Best before...?

Firstly - 'hello blog'. Crikey, it's been so long since I last posted, the World has changed a great deal. Birmingham City got relegated, tornadoes, floods and earthquakes have happened and the price of cider has increased. All major events indeed. Suffice to say, I am ashamed at my lack of textual input these past months. Maybe it's an age thing. Or possibly that I just kept forgetting that I actually had a blog. Either way, I've written sod all since last September and that's a shame because all sorts of berserk things have happened to me during my blogging absence.

Well, enough reminiscing about the recent past (although I must tell you about my mental arm-agony that I had to endure in the winter, sometime) and on to today's interesting life event. My good lady decided to avail herself of a small snack earlier in the evening. This was not a good idea because I was at work and thus not able to provide my usual 'health and safety' style checks on her savoury sustenance. Now don't get me wrong. She is no simpleton. No dunderhead. She is actually infinitely more intelligent than I am. Proof of this can be provided by reading the title of her dissertation that she wrote whilst at university - 'Equations of length seven over free groups'. That's pure maths. And no, I have absolutely no idea what it means either but I do know that it's immensely complex and you need to have a brain the size of Chad to understand it all.

So it's all the more curious then that, given her intelligence, she managed to scoff an entire bag of cheese Doritos that were seven months out of date. That's a 7 by the way. Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that not seeing the 'best before...' label on a packet doesn't mean you are stupid. I agree. However, this packet was vegetating right at the back of a dark, hard to reach cupboard. This would have provided most people with a small clue as to the age of the item. Furthermore, we haven't bought cheese Doritos for months. Another fairly large clue. To be honest if I found an unexpected item of food lurking at the back of a dark cupboard on a rarely used shelf I think I would have at least a cursory glance at the 'best before...' bit on the packet. But that's just me.

The good news is that she ate the Doritos three hours ago and she's still alive which is, of course, great. However, if she awakes in the night, gasping for air, clutching her stomach and asking for a priest, I may have re-write this last bit.

And maybe instead of 'best before...' a label saying 'worst after ...' would be a bit more effective.

Aaargh I'm dying. Right, I'm fine now.

OK, so the title's a bit long but it's also pretty descriptive. The World Cup is on as I write and it's been a pretty successful tournament in South Africa. Unless you're an England fan, Asamoah Gyan - the Ghanian striker who missed a penalty with the last kick of the game which ultimately meant his team went out of the competition, or Frank Lampard, whose goal was disallowed despite being around twelve years over the line. However, one thing has driven me mental with anger. Cheating.

Now we all know that football players are prone to exaggerated reactions to fouls and firm tackles but this World Cup has seen things reach a whole new level. Not content with merely diving, when an opponent brushes an ankle or makes the lightest contact with an arm, the players are now performing acrobatic leaps, total body collapses and more rolls than a Greggs bakers' in an effort to win a free kick or get an opponent sent off.

However, a new and impressive feigning technique has emerged which prompted a friend of mine to utter the following: "There should be three cards in football - a yellow card, a red card and an Equity card". For those of you who are not from these fair isles of Britain - 'Equity' is the actors union. And he's right about the acting. The new trend is, regardless of where another player makes contact with you, to collapse to the ground clutching your face and writhing in agony. It's really quite astonishing. Astonishing because the players are so dense that they don't seem to realise that their every movement is captured in super slow-motion, high-definition (unless you subscribe to ITV HD) and also astonishing because FIFA and the officials seem happy to let them get away with it.

I've watched numerous games over the past few weeks where players have given the impression that they have just been shot in the face with an elephant gun from a distance of 4 centimetres, only for the replay to show that they were tapped on the arse by a wayward boot from an ungainly defender. And they really go for it too. I have to say that the Italians, Brazilians and the French seem to be the greatest exponents of this dubious new fad.

Personally, I think that if a referee witnesses a blatant example of 'face clutching' then he should be allowed to smack the offender in the jaw with a claw hammer. And then give him a yellow card for time-wasting whilst he has emergency, reconstructive surgery on the sidelines. And then kill him anyway. Possibly.

If it continues for much longer I may be forced to watch pro-celebrity knitting instead.

Name that car

I just bought a new car. Well I say new, I've never actually bought a brand new one because I've never had enough money floating around in my bank account to do so. When I say 'new' I mean 'new to me'. It's actually three years old, but at least it's a lot newer than my previous, valiant car - Keith.

Aaah, I see some of you flinched at that bit.

People who give car names are, to put it politely 'sad', 'stupid' and 'annoying'. So, yes, I'm one of those people. The new car is called Terry by the way. My boss at work gets really bent out of shape when she hears me discussing the vehicular attributes of Keith and Terry. She really, really hates it and has a rather strong dislike of people who do such things. So this begs the question "why do it"?

