To hell in a milk float

How long since my last post? A couple days ago, according to my handy little calendar located top left.

It feels like alot longer. No, it seems like alot longer. It feels, my children, rather similar to the way the lips of a young woman would feel to an eighty year old hermit. But I digress.

I don't, actually. What have I got to digress from? A meaningless indication of my possesion of a little calendar-type thing, a pointless grammatical correction and a rather worrying analogy. But who know where this is going, and who cares, eh? In fact I'm only here now because there's nothing good on television and I'm too poor to go out.

Well, what's been going on with my life? Erm... I'm planning on taking part in a ten kilometer fun run, for Virgin. Dan (ooohh yes - he still exists!) is doing the run too, but for some horse organisation (probably a front for a transnational drug-smuggling operation. Rosie Gingery naturally being the puppetmaster behind the whole evil, corrupt scheme. "Foal Farm" my arse, murderers! I'm not afraid to squeal!) But anyways. I cannot, I'm ashamed to let it be known, run. Place me in an ancient temple with a bullwhip, call me "Indy" and hand me a statuette and they'd just about get the cameras rolling in time to see the boulder turn me into Angel Delight, useless bastard flavour. I started training today, full of hope, inexperience and Lucozade, and ran for about two kilometers tops! And I've somehow got to get to 10k standard within a few weeks without the aid of steroids, genetic engineering or witchcraft. Not going to happen! I think I'll pack it in and invent a magic carpet or something.

Apart from my fitness level, anything else going down? Well, there's exams, but screw 'em. Oh Yes, people, fancy an introduction to the wild and wacky world of: Painting and Decorating?

Indeed. I've been forced at relativepoint to paint my aunt's garage. The aunt in question is small and old and, had she been present, would have taken one look at Stalinist Russia and asked the psychotic, evil tyrant just why he was so easygoing. Well, I'm going to be painting the woman's shed for a total wage of nil all, but for a reason! Oh, I'm grateful! And the reason? (I hope you're listening, Bec!) Because some Aussies are coming round! That's not a reason - it's an international news bulletin. How in god's name are a couple of money-to-blow-hip-replacements-to-blow-it-on Aussies going to travel halfway around the world in a jet-powered spam tin at 35,000 feet just to turn around and go home again because they don't like the coat of paint currently on the garage?

Which reminds me, d'ya want to know what colour the garage currently is? White.





Guess what colour I'm painting it.












Bec, I think an evening like that would be possible - just let me speak to a few premiership footballers to see how it's done.

DJ, you listen to LBC? Wahey - a fellow overopinionated, self-important, obsessive twat! Nice to meet you!

Sara, Jesus, woman! That comment was longer than George Bush's term of millitary service!

Yeah - the whole hippy thing was brilliant! I'm so jealous of the sexed-up, drugged-up, teenage layabouts! They got great musical artists, sexual expresson, chemical freedom, but most importantly: the chance to tinker with the engine of a Volkswagen camper van! Wow! But you're right - there's nothing original for our generation to do! Well, we could always wear sticks in our hair and live in caves, like they do in parts of rural Wales. If you don't mind the bus fare.

William, I will, once I paint the sodding thing.

Ant D, "Uncle Shaggy", you sick bastard!

What's all this crap I hear on Tonight With Trevor McDonald about kids these days being dumber? Unrelatedly, some teacher once told me a story about a bloke who was once in a far and distant land who he came across a Sphinx blocking his path (don't get that nowadays - can you imagine any sensible sphinx blocking the path of a Toyota CR-V?) Anyways, the sphinx asked him some riddle about the stages of evoloution of man, which was apparently very difficult to answer.

Bollocks. There are three stages in the evoloution of man:

1) The stage where people can say "Hmph - kids these days!", and people go "Awww, look at her - she thinks he's all grown up, doesn't she?"

2) The stage where people can say "Hmph - kids these days!", and people aren't quite sure whether to be impressed at your wit and irony, or to offer you a Werther's Original.

3) The stage where people consider "Hmph - kids these days!" a good, solid basis for every conversation not involving their favourite soap opera/socks/bowel movements.


~ I don't know why I like those 1,2,3 things slap bang in the middle of my posts. It makes me look like I'm terrifically well organised, I guess. And like I've written alot more than I actually have. ~


Anyways, dear old news presenter Trev Mac says that kids these days are stupid, violent little bastards. Now firstly, back in the day ie World War Two, children were lying about they're ages to go and shoot at Germans. How much more bloody antisocial can you get?

