To hell in a milk float

All plans of making a decent post have gone out the window, on account of my having had one absoloute fuck of a bad time.

I went to a piss-up in Crystal Palace park recently. (The bloke who invited me described it as a "party". He's now lying dead in the Thames.)

Anyways, I knew we were off to a good start when our tram broke down. We waited for a good twenty minutes for another one, which, when it cane, told me to "Get off that bloody ticket machine [Which I was standing on. I'm sure I had a good reason at the time.] - It's not a bloody three-piece-suite". I don't mean the tram-driver shouted at me, I mean the tram shouted at me. And when a tram shouts at you, you obey. Quickly. (Seriously, just why they build loudspeakers onto the sides of tram cabs is beyond me.)

To add transport-related injury to transport-related insult, after getting off the tram I got hit by a car. (Intrestingly, there was a bloke and a girl inside. The girl goes "Oohhh, are you all right?", the man yells "You're a fucking moron!!". Gender differences 101.) Anyways, after cheating death once again (the grim reaper, ladies and gentlemen, is useless. He's been trying to get me for years. Hell, I even make it easier for him (mostly by eating questionable, year-old foodstuffs found on the floor.). He's just crap. If you're listening, Mr Reaper, just bring it, beeatch!)

Where the hell was I? Oh yes; after cheating death (in the form of a Vauxhall Vectra), we met up with about fifty assorted grungers, rockers, skaters, metallers and just people living in bins, generally. After discovering too many people with the same name as me, I decided to call myself "Jesus" for the night, and as a result every time someone struggled out of a drunken stupor long enough to speak they cried "Jesus!", giving the general riot an interesting religous twist.

We then marched half a mile through Crystal Palace sports ground to reach a spot with the twin advantages of no light and lots of wood. The fire was used mainly to blow up deodorant cans with, though the skaters did do a bit of ollying over it as they got drunker. I tried - and actually got over it without going up in flames - but didn't land on the board, proving I wasn't the messiah after all.

With the boom box someone had brought with us, Nat and I concieved the idea of rugby-tackling people on the side of a hill, so that they fell down it. Several bruises later, we needed alcohol. Dan, Dave and Nat, being amateurs when it comes to blagging an off-licence, presented me with money which I distributed (unevenly) between Glen's Vodka Co., Guinness Ltd. and the guide dogs for the blind fund.

Other people had got their own booze, but one set of geniuses had brought a cardboard-box-full of Smirnoff Ice (am I the only one who realises this is the world's shittest drink? It's not alcohol, it's just the piss of a drunk man thay keep at the factory.) Anyways, these chaps seemed to like it, but they hadn't brought a bottle opener. Meaning I, being able to open a bottle by jamming a fag lighter or set of keys against my thumb, became pretty damn valuable, earning me the secret of the only bloke there who had weed on him!

Later on, at the "hold my beer and watch this" stage, where testosterone and alcohol compete for control of your bloodstream, I took part in a kind of martial arts event, where everyone tried to stab a huge black bloke with a knife. I got pretty close, manouvering the knife to withing inches of his abdomen, but he was just too strong, and forced my hand back. Which is, in may ways, the best possible outcome for all concerned.

Now, dear, kind readers, is the part where it all goes pear-shaped. Dave and Dan, sharing a quart bottle of Vodka between three people, somehow got themselves pissed. Not just pissed - merely "pissed" would have been understandable. Paralytic. That is what they got themselves. Well, that and delerious, anyway. I spent about an hour trying to get them to walk. No joy. When the party broke up, I managed to carry Dave fireman's-lift style to a bench (Said bench, by the way, was a quarter of a fucking mile away.) Dan, however, weighs about four thousand pounds. I enlisted the help of a rather friendly chap called Leon, and between us we managed to carry Dan to the same park bench, where we left 'em to sober up. (Leon, now, is my saviour. If he wasn't there, I'd have been utterly and completely screwed. Leon, you dancer, I salute you.) Eventually they sobered up enough for us to walk/carry them to a road, where I called 118-118 for a minicab number. The cab, however, suffered from the drawback of having someone in charge who couldn't even drive into the middle of a locked park at night that we didn't know the address of in order to pick up two underage drinkers who couldn't walk, all in pitch darkness. Honestly!

