To hell in a milk float

Before people start composing nasty comments, I know this is going to make me out to be some kind of a poncey upper-middle-class pansy, and I know perfectly well how little people care, but soap matters, dammit!



Now, I don't use soap. Or rather, I don't use conventional soap - in the fight against grime, shower gel is my weapon of choice, and a bloody good carpet bombing it delivers, too. See, soap - as the Victorians know it - is the ninja of the cosmetics world, it's primary goal being to remain uncatchable. It manages this by manipulating it's own state, going from wetter than a whale's gonads to drier than an Oscar Wilde joke quicker than you can say "Bugger, dropped it again".

So I use shower gel. Another reason, which occurred to me mere seconds ago, is the name of the bloody stuff. Soaps are all called "Dove", and "Pearl", and "Divine", wheras shower gells get christened "Yaargh! Human Decontaminant!" and "Grrrr! Biochemical Exfoliant!" and so on.

But now, Imperial Leather have decided to add Ginseng to my favoutite brand of people-cleaner. I suppose they mean well. They probably think they're doing me a favour, in fact. But am I grateful? Am I cheered by this fact? Am I in a state of childish excitement at the thought of being able to rub ginseng on myself tonight? Nope. Instead, I find myself wondering "What is "ginseng", anyway? And what does it do?"

What did they have to go and put bloody ginseng in it for? Bet it's herbal. It sounds like something hippies put into their mouths when the authorities aren't looking, anyway. How am I going to feel, knowing my current state of cleanliness is achieved not through manly combinations of "chemical agents" (now there's a hardcore-sounding name if ever I heard one!) produced in some German chemicals plant, but through some stupid little herbal remedy? I might as well grow a beard, buy a pair of open-toed sandals and tend livestock on a commune in the Home Counties.

I think I'll clean myself with Mr Muscle and a jet-hose from now on.





Biscuit, Did I? Wow. That, as they say in the trade, is dedication.

DJ, that there is a triumph of self-control. A hundred-odd words, none of which are about politics! Well done!

Bec, you really should get a job in the middle-eastern millitary interrogations line of business.

Chaos Fairy, looking for a job as a psychiatrist, are we?

Matt, No Shit, Sherlock.

Biscuit, I more or less expected that from you.

Ant D, Indian takewayas are like postmarital sex - you tend to find something you don't mind too much, then have it again, and again, and again. And Jalapenoes are Mexican, you twonk!

Shan, I can think of no worse way for a girl to end up than to be riding around bareback in a skimpy leotard. Probably why so few porn-stars take up riding, that.

Gingery, I'm terribly, terribly sorry. I offer only my own laziness as an excuse. The chippie gets you with, of course, pickled onions and eggs and things.

Dave, ahem. "Healthy Takeway"?

Sara, I've said it before, I'll say it again, only louder and more obnoxiously: Any moron can do art! All it takes is the ability to make a complete mess out of something orderly, which all teenagers have by by god-given right.

Vindy, oh go shag an English teacher, why don't you!

Rosie, whore? Perish the thought! Whatever gave you that idea?!
And you're not, as you so eloquentley put it, "minging!" Let's face it - you reeled me in, and I of course am nothing short of absoloutely perfect in every respect!

Takeaways are the only opportunity modern man gets to express his hunter-gatherer mentality. Back in the day, anyone who wanted a takeaway had to go out, find his mammoth (or whatever), which would do it's best to hide from him, tucking itself away in all sorts of difficult-to-access places. He could then look forward to a meal of questionable nutrition and even more questionable health issues. Once in posession of his prize, he must eat it quickly, before it gets taken from him by hungry scavengers.

And thanks to the Great British Take-Away, the situation has not changed one bit. Fair do, the takeaway of now-a-days comes in a little foil packet, or in grease-proof paper, but that, dear reader, is The March Of Progress.