But secondly (and much more importantly), I've just watched the first ever episode of Scooby-Doo I couldn't solve! It wasn't the evil, shifty owner with the hunchback assistant, it wasn't the punk-metallers ("A Hannah-Barbara-Chaos Fairy production!) , it was the young, handsome prince! Kids must be absoloute geniuses to figure that out!

They completely foxed me! That, people, has never hapened in Scooby-Doo history! It's a revoloution! In fact, I'll tell you what I'm now going to do Right Now: I'm going to pop down to the shops, buy a newspaper, a Yorkie bar and a tent-peg, find the next airing of Scooby-Doo in the paper, eat the Yorkie bar, and watch Scooby Doo, trying to work out who's guilty.

And if I can't work it out I'll drive the tent-peg four inches into my own heart. (Sometimes, you just have to be stern with yourself.)


Anyways, it's adults that are the retards! A member of the public was asked recently on an LBC talk show: "How many kings called "Henry" have ruled England?" They replied "Well, I know there was a Henry the Eighth... err... three?"





I'd like to see them try and solve a Scooby-Doo mystery.







Comments from ages ago that I haven't bothered to reply to (I only hope you read this before you become the nervous, shivering wrecks that people become when deprived of me).


Gingery, and were they?

DJ, and the idea of me being correct twice within six months is a strange one, is it?

Bec, never, ever say "How about a good roasting?" to someone on the internet again! You'll end up dead (Or at least very, very tired!) in a garage in Worcestershire, I'm warning you!

Biscuit, you sick bastard! She's younger than me, for Christ's sake! I guess you hevan't read some of my earlier, I'm-here-because-I'm-angry posts. They sound like they were co-written by Gordon Ramsay and the Sex Pistols.

Rosie, err...?

Sara, how about getting a compass needle put in? You'd be able to tell the direction of Magnetic North wherever you are! I bet Ray Mears'd love it! He's probably got one himself!

Ant, err... are they? I don't know what kind of magasines you read! I always thought glamour models were the ones that sit around in designer clothes at fashion expos, but the only way you'd get me to visit a fashion expo is with a chloroform rag and a sack, so you may be right!



Comments from the most memorable day since 2003:

Wayne Rooney, I didn't know you could write! Well done!

Ant, I somehow don't think that applies to fluking-it-on-penalties-after-being-outplayed-for-120-odd-minutes, but who cares, eh?!

Gingery, anticlimax? I don't remember there ever having been an FA cup-final decided on penalties before! Any more nailbiting and people'd start to look like the Venus De Milo! I know what you mean, though - it was a bit of an anticlimax when Ferguson didn't actually self-destruct!

Biscuit, if you feel a warm glow, it's probably because a mob of Mancunians have set your house alight.

Betty, what is it with you? Just what has given you the idea that the entire male population of the universe are kiddy-fiddlers? We're not! Honest! (That Benitez looks a bit shifty, though, if you ask me!)

Shan, well, that's what happens when you consider horse-riding to be a proper sport!

Laura, "up the hammers" indeed. Can tell you're an East-Londoner! How many fans d'you reckon will manage to actually find their way to Cardiff? Nine? Ten?

Thanks, Mr. Scholes! Ha ha!









(Alright, Mr I'll Call-Myself-Wayne-Rooney (I know it's not really him - he can't read!), but it's the result that goes in the history books, not the level of play.)

Before we begin, on't bother with the post- it's rubbish. Just pop over to the bottom for a real gem!

Y'know what I think is really, really crap? What I hate more than I hate Tesco's? What makes me want to go out and throw bricks at small children?

...

(Oohh, just feel that anticipation!)

Well, it's actually really attractive women. No, not like that! I'm still batting for the same side (I feel like I've been fielding at Gully for most of the match, though!) But seriously, people, how can anyone stand those self-obsessed, moronic cunts with names copied from a map of rural Merionethshire (or the Bumper Ladybird Book Of Plant Names, whichever is cheaper) who call themselves "Glamour Models", wander around trendy places dressed like they physically can't carry any item of clothing without an italian name written on it - I knew a toddler who's quite like that, actually. He always seems to have Dolmio all over him. (Take that, toddler!) - and appear on reality TV because everyone else has too much self-respect.

God, I seem like a nutter, don't I? But glamour models really do make me want to rush off to the deep south and marry a farmyard animal. I can't stand 'em! (Glamour models, obviously. I've always loved farmyard animals. Especially geese. They're like lovely little walking car alarms.) Especially models with rich, attractive boyfriends who aren't me. They are the worst. Even models with poor, ugly boyfriends that are blatantly blackmailing-them-and-that-still-aren't-me-but-look-very-similar still manage to annoy me.


