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.

It is now!

 

 

 

 

Well, this is it, isn't it? Yes. But then, I think it would be fair to say that it was all over months ago. In fact, I'm talking to what was once a huge and beautiful concert hall, which is now just a disused, fly-tipped, abandoned, miserable ruin. With maybe just a cleaner, sweeping the plaque on the wall saying:

 

"Here lived and died the blog of Potnoodleboy, December 2004 to November 2005. Well, he actually died a bit before then, but he wouldn't admit it until November. But if you're reading this plaque, it means you've been wandering around an abandoned, dripping, crumbling concert hall, which probably means you're either some kind of psychotic lunatic, or else you're a pair of horny teenagers with nowhere else to shag. In which case - watch out for that crazy fella."

 

And if you are that cleaner (yes, you. No, really. You. Got it? If you're reading this, then by the law of averages nobody else is!) then listen up, 'cause I have a dying wish. Well, basically, check back here in the new year (that's 2006, for all you archaeologists from the future with your flying cars and jetpacks and pathetic interest in the past). I'm starting, dear reader, to go off blogging a bit, in case you didn't notice. I'm planning, instead, to run a podcast, which should run on a monthly basis, from some - as yet - unknown URL, starting fairly shortly after Father Christmas has been and left. Got it? Good. Well, I guess I'd better pull the plug, then. Make sure you keep that plaque nice and shiny. (Yes, I did mean that in a spiritual way. And no, it's not a suggestive euphemism.)

Guess who may be getting a two litre Ford Focus Ghia? Yes, it is a car fit for a prince, or a king, or a middle class, single child family, but are they getting it? Nope! You were right first time, dear reader! It's me! Noodlemobile #2 (NMB #1 being a rusted out 1200cc Escort - complete with bonnet duct-taped to the chassis and exhaust manifold made from something resembling the remains of Apollo 13 - I never set foot to pedal in and will never speak of again.) will most probably be arriving sometime in November, courtesy of some loaded relatives of mine. But in some ironic twist of fate, I probably won't be able to afford road fund, insurance or running costs of the flaming thing (whoever heard of a two litre two-door hatchback? Bloody nobody, 'cept possibly the American motor industry) so the upshot'll probably be my dad collaring the Focus Ghia and me getting a handed-down N-reg Renault 19, of all unpalatable possibilities! Ah well - a car is still a car, except when it decides to be a be-wheeled fireball with me inside it.

 

 

Anyways, now we've got the important bit out of the way, Rosie has demanded a post about herself, deciding just what's needed to try and revive a dying blog is a post that's only relevant to two people in the entire universe, and when have I ever been one to stand up to egotism almost as big as my own?

 

Rosie, for those of you who haven't had the pleasure of meeting her, is about five feet tall, one foot wide and eight inches deep. She's great fun to flirt with, even more fun to fight with, not so fun to depend on for navigational purposes, and terribly terribly fun to be close to, emotionally, physically, spiritually, alphabetically. Her hair is the colour you'd expect stealth bombers to be, her skin is the colour you get if you mix Strawberry Angel Delight with Wallpaper Paste, but has a smoother textrue and a more pleasant taste, and for the life of me I can't remember what colour her eyes are.

She's a shameless corporate sellout, a monkey-wrench-toting football hooligan when it comes to romance, a brick wall when it comes to football or DIY, an angel in human form before she applies makeup and a cross between a goth and a clown after she applies it. The quickest way to her heart is the subject of international speculation, and the discoverer will probably score a Nobel prize. The quickest way to her bed was demolished by the planning comission in 1987 in order to make way for a bypass to her sence of moral decency. Her outlook on life can only be described by the phrase "Silence of the Lambs", and most people's opinion of her would include the word "Lovable".

If she was a song she'd be "Can't Stand Losing You" by the Police, if she was a film she'd be every single one ever made by any two-bit film company anywhere in the world, and if she was any shorter she probably wouldn't exist.

 

Jesus, that should be her obituary, shouldn't it?

 

 

 

 

 

Ant, I seem to be branching out into bloging on request! When did I lose my soul?

Shan, "chaps" can be female, too! And I'm really getting into the idea of this whole lifestyle you've planned out for me! I really want a kilt and a million sheep and a beautiful Scots farm maiden and a nice solid rock and Haggis everyday and a set of bagpipes! But - could you make the beautiful Scots farm maiden a little less prone to hacking sheep about, at least while I'm trying to herd them with me bagpipes, okay? Cheers.

