Laugh? I nearly died

Laughing is great isn't it? I'm very fortunate in that I laugh quite a bit. I even, on occasion, make myself laugh - usually when I'm naked. Seriously though, having a good titter, a hearty chortle or coronary-inducing hysterics does wonders for you. Now this is going to sound a bit mental, but I have developed a way to make yourself laugh on demand.

Admittedly, I discovered this 'skill' when I was still at school, aged about 15, but I've tried with literally hundreds of people over the years and it has worked every single time. Obviously, if you've just returned from a funeral, are about to beaten up by 44 football hooligans, or have just learnt that your parents don't really belong to you, then inducing a belly-laugh or even a mild titter would clearly be impossible. However, you do not have to be in a jolly mood for this to work. All you need is patience.

So what do you do? OK, this does sound a bit mentoid but bear with me:

1. Sit or stand comfortably
2. Tilt your head back as far as it goes.
3. Stare at the ceiling. Sky is no good.
4. Start an irregular, gutteral 'laughing' sound - like a motorbike engine idling.
5. Keep going with your 'laughing' and keep staring at the ceiling.
6. Keep going until you suddenly start laughing like a simpleton.

This ALWAYS works. Sometimes it takes a few seconds and sometimes a minute or longer. But it really does work. the trick is to keep going. the sound 'laughing' sound you make is similar to that "huh huh huh uuuh huh huh" thing that Beavis & Butthead used to do. Of course my version pre-dates B & B by about 18 years!

So, dear readers, why not give it a try? People may think you are a bit 'special' but you will be rewarded with a spontaeous and hysterical laugh. Try it on a bus, in a meeting or (my favourite) whilst 'busy' on the lav.

You'll die laughing.

Derby Playhouse closes down

Bollocks.

McLeish leaves Scotland for Blues

Hooray!

Brucie leaves Blues for Wigan

Bugger.

Non-horticulurist

Following on from my posting expressing incrdeulity at the appearance of a rose in November, I've since been advised that this is, in fact, entirely normal. I'm gutted. I thought I'd discovered a once-in-a-lifetime event with important climactic consqequences.

Er, no.

A rosy future?

I kid you not. I tell you no lie. As God is my witness. I swear on my life. I promise you. It's mid-November right? I live in the northern hemisphere which means that November is winter, right? Winter is very cold and it is a time when all the flora in your garden either stops growing or dies. Hope you're still with me.

So winter is not spring or summer, traditionally seasons where things grow. OK, good. I just wanted to clarify that. Why then, in the winter, in the UK has a rose just flowered in my front garden? It really has just appeared in the last few days. In fact there may even be two of the amazing little buggers sitting pretty amongst all the wintery deadness. I have to admit that I'm quite staggered by this. It's not even as if a rose that flowered in the summer has managed to stay alive until now. This actually bloomed during the winter.

So is this the effect of global warming? Has the weather been so incredibly mild that this bog-standard little flower thought it was spring or summer and decided that it must be time to pop it's head above the parapet? If so, that's a tad concerning.

However, it could just be an unusual freak of nature that, whilst uncommon, is not completely unheard of and is not in fact an indication of impending global doom. Either way, it's really quite impressive but I'm sure the neighbours think we're carrying out genetic research on the vegetation.

Which would explain the size of my marrows.

Non-league WAGS

Victoria Beckham, Cheryl Cole (nee Tweedy) and Colleen McLoughlin. Part of a group of women known collectively as WAGS. WAGS (in case you don't know, stands for 'Wives And Girlfriends') was the phrase that came into popular use during the 2006 Football World Cup in Germany.

In partcular, the term referred to the lady-friends of the England football players. These women became celebrities in their own right and as their erstwhile fellas strutted across the hallowed grasses of various German football grounds, they glided down cobbled streets, wafted along busy roads in enormous Mercedes Benz's and grazed in the exclusive clothes and jewellery shops of the nearest hautpstraße (high street).

The media loved them, following them to shops, shops and more shops. The WAGS loved the attention too. They became famous for being famous and for having such extravagent lifestyles and fabulous clothes.

It's not quite the same for the wives and girlfriends of the players at non-league Burton Albion. I went to see them play last week and sside from the ususal joys of visiting a non-league footie match, there was an extra treat in store. About 15 minutes before kick-off (against Kidderminster Harriers no less), 3 or 4 women appeared and stood chatting beside the pitch. Several players (who were warming up) came over and exchanged a few words and a quick peck on the cheek. These women were clearly WAGS.

However, they were not quite Beckham, Tweedy and McLoughlin. They were a gaggle of slightly lumpy, massively fake-tanned purveyors of TK Maxx's finest. Tight, white, semi-transparent trousers, black t-shirt tops with huge swathes of shiny, gold material wrapped around the belly area. The shoes were high and golden but with scuff-marks aplenty. The hair was sort of permed but not. However, even the stiff breeze which whipped across the Pirelli Stadium could not blow a strand out of place. It was industrially rigid. They looked magnificent. And common. I felt like I had discovered a new breed of human - the 'non-league Wag'.

It truly was, a gourmet feast for the optic nerves. The best bit was the fact that were loving the whole thing. Standing there chatting, laughing and preening. Wearing clothes that no-one else would have been seen dead in and living the dream. The dream of being a gorgeous, glamourous, fabulously wealthy footballer's wife.

In Burton on Trent.

Writers' block

I used to be SO good. My postings on YBATYD occured every few days. Then I had a break. Now I'm back, I seem to have lost my flow. What's that all about then?

Well it must be one of two things: 1. Absolutely bugger all is happening that's worth writing about, or, 2. Plenty is happening but I just can't put it into words.

This is clearly a problem for a blogger.

Perhaps I'm just trying a tad hard. Trying to come up with amusing, exciting and eminently readable stuff, when in fact, the mundane stuff is what actually turns out to be the funniest. I've just been looking back at some of my musings from my 'golden era' in 2006. I wrote about all sorts of crap and most of it was really quite amusing. So I'm hoping that will inspire me again.

It's not as if there's not been plenty happening in the world recently: wildfires in California, postal and rail strikes in the UK, famous people dying and the funniest thing ever on the telly. Hang on, that last one is a cracker..

... If you have never watched or even heard of Top Gear then I'd ignore this posting and go and have a cup of coffee or milk the cat. On Sunday's Top Gear, old Jezza Clarkson did one of the funniest things I've seen on telly. Jeremy introduced a almost unheard of 1950's car called the Peel P50. It was/is the smallest production car in the world. It's only 54"(137cm) long 41" (104 cm) wide. Jeremy decided to drive it to work. He is 6' 5" (198 cm) tall. I shall say no more other than this is brilliant television. Oh, and when I say he drives it to work, I mean he also drives it in work.

Enjoy