On with the silliness ...

Don'tcha love this picture!!!

Anywho, there I was waiting for my broccoli to turn into an unedible mush when I decided to look up some sillies on the web. Read on for some stuff wot tickled me ...

As a fan of certain female “attributes” I was interested, nay, distressed to read that the Mayor of Neuville-en-Ferrain, France had a statue removed from Le Mairie (that’s the town hall to the mono-lingual among you) because its breasts were too big.

How very dare he?

Mayor Gerard Cordon persuaded councillors to approve 900 euros in this year's budget to buy a replacement, a more conventional bust of “Marianne” (a French symbol of Liberty and Reason) modelled on the statuesque French model Laetitia Casta.

The artist who made the rejected bust, Catherine Lamacque, said she gave it outsized breasts deliberately, "to symbolise the generosity of the Republic." And why not, say I?

Strangely, the statue has been in residence since 2007 and it has taken until now for the mayor to be offended by it.  What happened monsieur? Did you change the prescription on your glasses? Have your testosterone levels fallen to an unprecedented low? Or did you fancy a younger model?

Being a techno-phobe and largely computer illiterate, I was also disappointed to read that "Google Motion" was an April fool’s hoax.

Google reported that they had found a way of combining your webcam and Gmail to dispense with outdated technology such as a keyboard and a mouse. Their hoax read thusly ...

 “By standing a safe distance from your computer, you will be able to issue commands by using different body shapes.

With a helpful motion guide, Google say that "movements are designed to be simple and intuitive for people of all skill levels". Leaning to your left will go to your inbox, while bringing your right arm up to your head with a closed fist will reply to the email.

It didn’t say what might happen if you inadvertently gave your crotch a vigorous scratch while you were on-line.

Fascinated as I am by body parts (one day I will grow up), the following article was bound to attract my attention ...

An English baker has brushed off a letter of complaint and petition after locals criticised his Nice Baps bakery. (For my overseas readers I have to jump in here with an explanation. “Baps” is a euphemism for breasts.  Yes. We are childish.)

Proprietor John O'Toole, 42, claimed that the name for the shop in the Bedfordshire village of Henlow came from his wife, the local rag reported.

Of the complaints, O'Toole said: "A little petition was handed in and I had a letter from one of the local schools who said they thought the name was trashy.

"So I tried to explain to them that I do small baps and big baps and they're nice and firm!"

So, that’s alright then. Power to your baps, Mr O’Toole. Keep the name, sir. It would make me smile as I passed by – and I would probably come in and buy a large firm pair. Perhaps modelled on the deposed version of Marianne.

Laters,

Michael

It's a joke, so laugh dammit!

A SAMPLE from THE alleged TOP 50 JOKES OF ALL TIME ...


...and not even a mention of David Cameron

1. A woman gets on a bus with her baby. The bus driver says: ''Ugh, that's the ugliest baby I've ever seen!'' The woman walks to the rear of the bus and sits down, fuming. She says to a man next to her: ''The driver just insulted me!'' The man says: ''You go up there and tell him off. Go on, I'll hold your monkey for you.''

2. ''I went to the zoo the other day, there was only one dog in it, it was a shitzu.''

3. ''Dyslexic man walks into a bra''

4. A young blonde woman is distraught because she fears her husband is having an affair, so she goes to a gun shop and buys a handgun. The next day she comes home to find her husband in bed with a beautiful redhead. She grabs the gun and holds it to her own head. The husband jumps out of bed, begging and pleading with her not to shoot herself. Hysterically the blonde responds to the husband, ''Shut up...you're next!''

5. A classic Tommy Cooper gag ''I said to the Gym instructor "Can you teach me to do the splits?'' He said, ''How flexible are you?'' I said, ''I can't make Tuesdays''.

8. Doc, I can't stop singing the 'Green Green Grass of Home'. He said: 'That sounds like Tom Jones syndrome'. 'Is it common?'I asked. 'It's not unusual' he replied.

12. My mother-in-law fell down a wishing well, I was amazed, I never knew they worked.

14. A woman has twins, and gives them up for adoption. One of them goes to a family in Egypt and is named 'Amal.' The other goes to a family in Spain, they name him Juan'. Years later; Juan sends a picture of himself to his mum. Upon receiving the picture, she tells her husband that she wished she also had a picture of Amal. Her husband responds, ''But they are twins. If you've seen Juan, you've seen Amal.''

15. There's two fish in a tank, and one says ''How do you drive this thing?''

18. ''My therapist says I have a preoccupation with vengeance. We'll see about that.''

19. I rang up British Telecom, I said, ''I want to report a nuisance caller'', he said ''Not you again''.

23. A priest, a rabbi and a vicar walk into a bar. The barman says, ''Is this some kind of joke?''

28. A group of chess enthusiasts checked into a hotel and were standing in the lobby discussing their recent tournament victories. After about an hour, the manager came out of the office and asked them to disperse. ''But why?'' they asked, as they moved off. ''because,'' he said ''I can't stand chess nuts boasting in an open foyer.''

37. I swear, the other day I bought a packet of peanuts, and on the packet it said ''may contain nuts.'' Well, YES! That's what I bought the buggers for! You'd be annoyed if you opened it and a socket set fell out!''

38. A lorry-load of tortoises crashed into a trainload of terrapins, What a turtle disaster

41. Two Eskimos sitting in a kayak were chilly. But when they lit a fire in the craft, it sank, proving once and for all that you can't have your kayak and heat it.

42. I've got a friend who's fallen in love with two school bags, he's bisatchel.

44. A three-legged dog walks into a saloon in the Old West. He slides up to the bar and announces: ''I'm looking for the man who shot my paw.''

46. I'll tell you what I love doing more than anything: trying to pack myself in a small suitcase. I can hardly contain myself.

47. So I met this gangster who pulls up the back of people's pants, it was Wedgie Kray.

The study was carried out after –and this is my favourite - Tim Vine's joke "I've just been on a once-in-a-lifetime holiday. I'll tell you what, never again." was voted the best of this year's Edinburgh Fringe Festival.

What’s your favourite?

You couldn't make this shit up...

Also...
Thousands of dead starfish (1, 2, 3, awwww) covered a stony beach over a mile-long stretch at Budleigh Salterton, East Devon. A line of the creatures stretched for more than a mile across the pebbles

The reason for this mass death? One expert said the process of reproduction had left the starfish "tired out" (better word might have been “shagged”) and they had been left "susceptible" to tides and the wind.

This is me not sniggering and resisting all sorts of teenage comments.



From The Times...

When a famous tantric guru boasted on television that he could kill another man using only his mystical powers, most viewers either gasped in awe or merely nodded unquestioningly. Sanal Edamaruku’s response was different. “Go on then — kill me,” he said.