Oh, and didja see CSI: Miami the other day? Somebody shot a horse! Tee hee!

Sara, you, too! Why does everyone think "chaps" are just male? I'm sure I'm right! Or am I? I'm starting to doubt myself, now! See what you've done?!

Maybe the reason we don't have good legs is that we don't wear skirts kilts enough. I'm sure we could evolve good legs, with a bit of practice...

Behind the times? Our school's gone too far the other way! We've got flaming thumbprint-scanning machines insead of registration now! Only they don't seem to work and nobody knows why!

Biscuit, that may pose a bit of a problem, actually - just how are thirty-year-olds, say, supposed to fit thirty hours' snoozing in per day? It calls for a new system - You don't have to get up at any hour less than your age minus your average hourly income. That would protect toddlers, who tend as a class to have a fairly low earning power, from having to get up too early, and would prevent the likes of the Queen lying around for the rest of the flaming century.

Do any of youse ken how to solve five "a" times eight "b" divided by nine "c" plus three "d" minus "e"?

Thought not.

...

Well, back at school, and everyone over the age of about twenty is going "Wahey! Off you go, you little sods! The world is ours again!" Of course, it makes little or no difference anyway, seeing as most of the grubby little objectionable children tend to spend a fair portion of most school terms outside of the school anyway.

I haven't had time to be reading or writing blogs recently, though, becaus my body clock has been thrown by the twin problems of having to get up for school (seriously. It gets harder every year. They should make some sort of rule whereby you don't have to be awake at any hour less than your age.) and of having bought a watch that doesn't actually tell you the time. Oh yes. The vindictive little sod has already made me miss about a billion episodes of CSI (it's pretty much the only  thing I watch nowadays! They're so much better than your Morses and your Frosts and so on! If you ever want to commit murder, rape, kidnap or any combination of the three, don't do it in America!)

Oh, and I passed a driving test a, while ago, too. Not that that means I can drive, of course. I had to sell my car because I couldn't afford the insurance! I wish I flaming lived in the ninteen-hundreds. What I plan to do is try and buy a cheap lucky-to-do-thirty-without-catching-fire bike, somewhere around the two or three hundred sovs mark, which with any luck will have much lower running costs. Any advice appreciated, chaps.

Next week heralds the return of the let's-put-another-kid-through-some-posh-London-university Mancunians, although thankfully they aren't going to stay. It's almost as bad, though - massive family do with extra Northern relatives. Have you ever heard of a less pleasant event than that? The Vietnam War came close, but at least they got paid to take part in that. And when I say massive, I mean it. The number of Northerners which feel the need to travel south because of this one girl's university placement is probably large enough to cause the whole bloody country to tilt. Which'll give everyone in John O'Groats alktitude sickness and everyone in Bournemouth a free bath. But won't solve my problem. Ah well, at least it's only one evening. Sir Bernard Lovell had to live there.

I've done nothing but talk about myself, have I? This blog is getting far too Elton-John-esque for it's own good. You'd think after such alot of deliberate laziness I could at least have thought of something interesting to say, wouldntcha? Something other than another installment of me talking about me next time, I promise!

Old Mc Mullet, (How's the Farm, by the way? ..Christ, that was terrible.) I was talking to someone about the good old Alice band recently, and happened to come out with a hugely witty and entertaining monologue about it, which I've just spent the last ten minutes trying to remember.

Laura, you don't have a passport? Why? Seriously, get one! You're going off to live at the South Coast! It costs like five pounds to get to France and back! You especially should get one, seeing as you smoke! Of course I love Rosie, but not like that! Why does everyone assume that just because people argue, they want to have it off with each other? I blame that "Shrek" film..

Rosie, oooh, I am sorry! Getting the name of the coorporation who manufactured your mobile phone wrong, how could I?
Na-ah, Motorhead was formed purely because the lead singer got caught by the Mounties trying to get speed into an office! How much less corporate couldja get? And how about unsigned bands, eh? How many "manufactured" unsignies are there?

Biscuit, short. Sweet. True. What more could I ask for?

Laura, cheese is merely a highly evolved form of milk. You don't clearly hate it. You fear it.

Rosie, black, you savage! It's not some sort of neo-hippie felt thing! It's a proper traditional Frenchman's beret!

Sara, you get better crepes in England!
What are you talking about! I've seen people in kilts in Scotland, that doesn't mean the Scotch wear 'em regularly! How many berets didja see? One? It may well have been me!
Oh lord! That's what I should get! A kilt! Talk about inspiration!