Anyways, useful background information aside, the waiting for of takeaways is a subject that has occupied great minds ever since the great minds in question were students. The first thing to know is the type of takeaway you're about to get. You can usually guess this from the nationality of the person behind the counter, unless they're English, in which case you've probably walked into a bookstore by mistake.

Once you're sure you're not going to make a fool of yourself by ordering sweet-and-sour shish-kebab, vindaloo-and-kidney pie or the complete works of Shakespeare, you can, in the words of Status Quo, pay your money and take your choice.




At this stage it's vital not to get sidetracked by side-issues that some types of takeaway put out to trap you - the speed-cameras of the take-away world:

A chinese takeaway may offer you little foil-wrapped fortune cookies, which is to the takeaway as the "Long Vehicle" sticker is to the seventy foot long lowloader carrying spare parts for Jumbo Jets; completely unnecessary, doesn't tell you anything you don't already know, but you simply must have one to make the whole thing authentic.

A kebab place, depending on the kebab you get, may offer you chillies, hot sauce, onions and lettuce with your kebab. The chillies are to be avoided at all costs; you see, no normal person likes them, so when some freak comes in and asks for chillies the bloke, absoloutely desperate to get rid of his surplus, will unload about six of 'em into the poor fool's dinner. Then when he runs out of chillies by practically throwing them after retreating customers he'll think "Ah - out of chillies, people must really like 'em!", and then he'll go and buy half a ton of the bloody things.


And finally - once you have the takeaway, get out of there! Run, run away, before your eyes stray to the little pictures of food they put around the place, and your mind starts wandering off in the "Hmm, I'd quite like one of those..." direction, which is a sure-fire way of ending up in a coffin six foot long by eight foot wide.








DJ, Well, Mr Oh-so-cultured, what, precisely, does Oxford St. have to offer that one can't find on the internet? Little tables in Virgin Megastores that let you play "pong" as you drink your coffee. That's it. I care not for London's wonders! Give me a Sainsbury's local anytime!

Rosie G, I'm not responsible for what I do in dreams! Otherwise I'd be involved in several high-profile court cases already! Rest assured, however, if I ever get the chance to buy you kebab, I'll refrain from doing so with malicious glee.

Ant D, I never planned to put a photo of me on the blog, but I feel myself bowing to public opinion. I may possibly get around to it sometime in the distant future!

Vindy, above mere punctuation, are we?

Sara, Pink beret? Wow. I'm off to France!

Shan, ever thought of joining a bloody circus?

Bec, Thank you so very bloody much for pointing that out. Bitch.

Greg, alas, I'm no longer up in London! I've now been relegated to the suburbs once more for such trivial things as food and shelter, but rest assured, I'll make a point of it next time I'm up there!

Hookay, I'm typing this here entry while sitting in a net cafe on the Oxford St./Bond St. corner, meaning I won't be able to make much of a post if I want to have time to view any of the internet's fascinating store of deviant and very-probably-illegal pornography before the meter runs out.

You may be wondering why I'm sitting here at all when I could have the whole of London at my feet. The answer, dear reader, is that I love you with a deep and undying passion, as is matched only by my passion for the wonderful Ciabattas they serve here.) Besides, what does London have to offer that could be more entertaining than the smell of coffee beans and the noise of fifty keyboards all pattering away? The net cafe, in my oh-so-humble opinion, is the technology equivalent of a brothel, with result that I'm expecting a g-string clad Bill Gates to appear and gyrate around the place very shorlty.

That worrying thought aside, crowds are gathering a few hundred yards away for a Pamela Anderson Makeup demo in Selfridges, so if any of you have some strange desire to see that particylar female slap pounts of crap on her face, you've missed your chance. Poor fools.

Anyways, up until recently, I was part of a geography trip to the docklands, under the control of this country's fabulous education system. I would tell you all about it, but the only thing more boring than writing such a post would be writing it.