Mr Edamaruku had been invited to the same talk show as head of the Indian Rationalists’ Association — the country’s self-appointed sceptic-in-chief. At first the holy man, Pandit Surender Sharma, was reluctant, but eventually he agreed to perform a series of rituals designed to kill Mr Edamaruku live on television. Millions tuned in as the channel cancelled scheduled programming to continue broadcasting the showdown.

First, the master chanted mantras, then he sprinkled water on his intended victim. He brandished a knife, ruffled the sceptic’s hair and pressed his temples. But after several hours of similar antics, Mr Edamaruku was still very much alive — smiling for the cameras and taunting the furious holy man.

“He was over, finished, completely destroyed!” Mr Edamaruku chuckled triumphantly.

Call me old-fashioned, but there’s something unseemly about destroying someone’s (albeit bogus) reputation, and taking so much pleasure in it, dontcha think?



Lost in Translation...

In Wales they look to keep their mother tongue alive and part of their actions to do this is to have all the road signs in English and Welsh.

Which is nice...until a recent road sign printed and displayed near a supermarket read in English... “No entry for heavy goods vehicles. Residential site only.”

And underneath it said in Welsh: "I am not in the office at the moment. Send any work to be translated".

It seems the local council needs a translator to translate the translator.



From The Telegraph...

An actress who was rehearsing a role about a woman who was riddled with debt visited a local credit union. The workers at said Credit Union were happy to regale her with stories of the hapless folk they had to deal with.

One man from the West Midlands, who was believed to have debts of up to £50,000, had a sex change in a desperate bid to avoid debt collectors.

The man, who cannot be named, had got into so much debt that he decided to switch identities completely.

He was thought to have built up the massive debt – around £50,000 – after falling behind on his mortgage payments and credit card bills after losing his job.

Here’s me thinking that no amount of debt removal could induce me to get the danglies removed. What would I scratch first thing in the morning?

It was also revealed that the owner of a 99p store in Wolverhampton had to shut down after penny-pinching customers demanded 1p change.



From my local paper...

A brown hen recently proved that it wasn’t just cats who had the monopoly on having several lives. This wee creature – let’s give her a name – Henny - got hit by a car. Did Henny die? No, but she got her head stuck in the car’s front grille. It was only when the driver stopped at a local shop and another shopper said to him, ‘Is that a hen stuck on to the front of your car?’ that the driver realised he had a hen stuck on to the front of his car.

Genius. You couldn’t make that shit up.

Things that make me go...

 

....brrrr....



Is it sledding, or sledging? In any case, 30,000 people gathered to watch some people doing it in a small town in Germany the other day. Apparently the girls liked the cold because it made their parts more pert and the boys were all heard blaming the chill factor for ...do I have to spell it out for you? The crowd saved most of their applause for a 70 year old pensioner who spontaneously stripped off to sledge down the hill on his own.

30,000 people? Those pesky Germans.



...Noooooo...

An article in the Times today claims that a leaked government report indicates that green fuels are almost as costly to the environment as diesel fuels are. Under the European Commission standard, each litre of biofuel should reduce emissions by at least 35 per cent compared with burning a litre of fossil fuel. Yet the study shows that palm oil increases emissions by 31 per cent because of the carbon released when forest and grassland is turned into plantations. Rape seed and soy also fail to meet the standard.

I’ve got a suggestion. See all the money these people have been given in grants, can we not spend it on improving public transport?



---c’montaefuck...

the total tosser who waved an Argentina football strip at a man who was severely burned while fighting for his country. You should be ashamed of yourself. Wanker.



...no way...

The breast implants that saved their owner’s life when she crashed her car. They acted as airbags apparently. And this is where I resist talking about Katie Price for once.



...noooo...


Who would have thought that the advent of Viagra would have meant that prostitutes in a Swiss brothel would have become proficient in the use of defibrillators? I’ll just let that one sink in for a moment...old men...new lease of life...hearts that couldn’t take the exertion...

One sex club owner stated that having people die on them was bad for business. You can work out the rest. A pragmatic bunch, eh?



...hehehehehe.....



The locals ejaculated with fury (sorry, I couldn’t resist) when their council limply changed the name of a local landmark. Tickle Cock Bridge is a spot where couples have gone for a wee fumble for generations. The council got all premature and changed it to Tittle Cott when Channel 4 were in the area. Like Channel 4 would care. They made their reputation on much worse.

An Over 50’s group claimed they were offended by the name change and demanded that it be returned to its former glory.

A sign reading “Tickle Cock” was erected before you could say ...that man's had a heart attack after taking some Viagra in a Swiss brothel...quick, fire up the defibrillator!

Spooky goings on in May Contain Nuts...

I was reading John Irvine’s latest offering Twisted River this afternoon. Hard copy. BIG book. Anywho, the section I read was a comic set-piece where the main character was trying to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre on a very large lady. A large lady who was faking a choking fit in order to get the hero’s hands on her. As those of you in the know ehm, know this involves getting behind the poor bastard who’s choking and clasping your hands in front of them and with a sharp jolt squeezing them just under the ribs. The victim in the novel was so large breasted our hero had to lift her boobs out of the way before he could get near her ribs. So far, so amusing.

The point is that shortly after reading this I went in to the feed page of this blog to see who had been reading my pearls of wisdom and where they had come from. And get this. Somebody from Cardiff landed on May Contain Nuts after searching the following words on google...”the Heimlich manoeuvre was invented.”

After me...1,2,3....wooooooooo.

What on earth is going on? What kind of coincidence is that? There is NOTHING on this blog that would justify such a visit. So what the feck is going on? Is google totally off key? Or are we all connected in ways we are not aware of? And what does it mean? What is the significance of this event? Should I be driving in my car looking for choking people out in the streets? After all with great power comes great responsibility.

Spooky.

Just to test my theory I’m off to read the next section in Twisted River which concerns the hero’s 12 year old son, who clocks his father’s lover with a skillet, thinking she’s a bear. Which doesn’t say much for the hero’s taste in women. And then I’ll report back. Try not to get too excited at the possibilities, people. The world is our lobster.

Nut News

A newspaper recently reported on a study that had reached the conclusion being stupid could lose you as much as seven years from your life expectancy. Begs the question; could a fairly intelligent person who suffers from a long string of occasional blond moments expect to have his life shortened by say, three and a half years? And yes, before I reached a state of permanent follicular challenge I was blonde, so you can stop calling me a colourist. Question 2, how can I, ehm I mean how can this theoretical individual combat this? Dose up with Gingko Biloba? Watch endless re-runs of University Challenge? Or should he just bitch-slap both his parents for giving him excess stupid capacity?

On the whole stupid thing, the Chilean mint issued a new coin recently. A 50 peso coin. And a life-expectancy-challenged individual designed the coin with the name of the country reading CHIIE.