And I reckon I'm not the only one, either. I'll bet every man jack of you has at some point or other seen some shallow, egotistical, halfwit marching around on a catwalk and thought to yourself "I hope you trip over that loose shoelace, bitch!". And another thing: what's with the leave nothing to the imagination except the parts only a qualified gynaecologist should ever get to see up close clothes. They may all have beautiful, large, round, pert, barely-concealed breasts, but..


Hang on. Why are my nipples erect?









Leo, Yeah! Let's go and torch the Power Rangers too!

Bec (a little above yourself, perhaps?), Right. You're first to go. Prefer a light chargrill or a good, solid roasting?

Ant, for all we know, Leander both runs and works at a brothel, so it's best to keep an open mind about these things!

Laura, soon, soon! Mayhaps I'll even pose like Michaelangelo's David statue! (Repulsed, are we? Nevermind, then. Beats me what the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were doing making sculptures, anyway!)

DJ, if you can't think of anything nice to say, get a job in politics.

Sara, y'know what? I'm going to come over there and personally eat all your art coursework. And it'll serve you right, and all. Bitch.

Shan, aahh, how wonderful it must be to have a dog to set upon people! The power! You'll end up as the head of an Eastern Europeean millitary regime, I know you will!


Rosie, oh, I am sorry! Being as you make a habit of aiming kicks at my groin on a regular basis, I think bosom-based ("bosom-based" What a phrase!) retaliation is acceptable under the Geneva convention.

~(You can see what a friendly break-up Rosie and I had, can't you?)~

But seriously, don't stop blogging! we all love your blogs! I won't ever comment ever again!


Biscuit, I apologise in the way someone who regularly drops babies on their mother's toes can apologise. Tell you what - I'll kidnap you a supermodel, okay?

Rosie G, thank you so bloody much! I've been longing for a chance to tell you bloggers my legendary lion joke for ages! Listen up:

> Why did the Lion get lost?
> Because Jungle is massive!

Told to me by a slightly tipsy trendy-type-bloke in a coffee bar, my aim in life is to ensure the entire population of the Earth hears it at least twice. At least.

How do you know about my admiration for magical Ray Mears? I only saw him in a documentary a few days ago! But you can't deny he is clearly the coolest human being on Earth, can you? I bet he'd like my lion joke. He may even like your "doctor doctor" one, which -while good- is nowhere near lion-joke standard!

No, you can't.

What's today? The Fifteenth, isn't it? I haven't posted in a week! What must you think of me? I, like the Quality Entertainments division at ITV, have been neglecting my duty. How have you all been managing without continual updates on my depressingly predictable life?

Anyways, not too worry, I'm here now. Hang on - you do remember me, dontcha? I'm, y'know, the chap with the silly hat and the bad hair, remember? (Strange, that. Whenever I want people to think of me, I tend to describe the back of my head. God knows why. Probably something to do with hormones.)

Well I would tell you about my day, but I've got too big a heart to put you through such dreary things as my life.

Nope, instead I'm here to complain about growing up. Some people, like Kelly Osbourne and the cast of Jesus Christ; Superstar really need to grow up. Others, like The Pope and all the members of Motorhead who aren't Nazis, could do with being a bit younger. I, personally, (and let's face it - who else am I likely to be making a post about?) am too childish by half.

Now, teenage soul-searching and having the capability to post things to the internet aren't a very interesting combination for the innocent bystander. (Guilty bystanders love it. Especially Gary Glitter.) But what brought about this amazing self-discovery? Well, (Heh. Knew I'd find a way to slip in a bit of my life story here somewheres!) I spent three hours of my wonderfully valuable time on a three-hour psychology test last Friday, and spent a good three-quarters of the exam trying to think of the term "Primary Caregiver", resulting in an essay with "mummy monkey" and "daddy monkey" written all over it.




Want more? Well look, as they say in Lapland, at the evidence:

1) I whinge, I'm sorry to say, whenever I don't get something I want. I started doing this a while ago, but I only started noticing it recently. Nobody, but nobody, is immune from the whinging treatment. I can moan just as effectively at a male porn star as at an armed policeman. Neither of 'em would let my play with their gun. (God, that wasn't funny! I sound like Graham Norton's script writer!)

2) My hero is Tin Tin. I get the piss ripped clean out of me for this, but I really respect the man! He's brilliant!