Leon (my hero!) walked the remaining quarter mile into Crystal Palace to get a cab and direct it to us, but by a process of shouting, slapping and shaking I managed to get the flowerpot men close enough to their senses to be dragged to the main road, where I called out a minicab myself, allowing Leon to go and get the last train home. Lucky for him. I slipped the thieving cab driver (who had already pegged us as "useless rich kids", and adjusted his extortionate prices accordingly. I slipped him 20 quid to cover any vomit-related accidents that may occur and to soothe his conscience (HA!) at carting underage drinkers about the place, and he took us to Dan's place (Dan being thankfully capable of remembering his own address by this stage!)

We all collapsed in his sister's room (who is luckily far, far away in Italy!). As it happens, her room contains a large cage, with no animal inside of it! Slightly freaked out and not a little worried, I fell unconcious. I was up about five the next morning, not wishing to have to try and explain to Dan's parents what in the name of god was going on at three in the morning, and not trusting myself to refraind from demanding they spank their son right there and then! I managed to limp home (I woke up with one sweet little hell of a pain in my legs, at the exact spot where tha car had hit me the night before (funny, that).




As I left I heard Dan and Dave struggling to help each other to travel the ten feet from bedroom to bathroom.



I left 'em to it.









~(I recieved a txt msg from a girl I used to know a little while ago, with the usual "Happy Easter, how are you? Fancy seeing a movie sometime?". She was suprised (and pretty freaked out!) to have me crying on her shoulder for hours on end in return.) ~




DJ, you'll be hearing from my [rather attractive elderly] solicitor about this!

Sara, the dark is brilliant! Only, when you're trusting someone to drive you along in it at fifty miles an hour, it somehow becomes less fun!

Shan, I've said it before, and I'll say it again: whatever sexual peversions I may (but do not, honestly!) have, at least I don't spend my days covered in horse semen!

Anon, what!?! Since whan did "keeping a diary" become a crime? In fact, personal writing is considred a valuable part of a young person's development, according to sources who should know what they're talking about. If anyone decides to start up a blog again, (not the best idea in the world, but hey - I would!) they can always password-protect it. Drop me an email (potnoodleboy@gmail.com) anytime and I'll see people get the password. If not, goodbye and good luck!

Dan and Dave, anytime you fancy paying me back for that taxicab...

So, to continue...

At pizza hut (where we'd booked a table), we had the joy to find dear old Dan W. After ordering our drinks (Pepsi, Pepsi, Pepsi, Pepsi Max!!!, Pepsi, Pepsi), we kind of decided that Dan wouldn't have any peace. Casting an imperious hand across the table of people he was sitting with and declaring "Who are these people?" we discovered he was trying to have a meal with a group of friends. This information was greeted with raucous cheers of "You have friends?!", which slightly disconcerted said friends, establishing our table as "the noisy one" (every restaurant in Britain has one - usually the one containing the most teenagers) for the rest of the evening.

~Later on we presented him with a paper napkin folded into a fan, though, which makes everything all right.~


The other person we pestered constantly was our poor, poor waitress. Clamouring for the mystic, magical ice-cream-machine-which-they-let-you-play-with-for-a-couple-of-quid (and which does exist! Sorry for doubting you, Will!) immediately put her on her guard, but she wasn't quite prepared for my request for her to get the cook to arrange the toppings on my pizza in a smiley face pattern (at a pinch I would have accepted a squiggly-Nirvana-logo-face, but they would only serve that with a Pennyroyal Tea. Sorry - sounded funny when I wrote it.) but she seemed to think we were just being silly. Pity.

One thing I will say for Pizza Hut, however, is that they do free refills! Though they wouldn't even spit in Jas' drink when I asked 'em to, they would pile drinks upon drinks onto the table at about twice the rate that we could drink 'em at. Meaning we put away enough liquid to make the Niagra falls look like a tramp pissing in a gutter.