( For all those people reading this whose days are running out it should have read CHILE.)



What about animals not blessed with a human sized brain? Do they lose out on their numbered days? The reason I ask is that a seven-point buck was found dead in Viroqua, Wis., in November. After losing a head-butting contest with a cement-statue stag. Ramming contests are common during mating season, and the cement buck was about the same size as the dead one - thus explaining the confusion but unfortunately for Mr Seven-Point weighed about three times as much.



This is me smiling with GLEE ‘cos I get to report on more stupidity. And there ain’t nothing more satisfying than stupidity sparked by political correctness. The Telegraph reported the other day that an English primary school has banned Valentine's Day cards from the premises because of concerns that young pupils spend too much time talking about boyfriends and girlfriends.

Ashcombe Primary School in Weston-Super-Mare, Somerset, has told parents that cards declaring love can be “confusing” for children under the age of 11, who are still emotionally and socially developing.

In his February newsletter, Peter Turner, the head teacher, warned that any cards found in school would be confiscated.

Before I check into my usual knee-jerk state when it comes to all things PC... allow me to run with this. Does the teacher have a point? Should we also ban Xmas cards on the basis that someone is bound to get left out and then feel socially excluded? From there it’s only a hop, skip and full-throated jump to banning birthday parties. Surely, the potential for exclusion is much more noticeable here. If you’re the child who is not invited to the party of the year how bad are you going to feel that you didn’t get to overdose on e-numbers and cake? How stunted is your emotional and social development going to be? The potential for disaster here is surely of biblical proportions.

Is my tongue so firmly pressed against my cheek that it’s about to go into cramp? Or have I just lost six months of my life?

The week that was...

The UK National Obsession is The Weather and now that we are receiving such extreme conditions over such an extended period of time, we are receiving commentary of orgiastic proportions. Inches of snow...degrees centigrade...amount of grit...composition of said grit...amount of salt...how long said salt is going to last...streets where cars have slid into a wall...councils are reducing the amount of grit/ salt they are spreading...how much warmer we are than the South Pole...numbers of schools closed...swans trapped...gas use hits a record high...passengers stuck in airports throughout the country...numbers of homes without heat...hospitals asking for zimmer frames because they’re running out...young men car snowboarding (in case you need to ask stupid, this involves sticking a snowboard on the roof of a car and driving through the snow) ....

...and I find the whole feckin’ thing absolutely fascinating. I could watch and read about it for hours. Paint me white, stick a carrot in my gob and call me Saddo.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When he said, “and now, we’re going to get your heart rate up above 90% of its maximum.’ ...THAT'S when I should have fled the building. Well, I would have if I wasn’t leaning against the full-length mirror
(I knew it had a purpose) and wheezing like a geriatric asthmatic. For those of you of a smutty mindset, I should explain I was being given a new series of workout routines at the gym. And OHMYGOD I am gubbed.

My gym instructor plays rugby at a very high level and I was tempted to say, “I’m 47, gimme a fucking break.” But it would have just come out like a breathless whine.

This routine involves a “circuit”. Five minutes on a bike raising my heart rate to 70-something percent of its maximum. Five minutes on a stepper raising my heart rate to 90-something percent of its maxmimum. Five minutes on a bike “allowing” my heart rate to settle at 60-something percent of its maximum. And then you do it all again. Twice.

Forty five minutes of torture. And not in a good way.

The bastard.

He was more specific than the 70-something example that I am giving you, it’s just that I was so freakin’ knackered I couldn’t concentrate on anything other than getting through that particular 5 minutes without puking. I swear I saw stars at one point in my peripheral vision.

I know I’ve lost some fitness over the last few months with the whole ankle thing, but really. I think I’ve been kidding myself on for years.

Today was a good wake-up call. There is a six-pack here somewhere, if I keep this up I might just find it.


-------------------------------------------------------------------------


“Two teams of celebrities”...the man said and my jaw tightened...”in a highly competitive bird-watching competition”...and it was all I could do not to spear my TV with the Christmas tree. (I know, I know, I’ll put it away in the morning.) Who is the knob-end that is coming up with these ideas? This is me on my knees, people...can we please stop watching this shit?

Here in the UK we’re having a Celebrity TV fest at the moment. We’re not long finished with getting the dumb feckers out of the jungle and ballroom dancing, and now we’ve got them on Mastermind, Dancing on Ice, in Big Brother and feckin’ bird-watching.

If you cannae beat them...

...how’s this for a pitch for a new TV programme? We join our celebrity obsession with our fetish for the weather and dump a load of the feckers on Altnaharra (the coldest place in Britain right now only a couple of degrees warmer than the South Pole) wearing mankinis, sipping from toilet bowls and counting the grains of salt in a grit bin.

Colour me white, stick a carrot in my gob and call me a programming genius.

Sunday Brief

Here’s my Sunday in brief. (As you read this you should imagine Gordon Ramsay is doing the voiceover)

Get up. The wee fella is downstairs watching cartoons. I make breakfast. Crack four eggs. Whip em up. Good strong wrist action. Add salt. Heat oil in a pan. Pour in eggs. Grill bacon. Once cooked, chop and add to the eggs. Serve immediately. Savour.

Read newspaper. Online. Can’t be arsed running down to shop. Watch WWE. Bored. My son says I have no taste. As well as being a rubbish cook.

Apart from this he’s being very affectionate. I love you, dad – he says – so get used to it. But don’t cook for me. Takeaway everytime.

Drop him off at his mum’s. Barely stop the car. That’ll teach him.

Go to the gym. Strip. Change. Cardio. Run for first time since hurting ankle. Breathe don’t wheeze, I tell myself. Swelling in ankle. Move to weights. Chest and arms. Don’t look at belly in the mirrors. Too many mirrors. Back in changing room. Strip and shower. Sauna. Shower. Steam room. Wheeze. Feel phlegm being loosened. Cough. Nowhere to spit, so I swallow. (Sound familiar ladies?)

...I did say it was a Gordon Ramsay voiceover ...admittedly with Billy Connolly’s sense of humour. (If I have offended your sensibilities please go to www.fuckedifIcare.com for a half-arsed apology)

Shower. Jacuzzi. Shower. So clean I squeak as I walk back into the changing room. Dry. Friend comes over to talk. He’s naked. I’m seated. And freshly nauseous. I think of somewhere I could spit phlegm. Dress. In the cafe, I order coffee. And cake. Sit and watch second-half of football match. Sip coffee. Push fork into cake. Place moist sponge in mouth. Savour.

Go to movies. New Moon. How can a film about vampires and werewolves be so wet? Feels like I’m back in Jacuzzi. What a bag of shite. Save your money. Or throw it away. Better still, take a tenner from your wallet. Pick box of matches from kitchen cupboard. Scratch. Spark. Flame. Burn.