So, erm... Oh! In Selfridges, on the floor above the Pamela-Anderson-makeup-putting-on-promo, they're selling brilliant white fishing hats and green and yellow berets! If only I had the money...

Anyways, I'm feeling like a proper jet-set yuppie sort of person now, as I sit here in this stylish cafe, trying to look like I'm playing the Stock Exchange, or controlling the flow of a global coorporation, but I'm not quite pulling it off (possibly due to the fact that I'm wearing ripped jeans and a hat the same colour as a used pregnancy test!)

Anyways I must away now, to wow the natives with my beautiful fishing hat, and possibly to grap a cup of tea from the nearest coffee shop to satisfy my burning desire for liquid-based refreshment, so my friends, adieu!





Ant D, your flat-cap is the world's second greatest offering in the field of headgear! (No prizes for guessing the first, regulars!)

Chaos Fairy, heh. Not a vegetairian then, I take it?

Laura, you bet I would - even if it meant spending a lifetime being stalked by Rosie Gingery!

DJ, you bet you'd bloody obey the right/wrong divide when it's manifested by a six foot four police officer complete with baton! (Not that I've ratted you out for dope dealing, now!)

Vindy, has anyone ever told you you're more than a little worrying?

Shan, you sure do have some very strange friends!

Vindy, one invite coming up!

Rosie Gingery, I was in your dream? Perhaps you should take a trip to the local psychiatrist with vindy - you may get a two-for- the- price-of-one-discount!





Well, that's the post done - and with half an hour to spare, too! I should work for Microsoft!

Okay, some things, like "MSN is evil" are pretty guaranteed to find a united audience with you lot, ie "NO! Shut up! We hate you!" while others, like "I wear an Electric blue fishing hat" get a kind of mixed reception committee: those who haven't seen it seem to love it while those who have seen it realise that I'm merely a pretentious moron trying to look like I'm actually a freethinking individuallist.

Well, this is a topic that usually splits people in two:

1) Do you lke kebabs?
2) You're sober. Do you still like kebabs?
3) You're sober, the kebab house looks like a genetic experiments test site and the restauranteur looks like Captain Hook. Do you still like kebabs?


With me, it's a "Yes". Or more specifically, it's a "Yes, LAMB DONER!"



But anyways.

Y'know, I think I'm probably the most egotistical person on the planet! I was in a kebab house the other night, and while waiting for the goods I had an idea for a post, so I tapped it into my mobile. I've just got onto the computer, and completely strayed off the point in order to tell you all precisely what I personally like. God, I'm pathetic.

What I intended to say was that while waiting for the kebab; Doner, Lamb, Large I spied on the wall the safety certifivate from the Government Health People. Now those of you who wear Burberry will know that every kebab house has something on the wall. Often it's a poster describing the various types of animal they chop up into little pieces and put into Pitta bread for you. Less often it's a certificate of "Culinary Excellence" from some newspaper, or from the government or from the owner's mate Fred or whoever it is that dishes out the certificates.

"What's wrong with this?", you may ask. Nothing. It gives you something to read while you wait, and...




~ In fact, "What to do while waiting for a take-away" is a whole subject in itself! That, dear reader, is the subject of some future post at some future date. Betcha just can't wait! ~



But this particular kebab shop had on the wall framed the certificate they have to get in order to legally sell you meat products. Blimey. Would you trust a place that either

A) Are so disreputable they feel it necessary to put this thing on the wall in order to prove they're legally allowed to trade, or
B) Are so utterly rubbish they are actually proud of the certificate telling people that they aren't actually poisoners.

Would you?

I did.





And that, ladies and gentlemen, is that. I could go on and on and on like this for hours, but I'm absoloutely terrified of letting loose an unholy monster of a post like that last one, which I'm utterly certain that no-one whatsoever actually read right through from top to bottom!








DJ, I, if you want to know, am absoloutely and totally innocent of all graffiti-based activity! Blame Pablo!

Laura, Amen to that!