Rosie spent the meal trying to persuade people to let her put mascara on them. At any event at which both Rosie and mascara are present, some poor fool always ends up with dodgy smears all over their torn, bleeding face. This is pretty much a law of nature. What Rosie also spent the evening doing was accusing me of fancying the waitress. Which is fair enough, but at least it makes a change from pensioners - so I'm at least thirty-five years better than previously thought, at any rate. Maybe next time I'll go for someone withing ten odd years of my own age... though I do look forward to seeing Camilla Parker-Bowles in a form-fitting wedding dress!

(Uurgh! That should never be said, even as a joke. I'm going to have nightmares now. Sorry people!)

To quickly change the subject, we tried to get the poor waitress to send over to Dan a bottle of champagne with our compliments. Which was probably when Rosie clocked I was checking her out. She's blatantly jealous, that girl. Never mind, Rosie. All you need is a job at pizza hut - and therefore absoloute control over the serve-yourself ice-cream machine - and the blokes'll be at your feet! (You will, however, have competition from the girls who operate the conveyor belt system at Argos.)




We spent the rest of the evening at Dave's house, watching Ross Noble. People kind of got bored and messed around with guitars/CD collections/various alcoholic beverages etc, but such entertainments are nothing compared to the attractions of Mr Noble, are they not?








Anyhow. That seems to be that. I've finished recording what is now ancient history. I've only bothered posting about this to provide any future psychiatrists with an easy starting-point. And, future psychiatrist trying to psychoanalyse my future self, I didn't do it! Whatever it is!


Next time, my dears, expect a post that's something more than a self-centered deliberate waste of your time by me. (Oohhh - I can feel your suspense from here!)



















Sara, my life is probably the least fun thing in the world (not including A-level psychology!)

Shan, the only time I'd dare scream at the mad bus driver is when I'm in a tank or something. You go right ahead - I'll see you get a decent funeral!

DJ, the tubes are brilliant! Nothing more fun than hurtling along under London at fifty miles per hour in pitch blackness while the floor creaks and groans beneath you! (Just look on the bright side - they haven't been bought out by Easyjet yet!)

Dan G and Dave's birthday do the other day. Present was the usual lot plus Nat the cat (some skater dude Dan knows).

Y'know, I'd have thought it'd be easy to write about, this. But I can't think of anything to do except list what happened - my thoughts, opinions and feelings have all been tucked safely away in that part of my brain which stores data not concerning sex, violence or song lyrics.

So, a list of what happenned it is!

Well, I joined the others (not The Others, obviously. It wasn't an indie pop gig.) at some park or other, where I joined what the very generous may call "a game of Cricket". The stumps and bails were combined in one entity which happened to be the trolley Dave used to deliver Sutton's own Guardian newspaper in, the ball was a tennis ball and the players were divided into two teams - the man with the bat, and everyone else. Luckily, after some strenuous begging, whining and general civil disobedience on the part of Jason and myself, we won permission to play football (a decent game, Americans, involving feet and balls.) instead. When we did get around to playing footie, we chose in lieu of a football pitch an empty outdoor swimming pool. What was specail about the location was not that it was an empty swimming pool, but that nearby was a tree growing next to a wall. Thus enabling Nat and I to run up and get up the (eight foot high) wall using the tree, Jackie Chan style!

Also, we played a fairly wild game of it/tag/bitch-slap someone then run away on a large wooden climbing frame, doubling the volume of dirt adhering to Dan's jeans.

After an angry phone call or two from Rosie, we decided to wander over to Wimbledon where she'd been waiting patiently for us for the last hour or so. A minor distraction on the way was meeting a bloke with a hurling stick (until now, I've always thought that a stick was a kind of puny branch type thing. The people who make hurling sticks, it seems, are not held back by any such views. When they make a stick, they clearly intend it to be used to kill dinosaurs with.

Another distraction was meeting a group of thigs in the middle of a roundabout, at which point everyone bravely stood back and let me talk to them, which I did while trying to look as though I wasn't wishing a couple of rugby players had my back.

