyway, I perused the mag before lobbing it in the bin ... I mean, recycling it.

On page 47 I found the item pictured above. It's a joy to behold but works even better with the description, which I've kindly included below:

SYNAGOGUE PLAYHOUSE £17.06 (+VAT)
Age Range: 3+
Delightful 3-dimensional soft-play house which allows children to explore Jewish culture and the beliefs of others. The front wall folds down to reveal many of the features and symbols found in a synagogue, including: a menorah; ner tamid (everlasting light); a bimah and ark; a Sefer Torah and the Ten Commandments; and three people characters. Size: 26 (width) x 21 (height) x 14cm(depth) (approx)

It's just so fercockt

Stag don't

There are certain rules which apply to Stag do's.
1. Get drunk
2. Get a stripper
3. Get the groom tied to a lampost
4. Get a curry
5. Get home alive

I went to a Stag do the other week. We ticked off rules 1, 4 and 5. Sadly, the nearest thing to a stripper was when one of the party allowed his arse crevice to become visible when he bent down to pick up his fag. The lampost thing was a non-starter due to a lack of rope/gaffer tape/cable-ties/Rapunzel's hair.

However, we triumphed on the curry front. Until we began singing. We had been drinking for around nine hours and thus, after a fine meal, we decided to impress the other diners with our dulcet tones.

This video clearly demonstrates are 'barbers shop quartet' style of singing. You'll obviously recognise it as an acapella version of Eminem's moving ballad 'Stan'.

Hankies at the ready.

First aid - last resort?

Oh I am proud of myself. The other day I re-qualified as a first-aider. It's surprising how dangerous a little knowledge can be. The re-qualification course is only two days long which is half the time of the original course, three years ago. Despite this, I had emerged with a renewed vigour and confidence in my ability to revive the dead, heal the bleeding and turn water into wine.

The course was so positive and supportive that I was, seriously, feeling able to deal with a person who is unconscious and has stopped breathing ... as long as they have no arms or legs or abdomen.

You see, in every first aid training class in the world, all of the practising you do for CPR (cardio pulmonary resuscitation) is carried out with a life-size but limbless dummy who, for some reason, is know as Annie. Believe me, she's no looker. However, she obediently has her chest pumped and gob blown into on a regular basis so that people like me can hone our life-saving skills. However, you sort of get used to the fact that there are no arms or legs to get in the way as you struggle to revive this inanimate mannequin. This makes the whole process much simpler than if she were fully limbed-up and this gets you used to working with an armless, legless victim.

Now that's the problem. If I'm ever faced with a real person who's heart has stopped, I'm going to find myself having to carry out CPR. How the hell am I going to cope with the stress of trying to restart some poor sod's heart whilst trying to deal with all these body parts that simply weren't there when I was training?

Furthermore, when you do CPR your have put your hands "between the boobs" as our trainer said. This is where you have to start doing the chest compressions. Between the boobs. What if it's a woman who's collapsed and you thought she had stopped breathing but had, in fact, merely fainted. So there you are, kneeling on her arms, kicking her legs and scrabbling all over her boob-area in an attempt to find the 'right spot', when suddenly she comes round to find herself being groped and assaulted by a complete stranger.

So, after some reflection, I've decided that if such a situation does arise, I shall adopt the accepted approach. The course of action favoured by the great British public. I'll ignore it.

Unless she's just a torso called Annie.

Place yer votes

If you glance to the right of your screen you'll see a little voting panel. I thought it would be nice to give my (small but perfectly formed) group of avid readers a chance to say what they would like to see improved on the blog.

You can vote for as many choices as you like, so don't be shy. Apologies for the rather crap graphic - it's a little out of my control, but just about readable. So please vote and I promise to report back on the results.

If I can actually see the results ....

Virgin in the house

It was a bold step for me, but I knew I had to do it. I now have a Virgin in the house. Yes, BT were fine but expensive and slow. My internet is my lifeline and Virgin could give me what BT just couldn't. I'm talking broadband of course.

Well the chaps from Virgin took less than 90 minutes to install our shiny new Virgin phone line and broadband and everything worked perfectly, straight away. During the installation and being the type of person I am, I got chatting to them and discovered that being a Virgin installation bod can be quite exciting and even dangerous.