DJ (under whaever title you've conferred upon yourself now), "Lib Dem" backwards is "Med Bil", which is ironic because under the Lib Dems you won't be getting any med. bills!

Shan, there was no point. Rather, if I may say so, like your comparison between me and a badger.

Biscuit, I may have seen you on that train at some point! And I'd never know! Woah!

(Hang on. What am I on about? Biscuit in first class?)

Laura (failing miserably to post as many times as DJ), a fanclub? For little old me? Wow. I'm really and totally flattered that you think I'm worth all that, but if you ever meet me in person you'll lose that view pretty damn quick, guaranteed! But still, knowing I have a fan makes life that little bit more tricky - it means I'd need your permission if I ever decide to commit suicide. Ah well, at least I'll have a buyer for any sordid porn videos I decide to make.

Rosie Gingery, just a little bit more: "And he actually wears the damn thing!"

Ant D, don't advertise The Game! It's known to merely a select few! Once people realise they're in it, they're all going to lose!

Mrs. Eric PNB, Okay - it's acceptable for Biscuit todeclare himself to be a piece of confectionary, It's just about acceptable for DJ to pretend to be a peer of the realm, but pretending we're a) married and b) sharing the surname "Potnoodleboy"?

Rosie, you and Pablo could be the flowerpot men! You've got all the necessary movie skills, and you're both approximately the right size! It's a job for life! What more d'you need?

(~Possibly Updated!~ Either way, Charlie's name very possibly removed for security reasons!)


(People who're absoloutely sick of really long boring posts, leave now!)



Off to London last night, to take part in the make poverty history parade. Parade? Protest. Same difference, whatever. Anyways, I went up to Westminster with Pablo the socialist, Chris the adult, Attie the girl from Crystal Palace park, Juan the sex machine, Phoebe the quitter, Jamie the walking Levi's advert and Charlie the self-concious truth-hiding so-and-so (who has just gone and phoned me up demanding for his name to be removed from here!). After handing out International Socialist Revolutionary leaflets (Chris and Pablo being members of that organisation), Charlie and Jamie left, persuading Phoebe - who was planning to spend the night on the streets of London with the rest of us - to return to the safety of this great city's suburbs and to bed. Softcore bunch of quitters.

With a dismissive "Pah!" to that idea, we met up with two socialist party people and Attie's friends. About half an hour later we found ourselves at Trafalgar square, in two groups which I shall now proceed to relate: Attie, Pablo and myself (at the top of the steps), and everyone else (on the other side entirely).

Technically I should have gone with Attie's friends, leaving Attie and Pablo alone, but they have a really cliquey group, and happen to be the sort of people that say "Ehw Hellew" and "Ahhfterwahds". The sort of people that not only fill me with awe and wonder but are also probably legally entitled to have people like me taken somewhere quiet and shot.

Anyways, after much talk and official harassment in the form of an Austrian community warden (that is, a Community Officer who was an Austrian, not a guardian of Austrian communities. Because, of course, that is a point on which you all clearly needed clarification.) we wandered around Charing Cross road and similar places miles outside my geographical knowledge, eventually buying a fairly decent-sized chocolate cake from somewhere or other and returning to Trafalgar square in triumph.

Attie rejoined her friends at about this point, and Pablo and I went and imposed our company on a group of students from somewhere or other in the home counties (Pablo is genuinely the most adaptable person in the world. He can just wander up to a group of complete strangers and make himself instantly liked. He's the sort of bloke that can talk on equal terms with pretty much anyone on the face of the Earth. Do you put a capital "E" into "Earth"? I guess so - it's where we live, and all. Anyways, the point is, we sat with university people and wathed Pablo shamelessly scoff chocolate cake with a piece of cardboard in lieu of a spoon.