Savour.

Kidstuff

Punctuation is a dying art, n’est ce pas?

I was in a bank the other day. They had a rather large tree (almost as big as mine) in the lobby. There was a sign under the tree that read...

Don’t Touch Children

For the want of a comma, a request to the kids turned out to be a warning for the local paedos.



Seeing as we were talking about kids, (Yes we were. Kinda) let me share this with you…



HOW CAN A STRANGER TELL IF TWO PEOPLE ARE MARRIED?

You might have to guess, based on whether they seem to be yelling at the same kids.

-- Derrick, age 8 (mmm, wonder if anyone phoned social services for this kid?)



WHAT DO YOU THINK YOUR MOM AND DAD HAVE IN COMMON?

Both don't want any more kids.

-- Lori, age 8 (There's a family that talks.)



WHAT DO MOST PEOPLE DO ON A DATE?

Dates are for having fun, and people should use them to get to know each other. Even boys have something to say if you listen long enough...

-- Lynnette, age 8 (isn't she a love?)



On the first date, they just tell each other lies and that usually gets them interested enough to go for a second date.

-- Martin, age 10  (eyes wide open that one)



WHAT WOULD YOU DO ON A FIRST DATE THAT WAS TURNING SOUR?

I'd run home and play dead. The next day I would call all the newspapers and make sure they wrote about me in all the dead columns.

-- Craig, age 9 (this boy should run courses on the art of Perspective)



WHEN IS IT OKAY TO KISS SOMEONE?

When they're rich.

-- Pam, age 7 (exactly)



The rule goes like this: If you kiss someone, then you should marry them and have kids with them... It's the right thing to do.

-- Howard, age 8 ( I keep telling the wee fella this. Think he believes me?)



IS IT BETTER TO BE SINGLE OR MARRIED?

It's better for girls to be single but not for boys.. Boys need someone to clean up after them.

-- Anita, age 9 (EXACTLY!)



HOW WOULD YOU MAKE A MARRIAGE WORK?

Tell your wife that she looks pretty, even if she looks like a truck.

-- Ricky, age 10    (He'll be married forever)

Catching the tiger by the tail

This is lazy blogging 101. But you'll enjoy it nonetheless.

Have a good weekend, folks...

Dear Me...

There’s a charity book out just now called “Dear Me” which is full of famous people writing notes of advice to their sixteen year-old self. Which got me thinking...what would I write to my younger self?

Dear Me,

Some advice for you. Ignore it at your peril because as sure as eggs are covered in a thin shell you have become very wise in your young-middle age.

First off, don’t be so freakin’ sensible. Have fun. Chill.

Next, a warning: you won’t always be this skinny. The cakes will catch up with you.

The things that come easy? Work harder at them, then you get a career you enjoy.

Read a lot; write a lot. (I stole this from Stephen King)

Buy black socks only. Saves a lifetime of pairing them up after a wash.

No matter how much you love her, don’t let her talk you into getting your back waxed. (Yeah, you get a hairy back. And there’s more bad news coming about the hair situation)

Don’t be afraid to make mistakes.

Don’t be afraid to watch other people making mistakes. Just don’t laugh in their face. If you do and you get caught, say that you were laughing WITH them.

Don’t be afraid to laugh at yourself.

Going bald (told you) is no biggie. You’ll get used to it very quickly.

It’s nice to be nice. Any number of small acts of kindness are much better than one grand-stage act of generosity. The latter tends to be for show.

When in company and struggling for something to say ask the other person a question about them. If you are interested you become interesting.

When in company and someone talks about nothing else but themselves, develop a pressing need to go to the loo, pretend to faint, choke on a peanut...do anything just get the feck away from them.

Don’t listen to your father. He’s an eejit. Except about that one thing...oh, and that other thing.

He was also right about the dishes. Let them pile up on the draining board. What’s the point in putting them away in a cupboard when you’re just going to use them again?

Never use a screw-driver. A hammer will do the job much quicker. If anything REALLY needs to be taken apart again, you can always move.

Your father was also wrong about the black tape. It doesn’t fix everything. Least of all a broken desk. That’s where the hammer comes in.

99.9% of the problems that grow in your mind until they block everything else out give you ulcers. Then they melt away and never happen. Wasted time, yes?

In general, people are nice. If you treat them the way you would like to be treated, things will go well.

People are bastards. They bash your car door with their car door and drive away without as much as a scribbled apology.

Go to THAT school re-union. You’ll learn perspective. And loads of other stuff.

The boys at school who laughed at you because you had lots of female friends were actually very, very, very envious.

The cool kids at school turned out to be addicts and alkies or they got shit jobs. The nerds, a l’autre main, took over the world.

Lose that frickin’ habit of speaking half in English, half in French. SO annoying.

You WILL lose your virginity. Eventually.

Don’t be so freakin’ shy and don’t wait to be asked.

Don’t pretend that you’re in training to be a priest to get rid of an unwanted advance. It’s not smart, it’s not clever and you look like shit in a dog collar.

Always take your socks off before your trousers. If you happen to be with a woman you’ll look less like a dork.

Women say one thing and mean another. Then once you get used to that approach they go back to meaning exactly what they say. Then they switch back again in the time it takes you to say, ‘What the...?’ It will confuse you. Don’t fight it. That’s. Just. The. Way. It. Is.

The priests were wrong; it IS good for you, you won’t go blind and the only hairs you grow on your hands will be over your knuckles.

Learn to recognise that wee voice that says, ‘that’ll do” and ignore it, ‘cos it never does.

Eat more and exercise less. Oh...wait, it’s the other way round. And don’t worry, this is one thing you’ll never get right.

Don’t eat anything that comes in bright packaging. It’s full of all kinds of chemical shit that will give you a chronic disease and may eventually kill you.

Enjoy a balanced lifestyle. Get your skinny/fat/skinny/fat arse down to the gym 3 or 4 times a week. Then celebrate with some cake.

Embrace your love of cinnamon. Add it to everything. Especially porridge.

Cake. You’ll never get enough cake. With cinnamon.

Get yourself a nice golden (cinnamon) coloured fleece. Women will love it. They will want to touch it.

When someone says “yes, but...” they actually agree with you but they don’t want to listen. They’re so locked in to their own point of view they’ll carry on regardless. They are stuck. While you should give them the “loser” sign and move on.

Keep your opinions to yourself. No one is really that interested. They’re just pretending, dumbass.

There’s no point in being self-conscious. People look at you for like a second, dismiss you and then go back to inhabiting a world with their ego at its centre. Mostly, you don’t mean shit to them.

Walk away from the cheap brandy. It will give you one fucker of a headache.