They told me that in some dodgy areas, large groups of kids follow their vans and then assemble en mass, waiting for any opportunity to avail themselves of the contents of their vehicles. Sometimes, the contents are just not enough for these young n'er-do-wells. Oh no. The Virgin chaps told me about a colleague of theirs who was on his own in his van when he got car-jacked (yeah I know it was a van, but that's the terminology) when he stopped at some traffic lights. They jumped in, booted him out and that was that. This was at 1.30 in the afternoon.

They also told me about this old grandad who made his grandson, aged six, crawl under the floorboards, for the length of the house in order to drag the Virgin cable to where the computer was. He made the poor little sod crawl through all the filth, spiders and general detritus you would expect to find under the floorboards, because he didn't want the cable running along his skirting boards and spoiling the decor. Needless to say, the little lad was crying as he tunnelled his way along, beneath his grandad's feet. I can't believe it. It's like the bloody 18th century when kids were made to clean chimneys for one shilling a year.

Well anyway, my new set-up is all working just beautifully and is twice as fast (4mb) as my old BT set-up. Even better, the speed is being increased to 10mb soon which is fantastic news for all of us who have Virgin broadband.

Even 'mole-boy' will be smiling again.

Pheromone failure?

My boss's boss at work was telling me that she's convinced that testosterone makes computers work. Stick with me on this. There was a problem with our 'puters at work the other week. I think the server had been used as a Breville Toastie by someone from Marketing or something. Anyway, everything was buggered and not responding - a bit like when ET's little heartbeat was beating feebly inside his teeny tiny alien chest...

Anyway, having no luck with the server, she called our IT support company. They went through loads of things over the phone, all to no avail. Eventually the chap on the other end of the phone said he'd just have to come over to see us in person. My boss's boss had also phoned our own IT bloke (who works part-time) and had another long phone call which resulted in the same decision. He decided to come in to work.

The two men arrived at my illustrious workplace at the same time. Sorry, I just said 'illustrious'. I meant to say 'lean-to'. I digress. The chaps headed up to the server room where they met with my boss's boss. The server was still operating about as well as a eunuch with Erectile Dysfuntion. It did not look good.

The two men stared at the server .... and it began to work! It really did. They literally came into the server room, looked at the mighty behemoth and it just began working again. My boss's boss is convinced that it was the men's combined flood of testosterone that did the trick.

Sounds like a load of b*llocks to me.

Shaken not stirred

Well it's a bit of a rarity - like having hair on my head, but I can say that 'I was there'. We had an earthquake this morning at around 12.55am. As luck would have it, I was awake and surfing the Tinterweb when it struck.

Now I shall get this in perspective. It wasn't exactly the 1906 San Francisco quake, or the 2006 Tsunami quake, but it did shake the house for about 15 seconds. And I mean properly shake the house. It's such a weird experience becuase suddenly the whole of your immediate world begins to rumble and sway and this is without alcohol or rumpy pumpy being involved.

It turns out that it measured 5.3 on the old Richter scale, with the epicentre being about 60 miles from where I was sitting. I don't think there's any damage been done to the house but I was concerned because I thought it might interrupt my iPod Touch software update which was happening at the time. Luckily, the download finished without out a hitch which was a great relief although I was an emotional wreck for about nine seconds.

Life eh?

Birthday boy

Woohoo! It's my birthday and despite technically being an historical artifact, I'm still excited by the whole birthday thing. It's on your birthday that you realise just how many people are thinking about you which makes me feel all warm inside, although not as warm as a McDonald's apple pie which is stupidly, dangerously warm/boiling.

Fortunately, although 'tis still winter, the sun is shining and it all looks set to be a lovely day. The only downside is that by writing this I'm al too aware of the dearth of postings on this here blog. Now I'm sure the millions of Tinterweb users have managed to cope without reading my vague ramblings, but I still feel like a literary loser. However, I keep saying this and still have not returned to my prolific posting heights of last year.

Maybe things will change because there are always unusual and amusing things that happen to me and I do like sharing them with you, especially as they seem to cause so much bloody amusement. So I shall say here and now that you will be reading more thrilling drivel from now on.

I bet you can't wait.