Seconds later, as they'd say in the movies (especially if the movies contain Dolph Lungren), it happened. >And this (unexpected text formatting warning you of a really, really, really deep point I'm about to make!) shows you what the war on terror (sponsored by the United States (TM) and not affillated with The Rest Of The Civilised World(TM). All rights ignored.) is doing to this country - after the rather startling sound of "wheee.. BANG!" was heard, everyone leapt thier feet screaming "Bomb! Terrorist attack! Aahh!". I, being the sensible, logical person I never knew I was merely got to my feet and remarked (yes - "remarked". As opposed to "gibbered in abject terror".) "Ah - there seems to have been a car crash". I may possibly have even raised my left eyebrow a little. I and a couple of student-types went to investigate, passing a bloke or two screaming "Car bomb!" and travelling rather hastily in the opposite direction (suprising, that). I was the second into the car (Golf GTi, jet-black, alloy wheels, racing seats.) and the first to do something more constructive then attempt to remove the radio. I checked the ignition (hotwired), checked the petrol gauge (three-quarters full - enough, I'd say at a guess, to effectively make me into doner kebab. Brilliant.), threw away the four or five lighters from the footwell (god knows what I was thinking - if the damn thing caught fire, fag lighters wouldn't be the only things to explode!) and found an ambulance had been called.

We then went and joined Attie's friends, and Pablo thoughtfully graffitied a hammer-and-sickle onto Trafalgar square steps. (Later on, the Austrian woman who didn't seem to realise "Evil Overlord" wasn't part of her job description turned up and made quite a fuss about that.)

What happened next? Oh yes - we're getting talked at by the forces of the law. As it happens, it was quite funny to watch ice-cool Pablo squirm (cruel, yes. But still funny.) the conversation kind of went:

Warden: "Who sprayed that?"
Pablo: "Err... can I go to the toilet, please?"

Ayways, he was saved, because I offered to take his bag and wallet (which couldn't be allowed leave the scene, naturallly) and look after them while he went to take his - purely fictional - slash. It was the work of a moment to remove the spray-can when the warden's back was turned and send it flying into the night. What I didn't count on was for the bloody thing to go "Rattle rattle rattle Bang!" and for Attie & co to start alternately clapping and giggling. Warden didn't seem to bother inquiring why, most probably because she was beginning to get ahold of the idea that she wasn't being appreciated, no matter how well she was doing her job.

These highlights over, we spent the remaining couple of hours until dawn sitting around in St James' Park and equally dismal, gothic places. After attending the protest march at half-six - I bet Blair didn't even wake up for it! - we parted at London Victoria. I bought myself a one-day child travelcard, hopped on the East Grinstead train, blagged my way into first class (I still don't fully understand why they accepted me!), left at Croydon, leaped from train to tram with a single, mighty, station-spanning bound, got very tempted by Morden Cafe, realised I was potless and travelled the last leg by London's own 93 bus.






Biscuit, I myself absoloutely love text messages - they're the least personal form of communication since the carrier pigeon! You're not obliged to answer them like a phone call, the time lag prevents any danger of a proper conversation and you get to express emotions via sequences of punctuation marks!

Sara, people phoning when your ill is brilliant! It allows you to bathe in pure, dripping sympathy!

Ant D, the green party cannot win because I am it's candidate. What it can do, however, is very effectively ruin an assembly. And it plans to.

DJ, you truly do know the way of of the egg-based pun!

Jo, I've heard about you - is it really true that you'd rather live in Scandinavia than share a country with Dan Gingery?

Rosie Gingery, cheese in and of itself is terrible. When the forces of cheese are combined with those of crackers, however, it becomes a totally different matter...

Gingery, pigs, as Hannibal proves, are merely savage, brutal killers. But a cow once outwitted me, and I was lucky to escape with my life. Have you ever been lured by a cow? Now I know why farmers carry shotguns.

Shan, hehehe! You've proved my point before I could even make it! HA! Up until now it stood for "Untited States Air Force", but "You suck arse fuck" just proves what a horribly rude little girl you are!