Shan, no, rice cakes and nutella are only eaten together by loonies! But more power to you! Snails and chicken hearts! A fellow experimenter! But where you'd break down is when confronted with a nice large plate of Dead Horse!

Ant, oh, you'll see it all right! Eventually! Everyone in the world will, if I gets me way!

Shan and Sara, that's it, don't mind me, just chat away!

I love France! Cheese-eating surrender monkeys indeed! What rubbish! At least they can stand up to the United States once in a while! And what's wrong with eating cheese? Anthony Worral-Thompson eats cheese, and he's never personally defeated the Nazis, so is he French? I think not!

And anyways, any nation that drives like the French wouldn't need to surrender! Any invasion force couldn't possibly get past the first T-junction!

But the absoloute best thing about the French is the beret! I went on a day trip (Who in god's name decided to call them "Booze Cruises", anyway? That's like calling "Going out for a take-away" a "Chip Trip", or an errand to the friendly local butcher's a "Pork Walk"! Only for people who can really bring home the bacon!) to the land of the free hairdo the other day, and I bought one. Fantastic! It's too big for my noggin, though! they only had a size 8&1/2 or 9&1/2, and I'm a size nine! So I'm going to have to pop down to the tailors later on to see if he'll alter it. I'll bet he won't though - how many English tailors have seen a beret outside of their wet dreams?

While nobody but nobody seems to like it, everybody has looked at it, so I'm getting attention, at least! Actually, I tell a lie, three people have liked it - a sexy French shopgirl, who showed me how she thought I ought to wear it (huh! As if she'd know! I spoke to a French vendor of various grungey and punk-ey products, and he said that the French are completely different from all the stereotypes, which means they A) Don't live solely off their national snail population, and B) Don't munch baguettes in the street, sell onions wrapped around their chest or wear Berets, and C) don't hide from passing Germans.) Anyways, three people like the hat so far, a French shopgirl, who had the privelidge of showing me how to wear it without saying a single word I understood, a British customs official, who had the privelige of deciding I wasn't a terrorist, and an American surfer dude, who had the privelige of not being in the same country as George Bush.

I love the Beret almost as much as I love my fishing hat - in fact, I forsee a mental clash between the two for the coveted place nombre une in my heart. I made a photo, a while ago, with the intention of turning it into a splash page for this site, but I'm wearing the fishing hat in it! I'm considering doing another one with the beret, but I don't currently own digital camera!

I intended to make this a post about the trip to France, with my mad, loony family (incidentally, "Beret loon" is an anagram of "Toblerone"! How cool is that? ..wrong, it's even cooler!) but it's kind of turned into a quick bulletin on my headgear, and who am I to argue with fate? I'll just finish by saying that the number of double-takes people have been giving me in the street has risen to positively astronomical levels, which could plausibly be interpreted as a good thing!

James, what I think is a tragedy are the lousy ideas you've adopted from us that are doing just fine - empire-building, gun crime and American Idol! I mean, the only bit of British heritage you hear about on Channel Four is "how we used to run the world"! But come to think of it, I don't know who came up with gun crime, actually! We had Highwaymen, you had the whole Wild West a-man's-gotta-prove-himself-by-making-holes-in-his- -mates-with-a-revolver thing going on! And "American Idol"? What an unimaginative name! They just take our version, stick "American" into the name, and broadcast it to every flaming moron with a telly!

Sara, burn, witch! Putting sugar in tea! You'll be sorry, one of these days!

Ant, not if you're in Greenland in the middle of winter repairing fridges assisted by the abominale snowman, it ain't!

Rosie, actually, I'm supporting the underdog, making things more equal, miss I'll walk to McDonald's in my Converse boots while listening to Busted on my Ipod and sending texts on my Nokia mobile phone!

Do you need one? I'm always having a go at you about self-esteem! I thought you'd be sick of it by now!

I'm not addicted to caffiene. I'd be perfectly happy if I never had a can of Pepsi again, and decaf holds for me all the joys of the original. But I think I'm becoming addicted to the Coffee Republic in Wimbledon. I only ever visit Wimbledon for the District Line and to meet driving instructors and things, but whenever I do I either get there too early, too late or shouldn't be there at all. The normal practise on these occasions is to get a bus/train/tram to wherever I should be, or to jack it in and go home. But I've recently been going more and more to coffee republic instead, especially to breakfast there. Danish pastry, milky tea, Evening Standard. (Hey - I have a late breakfast, okay!) Sometimes, out of a spirit of pure devilment, I even attempt the Sudoku! There's simply nothing better than the feeling of a hot cuppa and a comfy chair and the smell of cooking pastries and a massive plate glass window through which you can see loads of miserable people marching about in the cold. Ahh, the cold! When someone opens and closes the door, and it gets colder for like eight seconds, then the warm suddenly comes back in a rush, ooohhh!