Anyways, we got the bus eventually, and it promptly went and drove into the biggest traffic jam it could find. At which point someone had the brilliant idea "Lets get out and run!". I, of course, flatly refused to do any such thing - the course was a quarter of a mile uphill, with an angry Rosie at the other end - we'd need all the strength we had to defend ourselves. If I have to meet my doom, I'll odo it with ten-tons of bus around me, thankyou very much.



Well, there's more. Much, much more. But I really can't be arsed to type it all out, and I have no wish to kill my readership with boring whining about my own life. Tell you what - after I churn out the rest of the self-gratifying pap I'm hell-bent on producing, I'll actually put some thought and effort into making a decent post! I promise.

But that's days away, now. Go buy yourself a magasine or something in the meantime, while I work this thing out of my system.













Elly, it didn't contain any bodily fluids. That's pretty much the only good thing I can say about it.

Matt, what a waste of Guinness! And it's probably the reason you haven't actually grown since the age of eight.

DJ, time, as I define it, equals "willingess to be late" plus "amount of trouble I'll be in if I don't turn up at all". By that rule, I can pretty much spend whole days at bus stops, picking only ones I like the looks of.

Slightly manic-sounding Erica, I can just about figure out that "teh" means "the". I don't spend every minute of my free time on the internet/on MSN/in shady DnB chat rooms, I have no idea what "SUCKS!!!!!!!11111@!@$#%#@^$%@%$^$^#$%#%%%%@@$" is supposed to mean. It'd better be something good, bitch!

Shan, I remind you of pensioner's legs?! What sort of a compliment is that!?

Fi, welcome to the real world. Meet my friend, Mr Georgie Best, he's been here for some time. Liver, anyone?Bec, If there is something you most definitely aren't, that thing is actually "calm".

Shan, you've only youself to blame. Next time follow the easy route - become a prostitute.

Oaky, first off (and just to please Matt and Rosie), there's the drink. The Drink. This concoction consisted of pertty much every soft dringk imaginable mixed together plus a jelly baby and a crumbled-up jammy dodger. Upon discovering it was "undrinkable" from it's creators (who, needless to say, were extremely bored!), I knocked it back. I may have given myself some form of severe poisoning (the thing was at least one third pure sugar!), but at least I've proved my point. I'm not quite in the same league as the chap who tried to prove nailguns aren't dangerous by killing himself with one, but I'm on the right track.

Besides, (though it breaks my heart to squash the rumours, it really does!) the bloody thing didn't contain urine, semen, alcohol, vomit or spit.
~ I can hear you all colectively going "Pity"! ~



Anyways, yesterday after school was a lecture on psychology up in London. Our psychology class turned up, but the genius that is Will decided we should turn up without school uniforms etc, which resulted in us being told to go home, change and make our own way there. (The place was in some college or other near Tottenham Court Road. We got the train from Wimbledon.) So, the total journeys made yesterday are as follows:

i) Leave school two hours early to go home, shower, change, eat etc.
ii) Go into Wimbledon, meet others in Coffee Republic ("Starbucks for Chavs!")
ii) Get told by teachers to find our own way there complete with school uniform, knuckledusters, joints etc.
iv) Go home, change
v) Go back to station
vi) Get tube to Elephant & Castle, Bank, London Bridge or somewheres just that side of the Thames
vii) Get tube from there to some other Central Line stop I've never heard of before
viii) Wander around, find lecture hall, sit down, shut up
ix) Get cramped, smelly, hot, slow National Rail train home
x) Get 93 bus with the mad bus driver!
xi) Get thrown off of the 93 for saying "Look - the mad bus driver!" and trying to take a photo of mad bus driver
xii)Get next 93
xiii) Get off and walk just as it starts to rain
xiv) Get home, collapse, eat, resume collapsed state, realise Liverpool/Blackburn is on Sky TV, boot up computer.



On the plus side, we went down Holborn way and saw the Sainsbury's HQ!








DJ, whyja pay? Have you no pride, man? Just wait for a bus with a kinder driver!