I heard about cow-tipping the other day, as it happens, from a posh girl who had no right whatsoever to indulge in such carryings-on. Apparently, the sport makes up about fifty percent of the nightlife in Devon. I am glad, it is totally unecessary for me to point out, that I don't live in Devon!

I don't use MSN at all, meaning I am regarded as the least cool teenager in the world!

There are very many things I hate. Those who know me will probably be too nice to tell you that I can throw myself body and soul into a whinge at the slightest provocation over pretty much any given topic. (Examples? Okay:

Tesco's - evil beyond any possible hope of salvation.
Cows - too cunning
Rivers - too big and too well spaced out. I'd much ratherr lots of little ones rather than just one huge one running smack through the middle of the city.
Drinks - never come in the exact size to satisfy you. They're either too big or too small, but not small enough that you can just buy two of them.
Takeaways - ditto.
Trained monkeys - you can't trust 'em not to masturbate in front of your family.
Purple things - they get "Smoke on the Water" by Deep Purple in my head.
Testicles - they're too vulnerable by half.
Cheese - it doesn't taste like it looks like it ought to.
Golf clubs - far too sexy for old men in knitwear.


Done it again, haven't I? I meant to give you all just one or two examples, but making lists is alot like freefall skydiving - once you start you just can't stop yourself. Sorry about this. I'll try and keep to the point.

The Point:

One of the things that annoys me more than most is MSN. I can't stand the bloody thing! I think I'm the only person in this country who doesn't actually have an MSN account. You talk to people, and they say to you at the end of the conversation "Oh, do you have MSN?" I-Grr-Argh! I feel like replying "MSN? What's that, some new breed of carrier pigeon?". MSN is a way of saying "Hmm, I may want to contact you in the future, but I'm not willing to pay the three pence that a phone call would cost, and I just can't bring myself to actually speak to you in person. What also gets on my tits is that people will brag about the size of their contact list like a couple of grubby teenagers at a urinal. A far as I'm concerned, people you know on MSN aren't real people! People talking on MSN aren't actually anything like themselves in real life. They seem to adopt this universal attitude that finds everything far more amusing than it actually is and are about fifty times as intimate as they would dare to be in real life. Also, I can't quite shake the belief that I'm talking to my monitor screen rather than to the people it says I am.

For god's sake! What's wrong with me? That wasn't the point either! I can't take this any more! The point was that I've just had to install the latest version of MSN for my sister, because she's far too thick to do it herself. (I'm not exactly the most competent person in the world when it comes to technology, but at least I can press "Next", for Christ's sake!)

Anyways, I realise that every single person (and I mean that!) will not only be an MSN user, but will be so in love with their MSN-provided social-life-alternative that they'll feel the need to post abusive and threatening comments. (This means you.) Well, help yourselves. Go on - let it all out! I mean it! The chances of me getting anywhere near the computer while Miss brb gtg lol lmao omfg meh usaf rspca is adding to her fifty thousand strong army of Contacts is pretty much nil. (Incidentally, if you want her address, go to hell, bitch!)







Laura, Rosie and Matt, well done - never saw that joke coming!

Sara, my favourite way to find O.C characters is dead in a ditch, but then I'm a dull, soulless non-MSN user, so what do I know?

Rosie gingery, "XXX Hat"? I take it you're honoured to have seen (and smelt) my fishing hat! At least someone appreciates it!

Ant D, I apologise for my inexcusable lack of detail!

Ned, I, of course, stand down. Your post was, of course, the last freak wailings of someone only two steps away from shopping in BHS, wheras I'm merely at the "Oh dear - I stay indoors playing the Simpsons board game in the one bit of sun we get all year" stage!

Ned, I, of course, stand down. Your post was, of course, the last freak wailings of someone only two steps away from shopping in BHS, wheras I'm merely at the "Oh dear - I stay indoors playing the Simpsons board game in the one bit of sun we get all year" stage!

