The eye drop regime for this conjunctivitis is doing my head in already. Every two hours I have to pop a drop in each eye. Every two hours! I’m beginning to feel like the bloke with the button down the hole beneath the hatch in Lost. There’s a thought: maybe if I pop outside I can find some bald nut who I can talk into coming in and doing it for me.
At least I don’t have to listen to Mama Cass records all day.
I’m currently in the simultaneous throes of a nasty cold and a dose of conjunctivitis. Call me slow, but I’ve never considered the potential of this rare combination before. I don’t know, I just seem to have had other things on my mind. Anyway, I went to see the optician this morning, during the course of which she put a drop of yellow dye in each eye. But even then the wonderful synergy of my interconnected illnesses did not occur to me. No, it wasn’t until an hour or so later that the joy was revealed to mine own eyes when, during a particularly harsh coughing fit, out slid a slippery gobbet of luminous yellow phlegm!
Luminous yellow, you hear! Not just greeny-yellow like your everyday, common-or-garden lung butter. This was Stabilo Boss yellow, and a beautiful thing it was. Sadly I disposed of it before I thought to get my camera out but I’ve included a picture of a highlighter pen to give you the gist of it. Somehow even that fails to capture it though.*
For the rest of the day I’ve had a little ditty going round my head to the tune of Food, Glorious Food:
Phlegm, luminous phlegm!
Looks rather like custard.
Pure, glittering gem!
Yellower even than mustard!
There’ll be more, I’m just getting the chorus right first. I’ve got this great vision of a stage full of urchins with their little gruel bowls, chirping away for another glimpse of the lemon-yellow slug recently coughed up by their runny-eyed master. You’ve seen Oliver!, now see Bacterial Conjunctivitis! The Musical. No, wait: The Mucusal!
Man, this is going to be huge…
* Update: it looked a lot like one of these.
In an amazing coincidence, ITV has exclusively revealed that the renowned livestock pleasurer Rebecca Loos sings like a hog being brought to climax.
Performing on ITV’s Celebrity X Factor as part of the novelty double-act Pig-Wank And Squidgy, Loos has demonstrated a voice described by some as sounding like “a pig, ill with stress, rutting furiously in a gas mask.”
The news has come as a shock to other superstar celebrities who hitherto had supposed Loos’s talents to be without bounds. Worldwide recording artiste Rowetta Satchell commented yesterday:
She’s not a star. She’s famous for something horrible… and pigs.
Asked about his partner’s unique musical ear, James Hewitt said, “Anyone for sherry?”
Wayne Rooney was not available for comment.
I just saw this in today’s TV listings:
FILM: Jack
Comedy-drama about a ten-year-old boy with an ageing disease which makes him appear to be 40.
Director: Francis Ford Coppola
Starring: Robin Williams, Diane Lane, Brian Kerwin, Jennifer Lopez, Bill Cosby, Fran Drescher
I don’t know how this one passed me by on its release in 1996 but it did. Honestly, can you even begin to imagine a more troubling concept? It’s a comedy… about an ageing disease! But no, wait… with Robin Williams! And, and… and Jennifer Lopez! And Bill Cosby!! I mean, where do you start?? What was Coppola thinking??
Not surprisingly, it gets a 19% Rotten Tomatoes rating.
For the record, people with real ageing diseases tend to look pretty odd, and not in the Robin Williams way. They do have weird heads and funny arms. They don’t have all-over body hair and a chin like Sarah Jessica Parker.
Still, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure it was a laugh riot all the same.
The ingrates over at the Guardian have started whining about the quality of comment they’re receiving. Talk about insensitive! They’re like the big fat rich kid who complains Santa brought him the wrong kind of robot while everyone else has to make do with darned socks again. Here at blogrot, way beyond the furthest flung edges of the “blogosphere”, we’re lucky if a comment drifts past every couple of months. Mostly, posting here is a lot like throwing messages in bottles off a remote desert island.
I’ve even thought about letting some of the spam comments through just to make the place look a bit more lively. Here’s one example I received yesterday from a chap named “jacksonville hotels”:
perpendiculars unrolling.agnostics nontransparent focusing!hotel rooms
An intriguing insight into a disturbed mind, especially with the accompanying URL which I’ve excised out of coyness. Mind you, if I had a name like that I imagine I’d be a bit odd.