Shan, you've got photos of some transvestites legs! What for, you sicko!?

Matt, I've verified the no-gob status of said beverage thoroughly. Rest assured it did not!

Rosie, maybe? Maybe?

Fi, What've Tony bloody Christie songs got to do with anything?

Elly, damn right! Lock the midgets up, that's my opinion!

Phew! What a post you’ve got ahead of you!

Today was probably the most surreal, unusual, inexplicable day I’ve had in a long time. Ready to hear about it? Settle down, then.


Alright, picture this scene: A quiet common room. Those present are only those who have a somewhat lax attitude towards attending lessons. Everyone present is trying extremely hard to ignore the raucous shrieks that are my idea of “conversation”. Suddenly and for no good reason, a rather short girl comes up to me:

Girl: “You’ve got my folder.”
Me: “Yerwhat?”
Girl (without a second’s hesitation!): Slap!

I kid you not. That is the genuine series of events, from quiet common room minding it’s own business to astounded common room gleefully watching me receive a smack in the mouth. I can only guess that the girl is perhaps worshipping some sort of Folder God, perceiving me as a threat to it’s security, who must be eliminated for it’s eternal glory. Or she’s tanked up/high as a kite/being controlled by a voodoo witch doctor for reason(s) unknown. All I know for sure is that I’m bloody well keeping the hell away from any female under 5’’3’ in future.

Next to enter the spotlight is the mad bus driver. One of the drivers of the 93 bus happens to be, quite simply, a nutter. I, being unaware of his mental Imnotquiteallpresentandcorrectatthemomentness, innocently wandered up to the doors of the bus, expecting them to fly open for me as they do every day, for me to climb aboard in perfect poise, style and grace. What actually happened was that the bus driver sat in his nice, warm bus grinning at me as I walked up to the closed doors and stopped dead. I pleaded, prayed, begged and after about two agonising minutes he opened the doors. I got on, waved the magical “quid and twenty” at him, and demanded, as is my right, a ticket:

Me: One adult.
Bus driver (suddenly looking very
much like Hannibal the Cannibal) : Piss off.
Me: Err... please?
Hannibal: Get off my bus, now.

Well any other citizen, accustomed to unfailing, respectful service from London Transport would probably have retreated in fear, but not me. In a triumph of inspiration and wit I flung the lucas into his little cabin thing and fled upstairs, without ticket. Here I was filled in on the situation by a veteran of the mad middle-aged bus driver. (Apparently one of his favourite tricks is to stare firmly out of the opposite window every time someone tries to show him a bus pass!)

The end of it? I think not. After pressing the button, he took me two stops past the place where I originally began my programme of pressing the button repeatedly, standing by the doors, looking like a lemon.


Finally, there was the pikey (scally to half of you lot) who I saw in Sainsbury’s with his trousers around his ankles, but after the wild and wonderful events I’ve briefed you on already, lost Tesco’s shoppers seem a bit boring, don’t they?









Shan, what sort of a "Guy" is that then?

Trish, you know what they say about length!

Fi, Comic Relief creates mindless gimps? Didn't mention that in the Radio Times!

Elly, you should fit in with the rest of my readership, then!


Note to rest of readership: Please don't hate me! I love you really!


Matt, I never got a bendy cup! How shameful is that! I must be losing my grip!

DJ, qweasd yuighj iop[jkl;'.

Rosie, I didn't name names, now, did I? I felt that people who wouldn't want to be mentioned here have the right to not know they have been. Anyway, Rosie, at least I haven't been groped by him!

Bec, I've shortened that ever so slightly. Seeing as you repeated one verse fourteen odd times!

Sara, Let us now pause a second to think. You have asked me the question "What do you like about bushes?"
That question is more open to abuse by the male gender than any other question I've ever seen. Let's stop and think next time we ask sad little teenage boys that sort of thing in future, shall we?

