OK, on the one hand – the Glasgow-airport’s-on-fire hand – everything looks really really bad.
However, on the other hand – the glass-half-full hand, the we-shall-not-succumb-to-the-evildoers hand – England now has a smoking ban in all public places. So, you know, it’s not all bad, is it?
Plus, blogrot’s little smoking ciggy countdown doodah worked a treat, which is yet another bonus.
You see? It’s all in the way you look at it.
Insightful. I really don’t know what to add to that. I think I’m ready to start blogging again.
Thanks to the stalwart Papa J for the link.
…until a smoke-free England. Huzzah!
One day our children will climb onto our knees and ask, “Daddy,” (for that is my name), “did you really have to wash your trousers after every trip to the pub?” Yes, we’ll tell them, those were hard days. I wore my knuckles to the bone on the dial of that Zanussi.
Persil must be bricking it. I hear they have their very best boffins working on new kinds of dirt as you read this.
Just had an e-mail, from some woman I’ve never even heard of, informing me that although she doesn’t care why my woody is so small, 83% of women do.
How the hell do they find out about these things? Has Mrs Blogrot been blabbing again? Is nothing sacred?
Just for the record: if you’re one of the 83% then I appreciate your thoughtfulness but it’s really none of your concern.
My tiny Woody – less than 2" tall but perfectly detailed
I’m off to a stag do in Leeds this weekend. Below is a list of challenges set before the groom-to-be by his best man. I apologise if you find any of this offensive. I certainly do. In fact, I’m thinking of not going.
- Eat a vindaloo
- Wear fancy dress to the cricket – outfit to be arranged by the best man
- Get a picture with either a member of the emergency services or a tramp
- Down a pint of Whitelocks (real ale bar) strongest ale in one
- Get a kiss off a blonde, brunette, redhead, short haired and long haired woman (no tongues)
- Acquire an item of female underwear (Best bet for this is a trade with a hen on a hen night so my advice is to wear some old grollies that you don’t mind losing)
- Use the following chat up lines at least 3 times on different birds
- Do you the difference between a Big Mac and a blow job? No? Fancy meeting up for lunch tomorrow?
- Reckon I could snatch a kiss tonight? Or even better vice versa?
- Lets play Titanic – when I shout “iceberg” you go down
- Go into a small newsagents and ask them if they sell fridge freezers, when they look at you as if you are stupid or say no, say what about Washer dryers then? Leave quickly before they call the police.
- Walk up to the receptionist at the hotel, say you just put £2 in the condom machine in the gents and it didn’t work and could she sort you out.
NB The suggestion of the groom walking into a bar holding a Cornish pasty above his head shouting “I’ve got a bomb!” failed to make the list on account of its likelihood of him getting arrested.
I’ll report back soon.
Regular readers (ha!) will be aware that I’ve been suffering from a nasty bout of conjuntivitis lately. Understandably, many of you may have been concerned about this affecting my ability during the World Soccer Cup when it “kicks off” later this week.
Well worry no more. Doctors in Manchester have today confirmed that my eyes are definitely back to “match fitness”, and should be capable of watching one or two “games” a day, no sweat. It’s a huge relief as nobody loves soccer more than me, and I look forward to cheering our boys on with both eyes when they “go out to bat” on Sunday.
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.
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.
OWWW!!!!!!! Ow!! Ow!! Ow!! Bastard! Bastard! Ow!!!
As you can probably tell, I’ve just hurt my knuckle on a cheese grater. I was only reaching for a knife but the draining board had been booby-trapped by rebel guerrillas.
When I weigh up the pros and cons I think I’d prefer to live in a world without graters. Is the odd bit of narrow-gauge cheese or carrot really worth the risk? I don’t think so. Besides, you can buy it pre-grated in a bag now – essentially you pay someone else danger money to do the grating for you. And they say market forces don’t work! As long as there’s no blood actually in the bag, I’m happy.
Next week: the time I stepped on a plug and envisaged a utopia without electricity.