But I hate other coffee shops! Starbucks, Costa, I hate 'em! They've got a horrible atmosphere, horrible queues (you can never get a drink when you want one. You get it precisely ten minutes and two hundred million stepped-on floor crumbs after you want it), too many people inside, stupid things on the menu, no free tables by the window and doors which are open as often as not. So, more power to the Republic!

It's not just "Coffee Republic"! It's the one in Wimbledon. As the nearest big town to me, I drink more tea in it than any other location on the planet, excluding my own home. Other Coffee Republics are different shapes, sizes and have different chairs. But my one is perfect! The only one that comes close is the one near Canada Square, but that's inside the underground complex, so you don't get the door-open-feel-cold-door-closed-have-orgasm effect. I used to visit the one in Wimbledon occasionally, just to be able to look all sophisticated and warm while waiting for people, but it's now becoming an obsession. And every time I go I only ever have one drink:

Coffee has tables, tea - the amphibious landing craft of beverages - has trays. I drink tea with no sugar (Jesus! How can people put sugar in tea! Barbarians! Ruins it!) and lots of milk, and coffee when someone points a gun at my head and makes me. I do have coffee on the rare occasion that I have to get up early, to be fair. Morning coffee is the biological equivalent of engaging the choke, and coffee during the daytime is the biological equivalent of driving a diesel.

I'm supposed to be going to my Tae-Kwon-Do class in North Cheam right about now, but I haven't washed my kit, haven't any money and have noticed both those facts too late, as usual. I can't even turn up in my normal clothes, because it'd make it twice in a fortnight that I've done that, and I feel like a dick every time it happens. I'd better wrap up now anyway, just in case I get sued by Starbucks or something.

Oh, oh, oh! While we're on the subject of misusing corporate trademarks, ja like me new buttons? Don't give me all that - you must have noticed 'em! Top-right-hand corner, in place of the little penguin man that's lived there since I started the blog. I guess he's out of work, now, but hey - it's a dog-eat-dog world out there, and he just couldn't compete with Mozilla Firefox, Sainsbury's and a gay American web-designer. Die in a gutter, penguin!

I may yet replace the Sainsbury's one and Purple one with ones that actually have a fighting chance of being clicked on, though, if I can think of any good ones. Any ideas?

 

 

 

Girish, rest assured I do my level best to have a nice day every day, but cheers for the suggestion!

Shan, Aww, I'm touched! I'm just too caring, me! If I was any nicer to the female population you'd be able to detect my smarminess vibes with a tuning fork!
I know! Every male who grew up in the ninteys unconciously tries to sound like a cross between Damon Albarn and Liam Gallagher when we sing!

Biscuit, how true! Women's magasines are filled with pictures of women without all their clothes on, and men's magasines are filled with, you've guessed it, ditto. Proof positive!

Biscuit, congratters on yet another version of my assumed nickname! I thought the supply of possible variations had exhausted themselves ages ago!

I..jeez.. stop that, will you? Cut it out! Advertising your shop on me blog! But where didja get the domain name? Dontcha have to pay loads for them? You must be coining the stuff!

Mulletman, since the women took over, is when!

Women, wait right there - I'll be back in a tick.

Men, I'm going to ask you to come over here a moment.

...

thanks. Now, I'll begin. Have any of you ever thought quietly to yourself "Hey, I'm actually alot more attractive than most people think I am"? Most of you still with me? Good, so far. Ever thought, even more quietly, to yourself "If I was female, I'd date me"? Okay, less of you with me this time, I'll move on; Ever thought so quietly to yourself that you had to cease all other bodily functions just to hear yourself "If I were two women, I'd be lesbians"? No? Ah. Just me then.

Right, men, excuse me a minute.

Women, you know when you're looking into a mirror or something, and you think to yourself quietly (in case there are any nosy psychics listening) "Christ - just look at my terrible hair/thighs/sexual equipment"? Well, you're wrong. Not just the mild "Sorry, I thought you were someone I knew" wrong, the major "Well it looked like my baby when I first brought it home" court-case, Daily-Mail-scandal kind of wrong. You're beautiful. Just by being female, you're gorgeous. Remember that, and don't be so bloody insecure!