Don’t be afraid to admit you were wrong. And apologise.

Never go to bed on an argument. Grow a pair, stay up all night and shout yourself hoarse.

You will discover a talent to grow a single, six inch long hair from your earlobe. It will appear overnight. Pluck it, learn to live with it, and be on watch for the next one which will appear just as surely as the world will become obsessed with a pair of tits called Jordan. And keep a pair of tweezers by your shaving mirror.

Never add garlic to an omelette. Sucks big time. Add it to EVERYTHING else.

Brussel Sprouts. The curse of your childhood. You’ll never get over it. Not even garlic will make them palatable. You will continue to barf at the sight of them for the rest of your life.

Be kind to your sister. She knows not what she does. Approach her with fondness and always be prepared to make allowances. It will save you a shit-storm of stomach acid.

Earn enough so you can pay someone to do the jobs you hate; the garden, housework, ironing. This list will increase as you grow older. Your sister will help and it will only take the going rate.

Ignore the adverts; toilet paper that is too soft makes for an ultimately uncomfortable toilet experience. Or if you learn the art of multi-tasking and keep a pair of nail clippers by the paper you could clip while you are, ehm...unloading. A wee hint - leave your toenails for later.

There’s a reason why we love chocolate. It’s because it melts at body temperature. Don’t let anybody, I mean ANYBODY keep it in the fridge.

You will develop a healthy disregard for the celebrity obsessed culture that is coming your way. Try to spread this particular view to as many people as possible. In fact make it your life’s work.

Never. I repeat, never get a credit card. They are the work of Satan.

Never let the truth get in the way of a good story/ poem/ blog. You will always write with a touch too much honesty, but it will be heightened, exaggerated, disguised and people will never be quite sure what to believe. This is A Good Thing.

And finally, if your young self is going to pay attention to any of this crap it should be this: ignore everything you’ve just read - the most effective lessons are the ones you learn for yourself.

Laters,

MM

Of empty shops and a touch-worthy fleece

Walking down my local High Street last weekend I looked in the windows of one of the shops that were forced to close at the height of the credit crunch last year. This was a shoe shop formerly known as Barratts.

The unit has large empty windows and bare walls, with the odd seat and plastic stand littering the carpet down the length of the shop. The sign on the far wall has lost some of its lettering and must have echoed the thoughts of the (more polite) members of staff when they were told they were losing their job.

It reads R.A.T.T.S (with the missing letters suggesting where the newly redundant staff might have headed).


Change of topic now. Can't be arsed trying to make a neat seque. I was at my local writers’ club meeting the other night. It was an excellent, thought-full talk on writing humourous articles. (I believe that the minute you stop trying to learn is when you should stop – and like, I need all the help I can get) given by the talented and glamourous, Ms Eileen West.

Aside from Eileen’s worthwhile hints and tips, a talking point of the evening was the fleece top I was wearing.

It’s a Craghopper fleece - forgive a wee spot of product placement. (Let’s talk, Craghopper people. Or your people can call my people) It’s – eesh, I’m rubbish at colours – golden retriever colour and it’s as soft as the fur on a puppy’s ear. So far, so nice.

And what I’ve discovered is that women can’t help but touch it.

Every women I spoke to held a hand out and stroked my shoulder/ arm/ chest as if hypnotised. I’m not some kind of play-thing-sex-toy to be objectified! Honestly, I’m considering litigation.

Or.

I might just pick up some scissors....and indulge in some tailoring. I could cut up the fleece and make it into other items of clothing.

I’m thinking speedos.

Nutty News

Relatives of Brazilian Ademir Jorge Goncalves, I.D.’d him as the victim of a Sunday night car crash. The funeral was organised for the very next day. Hot country. Need to bury body fast, is my guess.

What family members did not know was that Mr Goncalves had spent the night at a lorry park talking to friends over drinks of a sugarcane liquor known as cachaca – and was nowhere near the accident. He was quick to sober up the next morning when he got word about his own funeral. The bricklayer rushed to the ceremony to let his loved ones know that the reports of his death were somewhat premature. He had his sleeves rolled up in case anyone wanted to check his pulse (ok, I made that bit up).

"The corpse was badly disfigured, but dressed in similar clothing," said the police spokesman.


‘Holy fuck,’ said his father when Ademir walked/ ran/ skidded into the church.

Wouldn’t you have loved to have been a fly on that wall? I’m guessing a few tooth cavities and tonsils were in clear view that day.

---------------/----------------------

An American couple are looking into other methods of having children after they discovered that she was allergic to his sperm. This potential relationship-breaking discovery was made... on their wedding night.


Mike and Julie Boyde of Ambridge, Pennsylvania, went out for two years after meeting at university. Before their wedding, the couple say they always used protection, (because of course everybody wanted to know how this had not become apparent) but once they got hitched and subsequently ditched the condoms, things started to go badly wrong.

We’re not talking just a slight itch here. We’re talking blisters and burning in her most tender of parts.

Bet that put a dampener on the honeymoon.

---------------/-----------------------------
A 70-year-old shoplifter in Germany tried to evade capture by biting his arresting officer. Knives, guns and any amount of weaponry must have been discounted by pensioner Gustav Ernegger when he went werewolf, after he was caught stealing a shirt.


However, his cunning plan went somewhat awry when instead of sinking his teeth into the officer's arm, he was only able to leave a wet mark from his gums.

He’d left his falsies at home.

------------/-------------------------------------

Want to talk about your toilet experiences? Fancy downloading your thoughts about what happens when you go for a ....how do I put this delicately...not even gonna try...a dump? Well soon you will have your shot for it seems that Proctor and Gamble are going to have a special toilet installed in Times Square, NY during the holiday season, as a promo for Charmin tissue. There will also be 5 bloggers on hand to help thousands of the newly empty-bowelled share their experience across the web. Because that – clearly - is what the world is desperate to know. This will include photos. Of the “family friendly” variety, apparently. (There’s a relief).


Regulars will know how shy I am of sharing my own life experiences, but I feel like flying over to add my comments. Cos here’s the problem: the fecking paper is TOO soft. You’re sat there doing your thing, after you’ve done your thing and...the paper gives way. Last time this happened made me realise I needed to cut my fingernails. Not nice.

Hit an' Miss

*Listening to BBC Radio 2 on the way home – eesh, I’m getting old. Shirley Bassey was being interviewed before her big concert. They were discussing the lyrics to Diamonds Are Forever and in particular the lines...

“Hold one up and then caress it,

Touch it, stroke it and undress it”

Dame Shirl avowed that she had no idea what these words might have meant other than sheer enjoyment of the hard, shiny rocks. Aye. Right. And I’ve got a nice row of shiny buttons the length of my spine.