Listening to Boris Johnstons mumbling about education this morning it struck me that the current Tory party will never let lack of experience get in the way of putting a media-friendly face into a position of responsibility. And so I present to you (once Blair finishes fucking everything up) the next Chancellor of the Exchequer, the Rt Hon Adam Rickets:
As you can see, Mr Rickets once appeared on the cover of Attitude magazine with a wad of £20 notes stuffed into his pants. When did Gordon Brown ever do such a thing? This man’s dedication to the British economy truly knows no limits.
Adam also once went to Turkey on holiday, and hence after a short spell at the Treasury is expected to be moved to the Foreign Office where he will be in charge of sorting out Iraq with his parliamentary colleague Giles Brandreth.
It was silly season for nonsensical punditry this morning after the Arsenal’s defeat in some football match yesterday. I don’t pretend to be some kind of sports expert, but I do like to think I know bullshit when I smell it.
“Arsenal will come home knowing at least they’re a team who pass the ball,” said one eminent thinker asked whether there was any consolation in getting roundly thrashed.
“It’s a double disappointment,” commented another. “They’ll be disappointed for themselves, but also for their team mates, and also for the fans.”
“The ball went up in the air, and then it came down again,” said a third (or in football parlance, a second). “It went forwards and backwards too, and sort of sideways a bit, and at least three times it went in that net thingy.”
OK, the last one was me, just as the bastards at 5 Live hung up on me. But the rest were actual experts on football, not that you’d guess.
Here we go again: out with the old and in with the new. When will they ever learn?
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not about to start making cheap jokes about not having a leg to stand on in the divorce settlement. However, I wouldn’t mind a bit of a flutter on how long we give Nicole Kidman and the improbably-named country singer Keith Urban.
Before you lay down a stake, bear in mind:
Keith’s got a ridiculous “beardlet” clinging to his bottom lipMy money’s on 10 months.
The answers to yesterday’s Spot the Difference competition:
I was only kidding when I said there were 10.
Ow!! In the latest in my domestic injury series, I have just slipped on the kitchen floor while wearing socks and stubbed my toe. Luckily there were no cheese graters involved but still, it bloody hurt.
I should know better of course. A friend of mine once told me a sock-related story from his student days. One of his flat-mates, a kick-boxing supremo, had decided for whatever reason to kick his way into another flat-mate’s locked room. He confidently predicted that a sound kick to the hinge side of the door would have it down in one blow. It’s probably fair to say he had been drinking.
Tragically (for him, amusingly for us), our friend had neglected to consider… the Sock Factor.
In came the kick and out went the top hinge. The top of the door bent inwards and his sock-clad foot slipped all the way to the top just as it snapped back. Van Damme Lite was left hanging from the door frame by his now broken big toe. His quick-thinking pals put some weight against the top of the door, upon which his toe was released and he fell back to earth, fracturing his coccyx.
I’ve no idea if that’s true or not, but I think about it pretty much every time I put on a pair of socks. Tonight I let my guard down and just look at what happened.
THINK ONCE. THINK TWICE. THINK SOCKS.
Is the missus partial to expensive mint liqueurs? Aldi “Russian Wodka” is just a fraction of the price. Add some Fairy liquid for colouring and treat her to a nightcap every night – right after she’s brushed her teeth!
See also: Blogrot Top Tip #1
David Blaine’s attempt to break the world record for dying in front of the biggest audience was foiled last night by bungling ALIENS, blogrot can reveal.
SARCOPHAGUS
A cheer went up from the crowd as bonkers illusionist Blaine STOPPED BREATHING in his giant sarcophagus-cum-fishbowl in New York.
THONG
But within seconds the emaciated public nuisance was being pulled to safety by SILVER THONG-WEARING SEXY ALIENS. Blogrot captured the moment when the BBC captured this moment, mistaking the aliens for DIVERS.
MOUTH
As the crowd shouted out, “No! It’s part of the act! Leave him to die!” the meddling extra-terrestrials gave Blaine mouth-to-some-kind-of-wierd-alien-mouth-thing and BROUGHT HIM BACK TO LIFE.
BIG ONE
New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg later commented, “It’s OK for them, with their fancy-pants spaceship and the ability to travel across galaxies. But we’re stuck with the attention-seeking little pr*ck all over again. We really thought this was the big one.”
NOSE CONE
Blaine later announced his intention to be reunited with his rescuers during his follow-up suicide attempt, when he will spend seven days STRAPPED TO THE NOSE CONE OF THE SPACE SHUTTLE during its next mission.
There’s a roundabout in the middle of this video, but only really gifted people can see it.