Thanks for your time.



The point I'm making is that men and women look at themselves in totally different ways. Men tend to assume they're perfect and that everyone ought to love the pants off them like they do themselves, despite massive amounts of evidence and several Crown-Court rulings to the contrary, wheras women are more likely to base their view of themselves entirely on the presumption "I'm not perfect, and that's a start".

It's all wrong! Men, look at me. Horrible, isn't it? I couldn't be any uglier if I was made for the purpose! But I don't see that. I see myself the way you see yourselves. Straight up. Scary, isn't it? Women, your problem is that you don't realise men don't spend their entire time with you looking for faults. When you check us out, you get a kind of gleam in your eye similar to that of a butcher, deciding which cow carcass to display in the window. When we check you out, it's "Well, she's got the right number of limbs, and all the lumps appear to be in the right place" and everything from then on is a plus.

But you can't make stereotypes as vague as that - there are plenty of men who think of themselves the way they once looked in a funfair distorted mirror, and plenty of women who act so bitchy and superior that you're actually allowed by law to flick the V's at them when they turn around. But these people don't really have that big a problem - the men are all going to end up in relationships which are sixty percent love/forty percent worrying with one of the insecure women, and the bitchy women are all going to end up in dustbins with their throats cut when the revoloution comes.

That's all. I'm sure I've been of service.

 

 

Biscuit, no! No, no, no, no! Don't commit suicide! True, if you're going to die you may as well choose how, but who says you have to die at all? Just look at Jesus, and Walter Disney! 

Ginger person, "Ginger Person"? What's with the new name-myself-after-my-hair state of affairs? We've got "Purple person", "Gingery", and now "Ginger person"! And Shan's started dying her hair, so it's not long before she starts doing it, too!

Ant, fine, fine, you have the moral high-ground! And why can't it get that bad? Suicide's the only option you can't lose, and it's a permanent solution to almost any problem you can think of!

Shan, no, you're wrong! You'll marry Prince Harry! I know you will! 

 DJ, I try, I try! But Once the Samaritans start quoting me, then I'll be satisfied!

Purpley, using my blog to advertise your own? Have you no shame? You're as bad as Inbrederic, that you are!

Rosie, err... thanks?

Bec, how can you forge evidence of suicide? Either you killed yourself or you didn't! It's that simple! They can tell who pulled the trigger or tied the slipknot or opened the window or whatever! Leaving "evidence" will just make you look like an arsehole, albeit a dead one! 

 

 

Don't try it at home!

 

 

Working my way through the cheery subjects, aren't I? Racism... Suicide... next on the list is an interesting post about the various STDs and how to catch 'em. (That'd make a fair title for an adult book, now I come to think of it! "STDs and How to Catch Them." with foreword by Darren Day. Class!)

Well, suicide. There are three main types of suicide:

1) Suicide for financial reasons,
2) Suicide for romantic reasons, and
3) Suicide disguised as a Guinness record attempt.

Financial suicides tend to do it for silly reasons, like getting into debt, not being able to get into enough debt and not having enough control over their cash flow to bother about whether they're in debt or not. Personally, I don't see why you should commit suicide for financial reasons when you can just as easily join the French foreign legion, (how many wars are you likely to fight in? Exactly.) the dole or the Amish.

Romantic reasons are even more ridiculous, as they tend to occur when people start forgetting where they end and their partner begins, or else because they haven't got a partner in the first place. But people who are likely to kill 'emselves because they're single are likely to be just as unhappy being taken as they were when single. They just don't realise it! Another romantic reason for suicide is due to a basic judgement error, but can be easily avoided by the courtship tactic known as "Not dating Courtney Love".

The main thing the suicide has to think of is "How?", followed closely by "When?". Which is a shame, because if they give "Why?" presidence at this stage they can usually avoid the bulk of the unpleasantness.

"How?" usually gets dictated by such things as "Will I make a mess?" and "How much will it hurt?". Personally, I've always thought the best way to do yourself in is to pop out of an aeroplane - there isn't going to be an awful lot left of you to make a mess after your forty-thousand-foot-or-so drop, the falling is probably fairly painless - and by the time you've hit the ground you're not going to be around for long enough to be concerned with such quintessentially mortal things as pain. The only danger is that, from the second you leave the aeroplane, you have so many thousand feet in which to change your mind! And given the bloodey-mindedness of the average human brain, that's a dead cert.