University showoff day a couple of days ago. That means a coachload of other sixth formers (who are of no importance) and myself (who is vital) going off to crystal palace for what I've termed "the educational equivalent of a rock gig". If I had to review the event for the Metro, which is London's - and the world's - greatest newspaper (and it's a great pity that I don't), I would say it was a sort of cross between Mastermind and Tooting market, with every sodding university in this country and the ones both to the left of and above it having a stall at which one could sign one's name and postal address to recieve whatever it is universities send people through the post. (Or, at the Liverpool university stall, a place where one can sign one's name to provide undergraduates with a convenient place to burgle). About a hundred thousand million students were there, along with two St. John's Ambulance men, a few security staff, two or three amateur squash players and a handful of teachers.

The trip to Crystal Palace was one of my more pleasant coach trips. The reason for this is that all the other coach trips I've been on are even more shit. On this particular trip I sat next to a bisexual, camp, self-harming goth with a passion for ancient history. Despite that minor drawback I take the credit for being the first to make a paper aeroplane, being the loudest person in a game of "Bogey" (Anyone who considers themselves to be mature is missing out on many things. One of them is the delight known as "Bogey". This oh-so-sophisticated game involves shouting. The next person then has to shout louder. The next one even louder, etc. The winner is the person who can't be louder than the person before them. Seeing as the game consisted of me vs. the goth (with the goth refusing to speak after one feeble "bleeargh!"), I attained an easy vistory.)

Anyways. We then got to Crystal Palace, which the Victorians (so they tell me), once burned down. Clever chaps, those Victorians. I got off the coach to find a two-inch cut in what was once my perfectly formed, delicate and beautiful right forearm. The reason, ladies and gents, is that gothman stabbed me with a pencil when I drew a red nose on his sketch of some aincent Egyptian bint! Shocking! I blame Marilyn Manson. A bad influence, that bloke.

-- Incidentally, can anyone tell me exactly what the point is in having ancient Egyptian people who aren't mummies? The goth tried to explain it to me, but I'm far too shallow to pay attention to that sort of thing when there's a window to stare out of so closely to hand. --

In the exhibition, there were plenty of people to annoy, and I proceeded to start off at once. Some sneaky cow had set up her stall right by the entrance, clearly trying to cash in on people who have no idea where to go or what to do. That's what brought me there, anyway. I picked up a prospectus, asked "Is this free?", and she replied "Our university is..." For a university graduate, she didn't seem all that skillful at conversation. Just in case she was hearing impaired, thick as two short planks or foreign, I repeated the question, louder. She said "Yes, and if your interested we offer a series of..." but, not wishing to place too much of a strain on her apparently limited conversational skills, I'd wandered off.

Thinking back on it, a sort of recurring theme ran through all the people at the place - they only seemed interested in universities. Nothing else seemed to run through their heads at all. Would've made a lousy pub quiz team, them graduates.

Anyway, down to the real business of the day - the theft of university pens, both complimentary and not-so-complimentary. Ahh, the havoc we wreaked amongst those pens! I think Greg and I must have averaged about eighty or ninety pens between us. The majority of our loot was gained through a thorough and healthy abuse of the "please take one" system, mostly by a vigorous misinterpretation of the word "one".

The real challenge, howver, was getting away with the pens people were using to wrie with. You know the tactic - charity worker comes up to you in the street, "Can I have your bank details, sir? Two pounds a month, feed the Welsh." and all that sort of thing, you take the clipboard and pen, tell 'em you've forgotten your credit card pin/don't know your address/are a selfish arsehole, hand the clipboard back and walk away with the pen. Only they didn't seem interested in my bank number or arseholishness, so I had to improvise. The new formula, worked out on-the-fly, was a triumph of British ingenuity: "Do you send prospectussesesses via the post?" "Yes, if you'de like to put your address down there", take pen and look 'em in the eye "Err, the thing is"- slip the pen into pocket as you say this -"I've moved house yesterday, and I don't know my new address or postcode!" and walk off, complete with pen!

Why am I telling you all this? Well I won't be here forever, my children, and so I feel it is my duty to share with you the skills I've learned so that you may one day follow in my footsteps and go on, perhaps, to get your hands on a government-issue stapler, or a lightbulb from the Ritz. Or, at the pinnacle of petty sneak-thievery bordering on kleptomania, a mop from a street cleaner.

