To hell in a milk float

Hey. Obviously, three unrelated topics in the post title, although a national cow strike ("We-eee shall not.. we shall not be mooo-ved!") would be appreciated in response to the Nikki-doesn't-lurve-me-anymore situation and such a scenario would probably necessitate Police involvement.

 

Okay, I'll go with the most interesting bit first. So I've been dating this girl Nikki for like three months, and after [what I thought was] a minor argument she's decided to hand in her portfolio as the J. Stevenage Girlfriend, leaving a gaping vacancy in my life but doing my wallet no end of good.  She wanted time and space (what does that even mean? Do I get her a clock and a loft conversion or a Stephen Hawking novel?) and all sorts of other things, the principle one being, so it transpires, a better boyfriend than me. She's more than happy with being single, but I'm blatantly going to die alone in a ditch covered in my own vomit and the scraps of rejected personal ads, so yeah. If any of you are pretty/intelligent/rich or any combination of the three then feel free to get in touch. (Being female would also be a plus.)

 

Right, that's that. Not that I'm starting the blog again because of a sudden increase in the amount of time on my hands or anything. I was phoned by a detective the other day - not to offer condolences on behalf of the Metropolitan Police and indeed law-enforcement authourites worldwide as you might expect - but to inform me of a fight that had taken place at my workplace (Kempton Park racecourse) and ask whether I could throw any light on the matter. Being someone who still thinks detectives pace around crime scenes with magnifying glasses hunting for scraps of cloth and suspicious-looking butlers and suchlike, I thought this rather cheeky. I mean, when the fire brigade get a call, they don't ring up the neighbours of the person whose house is on fire and ask if they'd mind popping round to put it out, so why are the police asking random people who happen to be on the same ten-mile-square site whether they'd mind solving the case for them? Too much reliance on the four-teenagers-and-a-talking-dog-in-a-Volkswagen-Van policing technique, that's what I say.

 

And cows. Moo. So the price of butter -according to every single bored housewife who phones LBC - has gone up by about a million pounds in the last week, a situation I can't help feeling is, coincidence aside, is probably unrelated to my being dumped. (Make-Love-Not-Scones is my attitude to relationships, as a rule). All I can thin of is some kind of shadowy, OPEC-style organisation with a stranglehold on the world's butter supply that's manipulating things for it's own nefarious ends. He who controls the udders controls the world. Or else the cows are on strike. (Hear me out)! Butter comes from milk, right? I mean, you could say that milk is just aborted butter (or stillborn cheese). And the cows could (provided they had the time, inclination and the right sort of Che Guevara-esque leader, natch!) bring this nation to it's knees.

 

 It'd be survival-of-the-soya-milk-drinkinking-vegans. Worry on that, housewives of the talk radio persuasion. Worry on that.