"When?" is more for people who have such considerations as"Who's going to find me?" and "What'll the bastards do with my corpse when they do?", which is why so many people choose to snuff it in posh hotels wher they know they'll be given a decent funeral "on the house". Although there is alot to be said for doing yourself in during the busy period at a fast food restaraunt too, just for the laughs.

Not many people commit suicide, far fewer than those diagnosed as "Suicidally" depressed, some people because they have a niggling bit of reason inside 'em that says "Well, I'm going to be dead by the end of the century anyway, so there's no point in rushing it", some people because, try as they might, they can't extinguish every last ray of hope they posess, and some people because they want to wait and see who wins the league. Many men refrain from committing suicide because they can't bear to leave their wife behind, and many women refrain from it because they can't decide what to wear.

To be honest, though, I think I could commit suicide fairly easily. Yes, I know it's one of those things where everyone thinks the could but in reality very few people are capable of, like solving a crime, emptying one of those drinking tube things or killing someone. And yes, I may have been thinking too hard about the subject for my own health, but still - I'd be brilliant at it! It'd be a sort of challenge, doing it well. The ideal thing to do would be to time it so you've spent all your money by the time you come to kick it, but the chances are you'd give all plans of suicide the elbow once you get your hooks on the money. And then there's deciding what to leave behind. Do you leace a videogram, a note, or what? And do you address it? And if you do, who to? All in all, it's a tricky business, suicide. I wouldn't reccommend it.

Right, well there you go. Next time, something cheerful, I promise! A nice flowery subject!

 

 

Ant, and when did you get licence to call me "Johhny boy", eh? I mean, I don't shout "You-who, Anty-pantie!" when I see you, do I? I'd like to, but I restrain myself!

Purpley, that technique'll only work with amnesiacs!

Ginger person, alright - get of your soapbox, then! Ginger people are so brilliant, howja explain Chris Evans, then? He's a nasty-looking ginger! So's that 'orrible Laura gal, but you wouldn't know anything about that, wouldja!

Rosie, I spent a score. On one meal. It was four pounds a beer! I repeat - how can you afford to eat there!

Rosie, that isn't morals - that's kindness to dumb animals!

DJ, and there lies the difference between a history student and a history enthusiast!

Shan, you've got it easy! My granparents only heard about the horse and cart last year!

Purpley, oh no! No, no, no! I'm keeping out of it! Don't involve me! Go pester Rosie some more!

Biccy and Purpley, here, in all it's glory, is the Wagamama's leaflet!

 

 

Purpley, you have a rat. Not a gerbil, a hamster or guinea pig, like normal people - a rat! Why? You're not planning to marry the bloke from Harry Potter or something?

 

Racism.

Tricky subject for me, racism, because out of the millions of people of any one racial group, I seem to know only one or two of 'em. For example, I know about two East-Asians, two Orientals, two or three Blacks and no Eskimos. It's annoying having such a small minority of minority acquaintances beause it leaves you feeling like an American-made movie, with a few token minority group actors to enable 'em to show it in Europe, which isn't true partly because I'm not a racist and partly because I rarely get a fat, loud bloke in a flatcap telling me what to do through a loud-hailer from a wooden chair marked "Director".

Anyways, what I wanted to ask was "what is racism?". I mean, even the British Nazi Nationalist Party don't consider themselves racist - they simply redefine racism to remove most of the human race from the definition. I'll tell you what racism is: racism, like treason, is merely a matter of dates.

No, I haven't flipped my lid. I'm simply so fabulously intelligent that nobody has realised I'm right yet! There's nothing wrong with slagging off the Ancient Romans, is there? They were an ethnic minority. And nobody cares if you want to crack dirty jokes about the Aztecs, do they?

(-What d'you call a pair of tribal midgets singing in a cage on the back of a wagon?
 -An Inca stereo!)

But when you spraypaint slogans like "WE DON'T WANT YOUR FILTHY INFERIOR KIND IN OUR COUNTRY!" on the side of the Welsh Embassy, it suddenly becomes racism. But in a trillion-billion years, when the world is run by highly evolved creatures that are all descended from the caretakers of French nuclear power stations, it won't matter what race, colour or nationality you insult, because precisely no-one will care.