*To the Italian guy at the gym tonight. Get over yourself, Dude. If I ever see him on the street I fully expect to see him pushing (at just the right angle and with the correct lighting) a full length mirror on wheels.




*I always find it interesting to learn how people find this blog. Remember the one from Italy who found me by searching for “Hairy Man Showing Nuts”? A new one that had me smiling recently was less suggestive. “Mike Malone and Bill Clinton. “ ???? Nothing will be admitted to unless in the presence of a lawyer. However, I swear, no sex act was committed. (But I’ll never clean my suit.)

 
*I’m taking issue with George Bernard Shaw. It’s not youth that’s wasted on the young. It’s Spongebob Squarepants!




*What have I been entertaining myself with these days I hear you ask? You didn’t. Tough, I’m gonna tell you anyway.

Movies... (my local Blockbuster had a deal on 5 movies for £10, for a week. Being a cheapskate I couldn’t resist the bargain – here’s a sample of what I watched)

“Doubt” with Meryl Streep. Being an ex-convent boy this movie had a certain resonance for me. A quick run-down of the story...Streep was the heid-nun. She couldnae stand the new priest. This was the sixties and the world was changing too fast for her. She became convinced he was interfering with one of the boys. She did everything she could do discredit him. Without spoiling the ending...I like movies that let you make up your own mind. Back to Streep...did she win an Oscar for this? Freakin’ awesome performance. Utterly hypnotic.

“Sugar” – a film from the guy who made “Half-Nelson”. It was about young guys from the Dominican Republic who played baseball in an island academy for the big US baseball clubs. An understated, engaging movie that avoided the usual Hollywood clichés. Gentle pace and humour, well-observed interactions...touching. Excellent.


“Seven Pounds” – Will Smith acting his socks off. Man, was he good in this. Did he get an Oscar nod for this performance? Anywho, if you don’t shed a tear at this you should sell your heart to the nearest hardware store with a sticker on it reading “Breezeblock”. (You don’t even need to bother with anaesthetic because you clearly can’t feel anything you soul-less MF)



Books...

Incendiary by Chris Cleave...if there are any newbie writers reading this who are still wondering about “voice” do yourself a biggie and read this. And anything else by this guy. The narrator of this one is a woman from London who is writing a letter to Osama bin Laden after her husband and son were killed in bomb attack on London. The voice is consistent, authentic, humourous and moving. What’s impressive is that he manages a new completely different and hypnotic “voice” for each book. Jealous much? This is one of those all too rare books coming under the heading of “Literature” that is accessible and where you really do give a fuck about the characters. You can’t help falling in love with this woman (if you don’t see above comment about the breezeblock) and she’ll inhabit your thoughts until you finish that last page.

Pic 'n mix

Things you don’t expect to hear from one of the ladies you work with #1

- Oops, I just pumped.

(For my buds across the ocean “pumped” is one of those delightfully inoffensive ways we Brits like to talk about things some people might feel are offensive. In this instance a “pump” is a fart.)



Confession #1. After I stated last week that I wait until Xmas eve before doing any shopping I bought two giant tins of chocolates (Cadbury’s Roses) and hid them in a kitchen cupboard.

Confession #2. I paid to have my sister clean the house today.



Lesson Learned #1. Nothing is ever well enough hidden when the Queen of Chaos is on the prowl.

Let me explain. I called her from work while she was sweating over the shambles I call home. The ensuing conversation went something like this.

-I’m going to be a wee bit late (I normally make her dinner when she is at my house doing the cleaning) the fridge is full, sis. Help yourself if you’re hungry.

-oh, I already ate some of those chocolate Roses.

-what the ones I had hidden in the back of the cupboard for Xmas presents?

-Oh. (long pause) Right. I only had half a dozen. You could run some tape round the tin lid and no-one would know.

-surely, you saw the tin and thought “present”? Who buys tins of sweets and hides them in a cupboard for anything other than a “present”? Why on earth did you think it would be ok to open the tin and eat some?

-Don’t be mad at me, I’ve been working like crazy. Your house is a tip, by the way.

-Compliments are always going to make me feel less annoyed, sis. Why don’t you try one on me?

(It’s Friday and I’m in a good mood because, well it’s Friday. Besides it’s like being angry with a puppy. A puppy with opposable thumbs that can open a large tin of chocolates)

-I did some ironing for you as well, she adds with a pleading tone.

- you are incredible, I laugh.

When I get home she’s wearing one of my t-shirts.

- I’m waiting for Boyfriend to pick me up and my top is all sweaty, she says.

- if your handbag was bigger, I say, you could just pop my feckin’ TV in there.



Later, I looked in the cupboard where the chocs were. There were still two tins in the place I last saw them. One on top of the other. The tin on the top was sealed. It then became apparent that when Sis finished eating the sweets, she’d put the open tin on the bottom, to disguise the fact she’d been munching on them. Wonder what made her come clean? I would have been none the wiser...until I went to play at Santa.

Now that the kettle’s on and the tin’s open...



Things you don’t expect to hear from one of the ladies you work with #2

- a graphic novel ? Is that like one with loads of sex and violence?





Friends who’ve read the Dan Drown latest, The Lost Symbol are all agreed on one thing. It’s shite. Their words, not mine. If this reaction is extrapolated throughout the world, I’m guessing his next work won’t be quite as successful. I’m hoping other writers will get his audience. I’m thinking Mr Drown will laugh his sorrows all the way to the bank, while singing nanananana.



Anybody out there read The Kindly Ones? It sits at the other end of the literatooore spectrum from Danny boy. It won plaudits and awards up the wazoo. And boy is it hard work. Pages upon pages of reportage...you know, the bits you skim over? Occasionally you come across a finely tuned paragraph where something actually happens. The narrator is a highly unsympathetic character caught up in Hitler’s Final Solution. Violence is constant and written in simple language that makes it all the more harrowing and affecting. How this violence changes in the perpetrators’ minds from traumatic/difficult to being sought after/ acceptable is worked very cleverly. This is interspersed with philosophy and debate. Again, hard work.

My thinking is that if this was cut from 900 pages to around 400 you would have an extraordinary piece of fiction here. What do I know?

Looking for change

I was at a poetry reading tonight in Prestwick. The poet was Kevin Cadwallender. What a guy. Hilarious and thought provoking at the same time, with a totally original voice. Highlights were a poem about McDonalds, given an Old Testament biblical twist (which would have been banned in certain quarters) and another which he read in the voice of a Dalek. This one originated when he was given the challenge of writing a poem about Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinski. The challenge was not to mention Bill or Monica or the “alleged” sex act. He therefore decided to write a “relationship” poem where the main protagonists were a Dalek and a hoover. You can make your own mind up which one is Ms Lewinski.