Gingery, "Unbreakable" isn't so much a statement of fact as an opportunity for experimental verification, as you well know.

DJ, do I detect a hint of nervousnes in that "Haha, we're not really all poachers!"?

Sweet Jesus, I'm a geek!



I am turning into a ninteen-eighties-suburban-America-computer-nerd-stereotype! What in the name of all that doesn't involve Star Wars am I going to do? Let me tell you how it started...

~But first - a quick interlude for those of you who know me in what people insist on calling Real Life: I know we went out saturday night (as, by now, do Interpol, I imagine), but let's face it - it's one of those sort of stories that mean everything to the person who tells it and nothing to the people who read it. I realise that for history's sake a record of events must be kept, but fear not, for I doubt it not that able hands of other blogs are typing furiously away on this very subject as we speak. Finally, to be honest, I could care less what happened to "us" - there is no "us" any more, just me!~




And so to brass tacks.


Well, I'm turning into the perfect stereotype of a computer nerd. Just this evening I switched off Def Leppard in order to listen to pseudo-breakbeat MIDI sequences ripped from Lemmings for Windows! Also, the strap went on my old wristwatch (which has about as much steel plating as a battleship and is therefore cool), so for about a fortnight now I've been wearing a plastic watch.

At least it's not digital.


Well, I was going to leave it at that, but I'd be ashamed of so small a post! So I've no other option but to whinge yet further. I bought an unbreakable phone some time ago. This I have broken in three places - I've removed the waterproofing by being a little too vigorous with my insertion of the adaptor jack, I've killed the keypad-holding-in-place-bit-of-plastic by treating the buttons the way one treats the blunt end of a chisel (for those of you who have the misfortune to be female, a chisel is blunt at one end and pointed at the other (unless you're part of the someone's-uncle-helping-old-Jimmy-get-his-shelves-up class, in which case you've got a chisel that's blunt at both ends and a bruised thumb), and one hits it very hard with a clubhammer. Where was I? Oh yes - phone misfortune number three - The damn thing screens my calls. Genuinely! About fifty percent of the time, when people call me it refuses to actually transmit the sound of my voice! It is, however, interesting to listen to different people (in exactly the same way!) saying "Hello!" with increasing agressiveness, moving around to more interesting parts of the English language and then ringing off.







Gingery, the brick option is merely a low-flying alternative to the dart-rifle option. I'm still considering.

Rosie Gingery, cocka-whatsits?

Chaos Fairies (of the Dani variety or otherwise), as long as my sleepless torment amuses someone.

Laura fucking inbred Eric, yes, and I love you too you semen stain, you. No, but I bet cat sex is available on the internet somewhere...

Bec, cats? Cats? You so-hard-we're-nearly-bulletproof Aussies consider a cat to be a dangerous animal? HA!

Ant D, you have a blog? Why was I not informed? Ladies and gentlemen, alow me to introduce the biggest Libertines fan in the UK! Ta-daa!

DJ, they keep Roosters? You must live in the world's most patient neighbourhood!

Sara, I've got no sympathy for anyone who complains about being woken up at midday, you lazy sod!

Matt, that's all you have to say? That's all? No more stories of death and violence in the animal kingdom, then? Besides, you're pretty much the perfect height to be a member of the animal kingdom yourself!

Y'know, I used to be absoloutely and totally against fox hunting. I just didn't see the reason why rich country pansies needed to torture and killl small animals to pass the time. Definately, in my book, not right.





But last night I was woken up by yapping, noisy foxes alternately shagging and fighting on the street outside my window.

I'm still against fox hunting, but I can see nothing wrong with the deliberate shooting of noisy foxes/cats/dogs/drunks in the early hours of the morning. It's all very well to recognise savage barbaric cruelty to helpless animals when you see it (although half of them upper class, inbred, fox-hunting pansies have a hard time recognising their own dribble when they see it), but it's another thing altogether when the poor helpless animals in question decide to park themselves outside of your house and can't shut up, at which point love of nature is likely to give way to love of firearms. The only thing that saved them was the fact that the British Government disapproves of the discharging of firearms for no good reason in the middle of London.