Also products of the day were a couple of radios, a handful of lollipops, as many boiled sweets I could fit into my pocket - shocking bystanders speechless - a deck of cards with "The University of Wessex" written on each picture card, a few of those little furry mascot things with the jiggly eyes and some keyrings with "Student Union" written on them in luminous letters. Achieving my eternal respect was Sussex University. They hadn't brought pens. Or sweets. Oh no. They went around stealing, begging and generally unlawfully obtaining pens, paper and chewy sweets from other universities' stalls. They seemed to be there solely to take the piss out of the system. And I applaud them for it.




Anyways, enough of that. I've waffled on for far too long. For anyone who's bothered to read the entire thing, I apologise sincerely for wasting your time. You hereby have permission to hack my hands into bleeding stumps should you so wish.



DJ, anyone who is competent enough to steal from the BBC definitely deserves a badge.

Shan, it makes me a coward! I'm so ashamed! Please - protect me from those scary horsies!


Fi, how about "Johnny the Junk Engine"? No Good? Ah well!

And as regards discount hair styling apparatus, you go, girl!


Sara, If only! I'm currently only at the "Should I let it grow?" stage. One day, however, I aim to look like a small shrub.

Betty, "Grrrrrr"? I could post an astoundingly witty riposte if only I knew what in hell that's supposed to mean!


Shan (Again! And they say lightning never strikes twice!), Y'know, If ever I compose a personal ad, I may just use your critique of me: "Likes animals, but only when eaten. Grossly horny." What woman could resist?

And are you referring to the legs (which I like), or the "Brass Monkey" sign (which is ever-so-slightly confusing)?

Hair. Or more accurately - my hair. I've been letting my hair grow now for quite a while, and I'm fast reaching the point of no return. Anyone who's ever had rock'n'roll hair will know what I'm on about - that specific length at which one must make the choice. Either:

A) have a haircut, or
B) end up like Dougal from the magic roundabout.

One the one hand, long hair is interesting, individual, nonconformist and comfy. On the other hand, it makes me look like a dick.

I think, on the whole, I'm going to keep my hair, partly because the removal of so much hair (I must have at least a kilogram of the stuff by now!) seems like a waste, somehow. If anyone says "Oi, pothead - whyja let that bloody shrub grow out of your nut?" to me (which I shall of course interpret as "Excuse me, John, but I believe you've made a questionable fasion statement", naturally) I shall explain that I don't wish to conform to society's prejudices, or that my looking like a twonk says something about the shallowness of our culture, or that I suddenly want to pull Siberian women.

Anything, in fact, to get around the simple truth - I like it because it keeps my ears warm.






Bec, well, being male hampers any attempt at childbirth I may make. You're not a biology student, are you?
Thought not.

Sara, go ahead - help yourself!

Shan, no - real men won't admit they're scared, ever! Admitting you're scared is the emotional equivalent of asking for directions!

Elly, the connection kind of went - Kitchen kinves > Slipknot > Christian rock. Come to think of it, it doesn't make an awful lot of sense. Ah well.

Fi, I'm not a great fan of the Beatles, but he sure was the best voice-over Thomas the Tank-Engine ever had!

Ginger, Blue Peter badges must be earned to be worth anything. Just like sumonses.

Drastic action required!

Y'know, I've never taken any drastic action in my life. I've never, say, dived in front of a car to save a small child, or jumped out of a second-story window to escape a fire. True, I've jumped off a second-story balcony to prove it can be done, but that's not so much drastic action as premeditated stupidity. What I really want is for some emergency situation to occur simply to provide me with an opportunity to take drastic action of some sort. Even being the first to open a window after a rather large fart would be enough.

Because a while ago I was sitting in school, innocently as a baby angel looking after a tiny puppy while being serenaded by Sir Cliff Richard, when suddenly and for no good reason the thought floated into my head "If the school was to suddenly burst into flames, I could leap from the window and be the only one to survive and sell my story to the BBC for twenty grand and sue the school authorities for barbecuing my mates etc etc". But on consideration, having every other person in the school cooked merely to enable me to make some money didn't seem very fair, so I disissed the thought.