Hmmm. Well, personally I just like to give a bit if character to something I spend a great deal of time with. Like a wife or girlfriend. Oh - a bit more flinching there. But think about it. Think of all the long journeys, exciting adventures, sad, dreary road trips, naughty fun, escapes from near-death and sharing of all the seasons, weather and life-changing moments that you experience whilst in your car.

It's hard not to associate some of the most profound moments in your life with your trusty metal steed. I've laughed, cried, shouted, whimpered, sung, screamed, snored, chatted, argued, kissed, hugged, sworn (rather a lot) and daydreamed in Keith. Why on Earth would I not feel an affinity with him. Yes 'him'. My mate. My soulmate. My caring, sharing automobile. Yes I give my cars names. Because they give me so much more in return.

Now where are my car keys....

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.

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.

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.

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.

Tie-land

Oh dear. My father-in-law is quite eccentric sometimes. He phoned me today and said that he'd being looking through his collection of ties, as he was preparing to go to a wedding.

He chose one that appealed to him and as he was examining it he found the label that showed were it was made. "Guess what?" he said, "It was made in Thailand!" He then proceeded to explain that it was Thailand, spelt T-h-a-i ... I told him that I'd got the joke. He was still chuckling to himself as I ended the phone call.

Humour - it's an art.

Happy Mother's Day

To all of my reader's mum's,and especially my own - I want to wish you all a happy Mother's Day. I know this is celebrated on May 13th in the U.S, but you can still join in! Everyone reckons their own mum is the best mum in the world and I'd like to think that everyone is, in fact, right. Our mum's are the best and they truly deserve a day that celebrates just how wonderful they are. And let's be honest ...

... we wouldn't be here without 'em.

It's nearly Mother's Day!

Oh my God! I nearly forgot about Mother's Day, despite the fact that I keep remembering but then forgetting that I've remembered until I remember that I've forgotten. Oh the pressure. Fortunately I know a brilliant florist who makes up a super-massive bouquet for my mum, delivers it personally and takes payment after the event. Now that's what I call customer service.

The good news is that my mum absolutely loves flowers. Despite this, I still feel like I should get her something a bit more imaginative, like an elephant, a bionic elbow or some shares in Charlton Athletic. Some people are just naturally fantastic at gift-buying. I always seem to buy a present that will either A) cause minimum offence, B) be easy to sell on ebay or C) be a Will Young CD. Actually, I don't think 'C' works with 'A' or 'B' so let's forget that.

Whilst I'm on the subject, the most crap present I ever received was a 'collectors' tea-towel with a map of Cornwall on. It wasn't the abysmal depiction of the 'Tin Mine County' that was the worst part. No. It was the fact that it didn't work. Yes, a bloody tea-towel that doesn't work. It was moisture repellent. Honest to God. When you wiped dishes with it, the water just got moved around the plate, whilst the towel stayed sort of dry, like a sheet of plastic would. I've no idea what it was made out of, but suffice to see that it felt similar to that horror of all horrors - 'tracing paper' bog roll. If you don't know what 'tracing paper' bog roll is, then ask an adult. If ever something failed to do exactly what it was designed for, it was that deadly bog roll which absorbed nothing and ... well, just remember that the tea towel just moved moisture around...

Enough said.

Where in the world ... ?

... PC World. Well, that's what the ad on the telly says anyway. I popped in to my local PC World this fine, sunny morning, as I needed a new firewire cable. Having checked on the Tinterweb, I knew that, obviously, I could get one cheaper online than I could in the shops. However, convenience and instant-ness (what?) are always worth paying a few extra pennies for.

Unfortunately, the price difference was a tad more than even I was prepared to pay. Online, the cable cost £9 which included delivery. PC World were asking slightly more for the same cable. They wanted £21. Yes, that's £12 extra. Bugger that. I was mildly miffed at this but my mood improved considerably as I was leaving the store. Being Sunday morning, I assumed it would be fairly quiet in the shop, especially as it had only been open for 8 minutes. I was wrong. The service and repairs counter already had a large queue of disgruntled-looking punters, clutching various bits of computer in their impatient little hands. I couldn't help but smirk (oh, and take this photo) as I thought that maybe if they'd perhaps bought a computer from another company (er, can't think which one ...) then maybe they'd be relaxing at home on a Sunday morning, surfing the Net, sending emails or listening to some nice, downloaded music. Hmmm.

Talking of 'where in the world', on Saturday, my wife and I popped down to Herefordshire for a family 'do'. Fine. Nice, easy 2.5 hour drive down to the place and enjoy the day. One slight problem. We entered the UK's Bermuda Triangle. In short, from arriving at what turned out to be 3 miles from our destination, to actually getting there, took longer than the 135 mile trip from our bloody house. At the end of one road there was a signpost to the village we were looking for. We drove down it. When we got to the end of the road, there was another signpost for the village ... pointing back the way we'd just come. This road was about 2 miles long and either side were fields. And a cow. No village.