Instead, I went out (shirtless, 2 a.m, April) and kicked someone's car. I'll admit it didn't occur to me at the time that the car alarm would last about twenty minutes and would be louder than the foxes were, but it bloody well got rid of my furry tormenters. Ask a nature buff, and they'll probably tell you that the sudden loud noise scared off the foxes because they percived it as a threat.

No, the foxes heard the noise, realised that their work was being done for them and went home.




Anyways, twenty minutes later, when free of the twin.... Argh! What have they done this for? A little messagebox has just popped up, informing me that my session will soon expire (I know. It always does), and suggesting I save my post (Yes. Nice of you to mention it. I, like pretty much everyone who uses this service, learnt to save our posts the hard way. With you deleting 'em.)





I would finish the post, but there isn't an awful lot more to say and Blogspirit, strict nanny that it is, is probably right. I should save my post, otherwise I'll get an "I told you so, didn't I? Blogspirit knows best, you naughty little boy" from the same source that both deletes my posts and pesters me with annoying little popups.

(Yes. I know I've been clamouring for some kind of solution to the timed-logout thing, but as far as I'm concerned, throwing popups about post deletion at me isn't warning - it's gloating over posts they've already scuppered!)

~Nice quick post this time, for dear old Biccie's sake!~

Spring (so the little month-by-month calendar on my phone informs me) is here. Now, it's easy to get sidetracked by the small changes this brings, such as an alteration in the entire country's farmed produce availability, variation in the money brought into and out of the country by tourism, rapid re-stocking of clothing ranges in fasion stores, the volume of traffic on the roads and reduced demands on the national electric grid, but it's important to keep in focus the three things that matter - less goths, more flowers and my fishing hat.


Have I mentioned my hat on here before? God knows. Well, the rather brief story of the hat was that I bought it last year towards the end of summer, and got to wear it for about three weeks before it started to rain so much that I had to stop wearing it for fear of being mistaken for a fisherman. Now the weather is slightly better it becomes socially accptible for me to wear it once again (well - I say "socially acceptible", but the hat was never that. It's electric blue with a wavy edge. What I mean is that I look marginally less like a moron in the hat now than I did in the middle of January.) The hat may look half-decent on a male model at a Japanese fasion show, but I am in no way capable of pulling it off. I wear itfor the simple reason that I love it with all my heart.



Anyways, the hat is now back in action (which may come as an unpleasant suprise to veterans of its campaign last summer!), and so on to the... NO! Hang on just one chop-sticking minute!



More about me hat! I almost forgot - I saw a teacher the other week, who was bitchy about my choice of headwear! Jesus! Teachers are, what - 50% closer to dying of old age (well, that or paedophile lynch-mobs, but that's not the point!) than teenagers, and if you can't wear a fishing hat at seventeen-point-five years old, when can you wear it? Do I complain about her going round in a cream coloured cardigan?








Sara, not bad enough for me to sue, I'm afraid!

Sara (again! I'm honoured!), Why do I have to have this reputation as a sicko?!

Gingery, Nat, if you recollect, had as much to drink as you did, got high on pot and worn out by two scary metal chicks and still got home easier than you did!

Biscuit, if the whole post is too long, don't read all of it!

Sara (Jesus, woman - three!), Have you really got nothing better to do?

Shan, Yeah - only once. That, my poor young fool, is how it all starts! You think to yourself "I can control my urge to be covered in horse semen" at first, but then it grows on you, until you smell like a sperm bank on open day! Give it up now, before it's too late!

Chaos, If you've experienced that before, you have my deepest sympathy! And I'm glad someone can find it in their heart to compliment me - I don't get so much as a peep out of the hard-hearted lot on here!

Bec, ooohh - I'm telling mummy now!