But I still want to be able to take drastic and sudden and daring and heroic action. Not now, obviously - I've settled down for the night in. Sometime when I'm bored -yet extremely alert- and there's nothing good on TV. Even the chance to rugby-tackle a pickpocket would do.

No. It wouldn't. If I'm going to have to work it out and put it down in writing, what I ideally want is for a lorryfull of terrorists to pull up outside my house and take it over, so I can hide in the airing cupboard and survive of scraps of denim and water from the boiler, living in the shadows like that little girl from Aliens II.

And get a Blue Peter badge for it.





Bec, at least I can't get pregnant!

Shan, I'll thank you not to ridicule my romantic habits! (And if you know any lonely pensioners, do us a favour, will you?)

Elly, that's right - you're just making things worse for yourself when the Christian Rock movement gets ahold of you.

Gingery, you can't leave a puppy out in the cold at Christmas! That's shocking! Do you know how much they'd sell for on Ebay during the Crimbo holidays?

Dave, I'm sorry - I had no idea you were interested! Tell you what - next time we're in town, I'll take you to a "Help the Aged" rally.

Rosie, you're a bit full of yourself, aren't you? Most girls would have thought something along the lines of "After going out with me, even pensioners seem attractive"!

Laura, that's right. One year older. Now if you were fifty years older...

Matt, that's enough of that, that is! I don't have a fetish for old bird's legs!

...

I just think they're cute.

Aged ladies.

I'm not a pervert. Really I'm not. But what has come to pass today may not bear witness to that.

'Twas on one of the council's fine busses this evening, if I may set the scene. I'm sitting at the back, listening to "Teenage Dirtbag", by Wheatus. (That song is utterly devoid of any talent or skill whatsoever, but is far too bloody catchy!) Onto the bus gets what, to dogs and midgets at least, can only be described as a stunner (you'll see why later). She had something like a cross between a skirt and a tea-towel wrapped around her waist, and some sort of string-vest-stockings thing on her legs. Jesus Christ she had legs! If she sat on a fly, at least it'd die happy.

Now, I'm not a raving horny sex maniac (pipe down, Rosie!), and I hate people who act like this, but I could not take my eyes off those legs! I must have spent, what, ten minutes solid not moving my head, not blinking and looking pretty much like Michael Jackson in a primary school.

Eventually, for some reason I looked up. (Dunno why - perhaps a bomb went off outside or something) But I caught sight of this bint's face.

She was about sixty.


What's wrong with me? Please! I need to know!



I've been thinking about it and the only conclusion I can come to is that she lost both legs in an underground knife-fight, kidnapped a supermodel and had her legs transplanted on. Either that or some sort of suburbian Frankenstein walks the streets.





Rosie, Either you've got an extremely short memory, or you're going for the world record in deep-vein thrombosis.

DJ, It's Cravendale. I think their slogan is "Milk for Toffs".

Sara, nice to see a loving, caring, not-at-all-pyromaniacal family you're part of!

Gingery, yes - sad days, these. I've dropped from three hundred visits a day to about fifty. The site's going down like the Sainsbury's share price. I feel like a tiny puppy, yappaing away madly, left out in the snow. To die. Painfully. In tears. At Christmas.

Dave! That's right - no measly comma for you! A whole !-mark! No, three now! Four! Five! How is this poss-- oh. Bugger. It would have taken quite a while to finish, that. You're returning to blogging? Good for you! We need some new blood. Even if most of yours is outside your body!

Elly, you wouldn't! That's shocking, that is! It's people like you that sell kitchen knives to Slipknot fans.



Mummy, are they still doing that mad, mad shit!? That's brilliant! I thought it all fizzled out in 2004!

And you're one year older than me! ONE! That does not, repeat not, give you the right to become a mother figure to me! I may adopt you as an aunt. If you're lucky.



Shan, so've I. And that's a few times too many!

And are you looking for writing tips, or are you just trying to psychoanalyse me, eh?