So iTouching

Oh what can I say? I am now one of those most terrible of things. An occasional blogger. Gone are the days of a posting every two days. I can only hope and pray ... well not exactly pray because I am an atheist, but anyway, I just hope I can return to form and start writing my own, unique brand of drivel a little more frequently. Enough of this. On to the subject of the post:

I am now the very proud owner of an iPod Touch. If you don't know what one is, then imagine an iPhone without the phone. OK, if you don't know what an iPhone is I give up. So, my 'Touch' is amazing and gorgeous and clever and, and ... well, just a bit special. When I've shown it to friends, family and colleagues they have (almost) all been truly impressed or even amazed at the almost magical way in which it works. The fact you have a flat glass screen with no buttons on creates an surreal experience when you start surfing the internet, flicking through your album collection, watching movies or sending emails.

If you get a chance to play with one or an iPhone, you'll certainly understand what I'm getting so hot and bothered about. Mind you, one or two people just didn't seem to appreciate the shiny technological marvel as much as me. Even demonstrating how you can zoom into a photo by 'pinching' your fingers across the glass, merely elicited a "hmmm" from one person. Obviously they are mentally deficient or have the IQ of a church. Never mind. These people where very much in the minority. Thank God ... if He does actually exist.

Since getting my new iPod last Saturday I have realised that I am trapped in a never-ending cycle of techno-lust. And I like it. True, it is one of the more expensive hobbies out there but for sheer, unadulterated pleasure involving shiny objects that need batteries (and I'm not talking about sex toys), you can't beat gadgets. They may have no soul or feelings but they spread joy, like a kind of happy wifi.

And I'm SO logged on to that.

Supreme indifference

I just choked on an apple. I nearly, actually, really, died. I am at work and my boss was standing beside me as my life began to ebb away. She did sod all. I mean really, how close to death do you have to be before your own manager, (another human being let's not forget) either notices or cares about your well-being? It's a bit like Hitler. Oh dear, she's just come back into the office and seen what I'm writing.

I fear death my be my companion sooner than expected.

Happy New Year

And there you have it. The compulsory welcome to what is, actually, just a Tuesday. Seriously though dear readers, I hope 2008 is a truly memorable year - for all the right reasons and not just for something trivial like your piles clearing up all on their own.

And make sure you enjoy yourself in the coming year because as I always say "you're born and then you die, so you might as well enjoy the bit in the middle."

Now where's my pile cream ... ?

Christmas, cars and cash

Yeah, yeah. I know. I have become the Internet's most inconsistent blogger ... possibly. Well, it's been sort of busy this month. My work is mental right now and I'm working some pretty long days where I have to be nice to moaning people and behave as if I'm having the most fun a human being can have. Yay.

Anyway, I forgot to blog over Xmas itself so sorry and Happy Xmas! Better late than never I say. Unless you're talking about a kidney transplant which is actually better sooner rather than later.

I digress. Christmas was very jolly and my wife adores her new iPod Nano which I bought her. In fact she covets it rather like a lioness with a new cub but with less growling and picking it up in her mouth. Anyway, I enjoyed spending my cash on my family and friends. 'Cash for kindness' I like to think of it as.

Boxing Day was a joy too. I worked a ten hour day. At least there were plenty of other poor sods working too which cheered me up no end. God, I sound like a right miserable bastard don't I? My apologies. It must be my age. 41 is one of those ages that's neither here nor there. It's not "the big 4-0" and it's not even mid-forties. It's sort "the big 4-0 plus one. Mind you, I'm quite keen on being an anonymous age. I think I'll become even keener as I get older.

So that's Christmas and cash mentioned. What about the car? Well driving home from worl last night my car developed a very alarming and serious-sounding noise from around the front wheel/suspension area. It's a hard sound to describe but it reminded me of a metal tin full of bolts and bits of piping, being shaken with fervour every time I went over a bump in the road. I'm no mechanic, but I'm sure this is not a good noise. Furthermore, I'm fairly confident that it's an expensive noise. Yay again.

I shall keep you posted on the situation. Rest assured, it's going to be bad news and very costly news. Which is a good thing ... for you. You see, although we don't like to admit it, other people's misfortune often makes us feel better. It's that "well it could be worse, I could be in his/her situation. It's the sort of thing you say when you get a slightly higher than expected gas bill, only to then see a news item where some poor bugger's house has just blown up following a gas leak. You get the idea.

So dear reader, my festive cheer to you is the gift of my vehicular misery. Whatever traumas or stresses you've had over Xmas, just wait until you hear about my car. That will put a smile on your face as the year draws to a close. I hope my Vauxhall-inspired misfortune brings you joy!

Yay again ... again.

It's Xmas. Go Elf yourself!

http://www.elfyourself.com/?id=1594926865