After several mental breakdowns, failed mobile phone calls (no signal), asking directions from some ramblers and a man who was making a hedge, following some other relatives until their car broke down and my wife having to 'tootie-down' in a field to have an emergency wee, our fuel-starved car finally pulled up at the venue. We felt like Sir Edmund Hilary and sherpa Tenzing reaching the summit of Everest. Mind you, they didn't have pints of lager and a 13 foot table laden with buffet gorgeousness to bring them back from the brink of death.

World-weary explorers love an onion bhaji and a pint of Carling.

Love love love

Despite my last post, I'm not a miserable git. Hell no! I love my wife. I love my family. I love my friends. I love my cat. I love YOU dear reader. I love loving and I love love. I love being loved. I love the love of loves loving loveness with lovely love.

Love it!

Happy Valentines Day

Well love is in the air today. However, me being me, I'm going to have a moan. Valentines day really annoys me. Why does love have to happen on 14th February? Why does love cost nine times as much on 14th February? Why are you called un-loving if you ignore 14th February?

Bloody commercialism. That's why.

My wife and I buy each other a card, just to prove that we haven't forgotten that it's 'Commercial Love Day' but we refuse to waste our money on buying massively over-priced flowers or having to endure that nightmare scenario of two hundred couples crammed into a grotty Pizza Express, trying to demonstrate their undying love for one another by ordering extra toppings for their 12 inchers.

Love and romance should happen spontaneously and naturally. Now this might sound like real bah-humbug stuff but it all seems so obvious. If you go for a romantic meal on 15th Febuary, you a) have a quiet romantic meal; b) enjoy the experience; c) did it because you felt like it; d) can afford to have a better quality wine and really treat yourselves. If you go on the 14th February, none of the above is true.

I feel special if something romantic happens to me on 23rd May or 7th October. Why? Because the date isn't the important thing - the gesture is what matters. Birthdays are different. They actually celebrate an event. And birth is a pretty big event. So keep sending the birthday cards. I dunno about Christmas. I'll rant about that another time.

So, let's see love flourish on every day of the year. Why not surprise the one you cherish on a day other than 14th February? Now that would truly be a sign of love. However, if you are celebrating today, then I hope you enjoy your chocolates, flowers, declaration of love, painted on a twenty foot banner, draped from a bridge, romantic dinner, edible underwear or whatever you have planned.

Just remember to start saving for next year.

Sunday wedding

Just got back from a wedding reception. Yeah, I know, on a Sunday. Therefore, I'm going to be a tad tired tomorrow ('cos I'm a lightweight). However, the folks at the 'do' didn't let us down. There were the obligatory drunk dads 'dancing' to Bohemian Rhapsody and Tainted Love along with an assortment of small children, charging around in a variety of junior dinner jackets and small-person, satin bridesmaid dresses.

The buffet was spot on and even featured a blast from the past in the form of cheese and pineapple on cocktails sticks. A classic. The bride looked radiant and the groom looked hammered but extremely pleased with himself. I think they're off to Prague for the honeymoon.

All in all, a really nice evening and a chance to make an effort in the personal presentation department - I had a shower and a shave. I hope they have a long and happy marriage together.

Well, long anyway!

When facelifts go wrong

If you've not read 'You're Born And Then You Die' before, then this posting will be utterly meaningless. Mind you, most of my postings are utterly meaningless. Anyway, I digress. A couple of weeks ago I changed the whole appearance of this blog (see previous postings) as I thought it needed a bit of a facelift. Well, we all know how facelifts can go horribly wrong - Joan Rivers springs to mind. So, the feedback I've been getting was that new look was just awful and somehow didn't sit well with my valued 'blogees'. And who am I to question you, dear reader?

So, it's back to black and I have to be honest - it looks damn sexy. It looks chic, sophisticated, articulate, sassy, responsive, proud, independent, glamorous, wanton, lustful, rampant ..... er, er .....

Time for my medicine. Enjoy.

Nuclear tip of the iceberg

North Korea today, apparently, did a bit of nuclear testing - as you do. They appear to have detonated a device underground at Gilju in Hamgyong province . Now this has caused rather a large amount of international concern and unease. The U.S said that test was a "provocative act", while China denounced it as "brazen". All in all, it looks like the global fear factor has just nudged up a notch.

Meanwhile, back in Blighty, I'm sitting here thinking that testing nuclear bombs is just another item in an ever increasing list of things we are (or are supposed to be) worried about. Here's a few of them: terrorism, heart disease, global-warming, saturated fats, knife crime, fuel prices, identity theft, pension shortfalls, youth gangs, MMR jabs, internet fraud, street robberies, interest rates, ozone depletion, prison overcrowding etc etc. So in the whole scheme of things, nuclear bomb testing actually ranks really quite low in the never-ending list of concerns I'm faced with every day. You know, it's almost a breath of fresh air.

Well, radiation-saturated air.