In any case it was a great way to pass an evening. I love it when poetry doesn’t take itself too seriously.



Talking about Poetry, with a capital P not taking itself seriously, we Makars have some events coming up next week. We’ve been invited to participate in a couple of readings as part of the Scottish wide Mental Health week. On Sunday, we are sharing the bill with a blues (insert your own comment here) guitarist called Tragic O’Hara. For real. You couldn’t make that up.



All kinds of glib comments are queuing up for release, but I am going to resist. As someone who’s had their own brush with this condition I’m well aware of the need to be more open about it. So there.



Ankle update: up and about. Back to work earlier than expected. But won’t be dancing an Irish jig any time soon. I’m only a wee bit swollen now and I only limp when I walk fast. Which frankly is not a good look. Let me place an image in your mind of a camp Golem and you will have a fair idea.



Isn’t it weird how contrary we humans are. Normally, if you had offered me a free fortnight sat in the house with a pile of books, an internet connection and a handful of movies I would have bitten your hand off at the shoulder. However, when you HAVE to stay in it doesn’t matter that you have all these distractions, does it. Cos you want to get frickin’ out. You want to feel the wind in your hair (a time capsule is required for me, but you know what I mean), you want to go for a coffee/ beer/ read at the library/ workout, but you cannae because you’re under house arrest.



I had to get back to work. Missed all my work buds. Besides, you can only watch so much daytime TV before you either hate every man on the planet or start sending Jeremy Kyle your toe-nail clippings in a dog-turd sandwich.



I learned this morning that I have a forgetful ankle. No kidding. Matches the brain. Because I went back to work earlier than the date on my original doctor’s sick line, I had to get signed off as being fit to work. My doctor explained, with a lob-sided smile that now I had a weakness in this area I might be prone to suffer the same injury. You know how your body just KNOWS how to do stuff, like walk, breathe, produce mucus? Well the part that knows where your foot is in relation to the rest of your leg sorta forgets whenever you have any ligament damage. So you have to watch where you put your feet.



If you see me walking down any Ayrshire high Street and my eyes are on the pavement you know why. I’m not looking for loose change.

Nut News

The critics are telling us our favourite bad boy of pop is back on form. Yes, he says while stifling a yawn, Robbie Williams has a new album out and it’s quite good.

Winnie the Pooh has a new friend. Which is nice. Lottie the Otter is feisty and will cause a stir. Wish I was 5 again. Not because of Lottie, you understand. I just wish I was 5.

An 8 year old in Waterford saved his sister’s life using the Heimlich manoeuvre after seeing it being demonstrated on TV. Under the newspaper headline they displayed a quote from the young hero who said afterwards, ‘I’m not doing it again, she’s been a pain this week.’


A study published recently(no doubt by the Ministry of The Feckin’ Obvious)reported that it is perfectly normal for men to drool over a woman they find attractive. Surprised much? What I want to know is who funds these reports and how do I get a job? What else could we get these morons to study? It is beneficial for the man to fall asleep after sex. Farting is a necessary release and should be tolerated without comment. Chocolate is more effective than Prozac and women should delay munching on it until after their man has fallen asleep.

This next one set me off on a fit of the giggles that lasted for oh, a good hour. So before reading put that coffee down. A Cork radio station was running a competition for callers to phone in with words that were no longer in the dictionary yet could still be used in a sentence that make sense. The prize was trip to Bali. Given that the Irish are one of the most literate nations on earth expectations were high. The first call went like this...
DJ – Thank you for calling 96FM, what’s your name?
Caller – Hi, me name’s Dave.
DJ – Hi Dave. What’s your word?
Dave – Goan, spelt G-O-A-N and pronounced go an.
DJ – that is correct, Dave goan is not in the dictionary. Now for that fantastic trip to Bali, what sentence can you use that word in that would make sense?
Dave – goan fuck yourself.
Unsurprisingly the DJ cut the conversation short and took some more calls. They were all unsuccessful until ...
DJ: Thank you for calling 96FM, what’s your name caller?
Caller: Hi, my name is Jeff.
DJ: Hi Jeff, can you tell us your word.
Jeff: My word is smee. Spelt S-M-E-E.
DJ: You are correct Jeff. Smee is not in the dictionary. Now for a trip to Bali, can you give me a sentence containing smee that makes sense.
Jeff: Smee again, goan fuck yourself.

Anyone know a good vet?

Anybody know a good vet? All day yesterday I had a gradual build up of pain in my shoulder that radiated down my arm and up my neck. By the time I got to bed I could barely move my head. Any position I could arrange myself in that was comfortable for my foot ...yes, you guessed it, was uncomfortable for my neck/ shoulder.

So here’s me today with my foot in an ice bath and a heat compress across my shoulder. S’not funny you at the back.

By the way, these heat compresses are amazing. It’s like a giant sanitary towel, shaped like the wingspan of a pigeon (without the head, tail... and the guano). You pull it from the packet and as it comes into contact with your skin these wee pads positioned inside it heat up. Clever, eh? And you can wear it for 12 hours.

An interesting side issue to this situation is that I’m also suffering from “walk-envy”. This is a very real phenomena, kinda in the same ball park as penis-envy or boob-envy, without the strange glances and padded underwear. How it works is this – people walk past my window all healthy and pain free and stride-y and I get pissed off. Oh, give it a rest, dude. It’s only been a fortnight.

So while I’m consumed with envy at people who can walk without pain I’ve got four books on the go. Does anyone else out there read like this? This is quite normal for me until one book in particular asserts itself on my mind and demands that I finish it first.

My foursome include Chris Ewan’s A Good Thief’s Guide to Paris, which I received courtesy of Scott Pack at Me And My Big Mouth (a must-read blog for book lovers). This book has a wonderfully intriguing premise where you have a novel where the main character is a novelist writing a book about stealing stuff, while he is actually stealing stuff. I don’t normally read caper novels as I prefer my books to be life or death, but I’m really enjoying what I’ve read so far.

Her Fearful Symmetry is Audrey Niffenegger’s next book following the HUGELY successful The Time Traveler’s Wife, which I loved. Early signs are good, however when I bought it at my local Waterstones the bookseller commented that they were having trouble selling it. It seems a good proportion of the locals who bought the first book didn’t really enjoy it. What, you mean they were swayed by all the attention it received. Noooo. I was disappointed. I want people to enjoy books that I love. Philistines.

Also adding to the clutter in my Being Read Pile is Robyn Young’s Brethren. This is a tale of knights going on a crusade and putting those pesky locals to the sword. Initial impressions are mixed. I’m struggling to identify with the characters, but I can see that all the elements are there and it should be worthwhile carrying on.