So, you can rip the proverbial piss out of the Ancient Romans from now 'till 2008 if that's what you enjoy doing (and I like to think it is. Seriously. Wouldn't it be great to form a "We're sick of the Ancient Romans" society, and tour the British Isles beating up schoolteachers and torching museums?), but you say one word against the Dutch and you're a racist. Which is particularly annoying for us as other Europeean nations can say whatever the hell they like about us owing to the sacred international principle of Nobody Likes The British(TM). To be honest, though, we've only got ourselves to blame. If we'd done a little less in the way of global oppression back in the old Top Hat and Smallpox days, it would mean so much less hassle getting everybody to love us nowadays! Look, world - we're sorry! We've given you Cornish Pasties, Jamie Oliver and the Carry On films! What more can we possibly do to make up for it?

Back to racism. ("Back to Racism"? Sounds a bit like a klu klux clan training film, that, but nevermind!)

In fact, there's a good point. The klu klux clan. They're guilty of three grevious offenses, as far as I can see:

1) The conscienceless torture and murder of numerous innocent black people.
2) The misrepresentation of both themselves and their target to a large population of stupid and ignorant Deep South yokels.
3) A deliberate and purposeful insistence on spelling "clan" with a "K".

That felt good! Both the opportunity of striking out at a group who can't retaliate, seeing as they can barely read, let alone handle a list containing three items, and listing! I haven't drawn up a three-point list for quite a while now, and that really hit the spot like you wouldn't believe!

That's about it, really, for racism. I suppose if I were a sociologist or something I could write an entry yet more miserably long than this one is, but I ain't, so I can't. For which you can all be grateful to whatever god, gods, rock stars or celebrity chefs you happen to worship.

 

 

 

Vindy, you can't "accidentally" delete your blog! What you mean is "I've realised just how much of my private life I'm giving away to the general public absoloutely free, and in a moment of sanity I've deleted my blog!" Don't worry, it happens to us all! If you need to broadcast your life for the entire world to see, apply to appear on Big Brother!

Matt, I take it you're the world expert on own-shit-poking, with a mantelpiece full of turd-shaped trophies and a snooker cue which is inexplicably stained brown at on end?

Laura, most people I know say something along the lines of "German wine? You uncultured barbarian, you!", but you go "German wine? Nah - gin's better"! What's wrong with you? Were you bottle-fed from empty pint-glasses as a child or something!? Vodka's tasteless, Lambrini is the equivalent of a massive sign carried above your head for the entire evening which reads "I'm drinking this because it's cheap, and I don't care how mild it is because I plan to drink loads of it! And besides, for some reaseon I think white wine makes me look good!" and cider is for people who haven't discovered bitter!

Rosie, true, but only because you're such a ridiculously complex person you defy all possiblility of my understanding you. And I'm absoloutely certain you do it deliberately!

Purpley, you've flipped! One, don't I have to propose before you can reject me? And Two, the only "Dan"s we have in common are Gingery and Chaos Fairy! Now, I don't know if you've noticed, but Gingery's your brother!

Some things are special because they're common to everyone, like music, art and a bitter hatred of German wines. Others are special because they're known only to a select few, like the identity of Jack the Ripper, the Motorhead cover of the Sex Pistol's God Save The Queen and just what colour Chris Evans' pubic hair is.

But separate from both is value. Things that aren't necessarily special can be valuable. Examples of these include Aston Martins, heroin and massive piles of money in underground vaults. The thing I want to talk about isn't special, isn't valuable, but is somehow still an international phenomenon. And it makes me want to go out and make holes in wildlife.

Harry Potter.


~ Jesus Christ! What a ridiculous intro! Jack the Ripper and Aston Martins and the Sex Pistols and whatever! I'll try to be more relevant from now on! ~

Anyways, Harry Potter. I know they say J.K. Rowling is the greatest writer doing the greatest work since Jesus wrote the Magna Carter to stop Napoleon dodging his tax return, but what do they know about literature? I happen to know for a fact that my sister personally accounts for about half the annual book sales single-handed.

I'm certain there can't be as many Harry Potter fans out there as they say. For one thing, the little shit is fictional! I can understand admiring Nelson Mandela, Ray Mears or Jesus, and let's face it, they were all fairly decent blokes, but not only is Harry Potter not real, he's also a tosser who is apparently a hero to all the other wizards and a national sports recordbreaker, but only manages to save the world on an annual basis! Come on, even Inspector Gadget used to do it once a week!