3) While we're on the subject of wonderful fictional characters, Penelope Pitstop. Phwoar! She does things to me no real woman could! Aahhh, Penelope...

4) I prefer Irn Bru to champagne. Sorry Bollinger's, but perhaps if you tried adding more E-numbers...

5) Do I need a five? Bleeding shame, because I can't think of one. Hang on.. da-dum.. da-dum.. da-dum.... Oh yes: My spiritual home, dear reader, is the Ikea Playpen. I am not ashamed.


Well as you can probably tell, I could care less what you thought of that post. It's merely here to make sure you don't think I'm dead (seriously, if I died, how would you know? Oh, on that note:

6) Pure egotism.

Anyways, I think I'll have to ask my bank, in the event of my sudden death, to publish a post explaining the circumstances on here. How can I sleep at night, knowing that if I were to be taken from you at any moment you'd never know what happened?) and to satisfy my desire to get this out of my system before I start asking to be breast-fed and playing with a rattle.




Rosie, I'm terribly, terribly sorry. I beg you humbly for your forgiveness. I'm kneeling down as I type this, honest! Please forgive me!

Shan, the font, the size of the graphic, the fact that I keep going to the old site by mistake...

Chaos Fairy, Reckon I can't stay in for a month? Reckon I'm that weak-willed, that socially dependant that I can get my priorities straight enough to work when I need to? Bugger. You clearly know me better than I do!

Vindy, No Shit, Sherlock! Thanks for your support against Shan's new site, though!

Bec, just what are you saying about me? You clearly don't realise I am the perfect human being.

Ant D, yes, but you're studying history. All you need to do is to be able to insult dead dictators.

Shan, Indeed.

Sara, excuse my while I giggle at your pain... Thanks. Anyways, "maths coursework due" is not a phrase I want to hear now. Or ever again. In fact, careless use of the word "maths" has been known to reduce me to a shivering wreck, unable do do anything apart from long division.

Bec, as disgusting as what? What have you done? Tell me!

The Coelacanth, so BBC2 informed me the other day, managed to fake it's own death for 65 million years. During this period it spent it's time in the Western Indian Ocean, swimming around, arsing about and generally having a good time.

It got caught, of course. They found it in 1938, playing silly buggers off the coast of South Africa. But not only did it not get detention for the 65-million-years-odd it had bunked off, but it got made an endangered species. They even stopped people trying to eat it.

"What's the point in this?", I know you well enough to be sure you're wondering. (Except Dan Gingery, who was last seen in the act of "wondering" about ten years ago. I once pointed out to him that he was leading us down a road with six or seven identical barber's shops on it. His only comment was "This is Croydon, John - it doesn't have to make sense." In fact, he's the sort of person who could catch you cavorting naked in his back garden, open the window and shout "Watch it out there - it looks like rain." And keep a strainght face while doing it. Not that he's actually caught me cavorting naked in his back garden. But that is only a matter of time and alertness.)

Phew, those we're some hefty brackets! What in the name of sweet Jesus was I on about? Go back and check for me, would you?
...

Thanks. Well, my point is that I haven't been out anywhere now for about three weeks. It's not that I haven't meant to go out - I've skipped about twenty invitations ranging from distributing communist leaflets in central London somewhere to going to an indie-pop gig in Shoreditch. Not through any choice of my own, you understand, but merely because I am being forced at penpoint to revise for exams I'm guaranteed to fail anyway.

On the bright side, having been spurred on by the fish's example I reckon that by staying in for the next month or so I can convince the world in general (and it's examination boards in particular) that I am dead. Then it's away to the South Coast of Spain, grow a curly moustache and settle down as a seafood vendor. Sorted.






Rosie, people who are mean about your appearance have no right to be - due to the sheer amount of stuff you paste onto your face they've probably never even seen you!

DJ, for me? The last time a girl tarted herself up for me was international Pig Flight day!

Laura, Yeah! Powere to the wildly-mismatched-but-not-bothered-clothes-people! Today the catwalks, tomorrow the world!

And I may within the next few weeks get around to putting up a photo or two, merely to please shallow, superficial people like you who judge someone based on their appearance!

Yes. I fell into that like a fly into an expensive soup-of-the-day. Bitch.


Rosie Gingery, come to think of it, there is a reason why Dan's given up worrying about the abnormal. You.

Scottishfrog, don't you dare!

Sara, Difficult art coursework? Art coursework? Wimp!

Bec, what?! British women have me! They're clearly the luckiest group of people on the planet!

Ant, Spoken like a true Arsenal fan!

It seems to me rather a waste to bother learning foreign languages at all when foreigners spend so much time and effort learning English!