I’ve also started a review copy of James Ellroy’s soon to be released Blood’s A Rover. This is another book where I’m conflicted. It’s the third in a series and I’m probably hampered by the fact that I’ve not read the other two, although the blurb does say it can be read as a standalone. For those of you who are unaware of Ellroy, he’s the writer of L.A. Confidential and feted as one of crime writing’s modern greats. This is a doorstop of a book, with a large, bewildering cast and a style all of its own. James Ellroy can write a sentence of seven words and impart a degree of information that another lesser writer might manage in a seven line paragraph. Sometimes the staccato sentence style he adopts is a delight, sometimes it’s an irritation. However, this is definitely one that’s worth persevering with.

Sometimes you do have to work at your pleasures, no?

What Goes Around...

I am a wee bit unsure about posting any of my poems on this blog, but in this case it is necessary for you to get the joke. Also this particular poem has been published in New Writing Scotland and on a CD of poems so I’m not worried about it popping up somewhere else under someone else’s name.

That is of course, presuming anyone would want to steal one of my poems. Anyway, here it is...

Art in the Park

They wur in among the trees, behind the big hoose at Rozelle.
Right there oan the grass, like they’d dropped from a plane.
Huge they wur. Huge wae effort. Huge like a god’s thoughts.
-Whiddye make o’ them? I ask my wee boy.
Had tae drag him away from the black box,
before his een went widescreen.
He points, finger oot like a dirk
– Dad, that one has a big butt.
- Furgoadsake. You watch way too much telly, son.
‘N the word is arse.
He jist luks up et me n’ says
– Whatever.

The Yoke this wan’s called. He’s hunched over.
Heid awa tae the side, like Gourock.
I move closer for a good look.
- Dad, let’s find some branches, so we can play at sword fighting.
I run ma hands over the granite. See, ye think it’s gray,
but up close it has a’ these speckles o’ black, n’ flashes o’ green.
-Dad, I’ll be Darth Vader, the wean skips over wae two sticks. -Who are you?
- In a meenit, son. Ah’m huvin’ a moment tae myself.
Noo, he’s just starin’ at me ‘n he says
- Whatever.

See, son. It’s aboot Jesus n’ his pain. But it’s more than that.
Nature’s givin’ a hand here. The stone’s gray like a sufferin’ sky,
n’ the trees are stretchin’ their arms oot tae share a touch.
Tae soothe. The earth is aroon the base reachin’ up
tae pull the granite back in. N’ see here, moss and lichen
…n’ wid ye look et that? That lichen is like a red stripe
doon the statue’s ribs. Whaur a wound might huv been.

My boy stops wavin’ his sticks aboot,
- Dad, I cannae believe you are actually my dad.
I just looks doon et him n’ say
- Whatever.



So... this poem was performed by myself on a CD that Makar Press published just over a year ago. And forgetting that my son and I have an ongoing debate about bad language, I played the CD in the car while he was with me.
‘N the word is arse.’ I say in the poem.

The wee fella homed on this. Ooh, Dad you said a bad word. Tell me you don’t swear a lot, says he. Of course not, says I. Only for effect or when I’m trying to amuse someone. Eh, says he looking totally mysstified, that makes no sense.

Fast forward a year and the CD hasn’t been played since. He’s watching a Horrible Histories episode and the theme is Ancient Greece. The next thing I hear is the wee fella shouting at the TV, ‘Kick his ass, Zeus.’ A phrase which you don’t ever expect to hear coming out of your child’s mouth.
Hey, says I, watch your language.
Sorry, dad, says he with a cheeky wee smile. I forgot. The right word is arse.

Sometimes you know some things are going to come back and bite you on the bum, but you can never quite tell how.

Stuff n' Nonsense

Update on the ankle: it’s still freakin’ sore. And I’m getting cabin fever.

Having too much time on my hands, I’ve been surfing and shopping on the web. And those nice people at Comet delivered me a new laptop. Wuhoo. I LOVE getting new gadgets. The old one was well past its best. It’s 5 years old (is that old for a laptop?) and is DEAD slow. I can go and make a cup of tea while it loads a new word document. Trying to watch any moving objects is beyond it. And for all those mucky minds out there, I’m thinking football highlights.

This has led to a couple of technological issues however. My new computer software wasn’t talking to my security software which wasn’t talking to my password security software which wasn’t talking to my broadband provider. Which meant I couldn’t access my emails. Until this morning when speaking to the right person over the phone got it all sorted. Frustrated much?

I’ve also got a problem with my ipod library, but I’m not going to talk about that after working on it for 2 hours or I’ll end up freakin’ losing it. And while I’m not losing it, I still haven’t sorted out the phone issue. I have an old one that I can’t work out how to text with. I may love new gadgets but I hate technology. Confused much?

An interesting side effect of the cabin fever is the change in my appetite. I can’t be bothered eating. Unless it’s late at night and the food is highly calorific, has zero nutritional value, comes with excellent artery clogging properties and is either coated in batter or chocolate.

This of course is a Bad Thing when taken in conjunction with the fact that I can’t exercise. I may need to measure myself for a new fat suit. If I had a tape that is – and no not every man is born with a measuring tape in his hand.

What else have I been doing with all this time, I hear you ask? Watching TV is the answer.

Watched some cool movies. “Brick” is a high school movie given a Sam Spade noir kinda feel. Clever and engrossing. Bangkok Dangerous was ok and it gives Nick Cage a chance to kick some butt while wearing the same expression for 90 minutes and sporting one of the worst haircuts in cinematic history. A question about the hairdo, Nick. Why are you taking pointers from the Tom Hanks in the Da Vinci Code? Didn’t look good on him, dude. Anyway, the film passed some time.

I also watched Iron Man, which has a 12 age banding. Which is about right. Burn after Reading was also good fun. Frances McDormand is a comedic genius and Brad Pitt’s not just a pretty face....spoiler alert...the gormless, hiya buddy look on his face just before the George Clooney character shot him. Priceless.

Then there’s the chat show brigade. I caught a couple of minutes of Jeremy Kyle and Jerry Springer. Ok, you know how reluctant I am to voice an opinion on this blog (yeah right) but Kyle is a sanctimonious prick. At least Springer pretends to care about the people he’s manipulating. ‘Nuff said. Why these people line up to be traduced (that’s just for you, E) on TV is completely beyond me.

My tolerance of public humiliation being used up I turned to the Comedy Channel. Two and a Half Men is my new favourite comedy. The half-man in question gets all the best lines. He’s 11 at this stage and has a wonderful deadpan delivery. He’s doing his homework and trying to work out why, in his opinion, he’s so stupid. This is the running joke throughout this particular episode. He turns to his father near the beginning and asks, ‘Dad, are you and mom related?’ His next theory is that he ate some lead paint as a child. He finishes the episode by turning to his father and saying, ‘I got it! I was a crack baby.’