So, his books are rubbish, his fanbase is as fictional as he is and he could have been outclassed by Pinky and the Brain. So why does everybody in the Developed World know his name? Because, dear reader, he is a sex icon. I know precisely what you're thinking. All the males are going "Really? What's his track record, then?" and all the females are going "Just like a man to say that. Why do you all seem to think that popularity is directly liked to sexual performance? Why can't you just accept that nice people aren't necessarily nice solely because they're getting their end away? Why can't you blah blah blah blah blah...." but before you enter the discussion like the Americans entered Vietnam, look at the assorted facts I place before you like a selection of cheeses at a fancy party. Like a selection of cheeses at a fancy party, turn your back on them for one second and they'll be gone. Which leaves you in the position of having to hang around the empty table waiting for someoner to replace them, trying to look as though standing next to an empty piece of wood by yourself is a very trendy thing to do. But I think we passed the point where my analogy breaks down a fair while a go, so let's backtrack a bit:

Harry Potter is a sex icon. Well, there's the significant fact that I've never seen girl who wouldn't if she got the chance. Even presented with the most attractive, interesting sexy women ever found in magasines that have "50 astounding ways to spice up your sex life/failing marriage/spouse's attempted suicide" or "101 signs that your boyfriend is planning an arson attack on your gran" in a little pink box on the cover, about one in a dozen men will still somehow inexplicably find something wrong with her, just to make some sort of gender-based statement. But with Harry Potter, nope. They all love him.

Also, Harry Potter isn't getting any. Suprising, for a sports star and national hero with magic powers, isn't it? The evidence points to a torrid, behind-the-scenes sex life that would make a continental footballer jealous. And speaking as the world's oldest virgin (check me out in the Guinness Book Of Records under "People Who Might As Well Give Up And Become Pope At This Stage"), it's making the rest of the gender feel slightly annoyed. Besides, we're the ones supposed to be in shady chatrooms talking about young children! We're the ones who should be obsessing over some useless trivial fad that just won't go away! We're the ones who should spend more time each day in a daydream than we do in the bathroom! But squealing girlie Harry Potter fans have taken these things away from us, and made them equal-opportunities vices, like hard drugs and not eating brown bread. Pretty soon leaving the toilet seat up and beer bellies will be all we have left!

 

 Right, so Harry Potter is a sex icon, is stealing male stereotypes out from between our testicles, is taking the place of genuine great men like the Dalai Lama and Stalin, and doesn't even redeem himself by saving the world once in a while.

 But it's all okay, isn't it, because he's written such appealing, educational, entertaining books? Na-ah. I've read one of 'em, and I'd be prepared to swear in a court of law that a lifetime in the North Korean army would be more appealing, the little warnings on fag packets are more educational and poking your own shit with a stick is more entertaining.

 It's not that I'm going out of my way to find stupid objections to it, neither. Some people (mainly from the United States) are against Harry Potter because, get this, "It teaches little children witchcraft"! Christ! Nobody can practice withcraft, not even the flaming witches! Y'know why? Because it's all fiction! I can accept objecting to Harry Potter on genuine grounds, like "He's attractive", but on the grounds that "He's making our kids summon the devil"? The only good thing about the books is that they annoy these morons.

 

The bad thing is that they annoy everyone else, too.

 

 

 

Ant, embarrased? Just ask her the time, fool! Where's your initiative? You're not a pessimist, are you? I would've thought that in your case it'd be "the glass is half empty, so who's getting the next round, eh?"

Biscuit, hey, you want researched information, go buy the Guardian. You want badly written, inaccurate, halfwitted babble, come - take a seat! In pointing out my typo you've committed the literary equivalent of ABH - I feel the same way about punctuation that most people feel about sex! The misfortune occurred because I changed the sentence structure partway through typing it out.

DJ, I get all the crossing-related thrills I need by standing at the edge of the road rather than on the pavement! Wild, eh! Personally, though, I think they should remove buttons from crossings altogether, partly because of all the trouble they cause and partly to help tidy the gene pool up a bit.

Chaos Fairy, that's because in Richmond it's often quicker to wait for a natural gap in the traffic than it is to wait for the heavily-biased-in-favour-of-traffic-lights to change! Don't be so judgemental!

Rosie, I'm still employed! See, that's the difference between us - I'd do anything for money, wheras you'd do anything for

Laura, I'm one of those extra-button-pressers! We're not stupid - we just don't trust bus drivers! I was talking to one once, and apparently they have a little transmitter which can change traffic lights to green at a distance! They're manipulators of nature!

Purpley, just how should I reply to "Trust me, I'm nuts?"