Vindy, does it? You'll be telling me the moon 'ain't made of cheese, next!

Shan, whoa! what the hell did you do there? You started whinging girlishly about your appearance, then with no warning whatsoever started talking like Mr T! Talk about split personality!

Don't be so catty about my readership - just because your site got the thumbs down!

And it is very, very pretty. But it's useless! imagine a bus timetable or a porn mag or something where the bit you want is twice the entire width away from where you're looking. And the text is smaller than Microsoft's legal print! I'm not trying to be cruel, I'm really not! I just want to be able to nose my way about your life more conveniently! Is that too much to ask?

Another excruciatingly camp post by me, but this time I feel the subject is justified. (Well, it's about as justified as is most of the crap I churn out, but since when has "quality" been a factor in my deciding what to post?)




Now. There are three things the British are renowned for being really slow at, and they're as follows:

1) The postal service
2) Any project involving contract workmen
3) Women adjusting their appearance in mirrors.

(Wow! I managed to stop the list at three without making a joke about achieving orgasm! Witness my amazing self control!)


The last of these is because ninety-nine point nine percent of the female population has a little part of their subconcious which sits dormant all their life, only becoming active when they pass by a mirror, at which time it'll go into action and activate the stare-mesmerised-at-own-image-while-twirling-hair reflex. Perfectly rational, normal females, not necessarily vain or madly obsessed with their appearance can spot a mirror and suddenly their hairdo/clothing/surgically altered physical features require more refurbishment than the Millennium Dome. If I was of a capitalist turn of mind, I'd probably have already invented the pay-as-you-go mirror, put one in every shopping centre and become the next Alan Sugar. As it is, I merely feel the need to place a convex funfair mirror somewhere prominent and watch chavettes spend hours in front of the bloody thing struggling to make 'emselves look normal.


Lest you think I'm sexist; men too find it necessary to stop in front of mirrors, either to ensure their I-don't-give-a-damn-what-I-look-like look is just right, or else to see if they've actually got visibly older while waiting for their partner to finish staring in the mirror. And here's where I stop sounding like a keen-eyed observer of this dreary world and start sounding like something out of a Woman's Own article - my mirror image is tormenting me! I can't stand the sight of myself! My hair is stupid beyond any possible attempt at description, my face looks freakishly like an album cover from the "Heavy Metal" section of Virgin Megastores, my dress sense is wilder than Liberachi's and my expresion reminds me quite strongly of the springy one from The Magic Roundabout. Every single time I see myself I get the feeling that I'm being head-hunted by bevvies of makeover show scouts.

I think the problem stems from the fact that I buy the most stupid items of clothing imaginable, realise that I can't possibly ever put them on while retaining any sense of self-respect at all, and then wear them anyway purely out of a grim determination to get my money's worth, having forked out vast sums of money for the bloody things. This is curable either by going shopping with a female not bound by any sense of tact whatsoever (and nothing is worse than shopping with a member of the opposte sex, up to and including most kinds of road accident.) or by simply being very, very skint. Like me.






Bec, I'm praying you're sense of humour is all it's cracked up to be!

Ant, my cleaning habits? My Cleaning Habits? That phrase is so blatantly stolen from a David Attenborogh documentary I'm going to have to feel really offended!

Shan, No! You've ruined your pretty little layout! Why? I haven't actually been able to emotionally bring myself to scroll down past that huge horrible graphic, and believe me, I've tried! Please, in the name of all that's holy, put the text somewhere near the screen!

Vindy, you misspelled "cheese"? Shame on you! You'll be putting a "K" in "crackers", next!

Sara, precisely what do you suffer in order not to fail art? I'll tell you: you have to draw stuff. Hardly Chinese water torture, is it?

DJ, I suspect that's an insult of one sort or another, but lack the political expertise to accuse you!

Def, I think the next thing on our agenda was postal stamps which require you to lick the back of your soverign's head before you can send your letter.

Gingery, hey - my aversion to things I don't understand is only natural!

Biscuit, "a more subtle kick"? Is it me, or does make less sense than your average set of Ikea instructions?

Shan, you had four bars of soap? What for - breakfast?

Sara, you love Shan, Saf and Cait? What about me? Don't I get a mention? You horrible, horrible person, you!

Laura, you do realise you're just inviting me to make "you're-a-ginger" jokes at you, dontcha?

Chaos Fairy, yes, but your compulsive obsession is random snogging, so my desire for quality supermarket produce is pretty much acceptable, dontcha think?

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!