To hell in a milk float

Oh the shame! The tortue!

Yesterday I.... I went to Asda. I'm terribly sorry, I really am. My sister's got this obsession with value for money, and wants to do stupid little things like "economy", for god-knows-what reason. So she's decided that I can't go to Sainsbury's when I want to and buy food, but must instead tell her everything I'm going to eat for one week in advance and then she'd go with my dad and do all the shopping for all of us for the week. "What's wrong with that", you say? "Lots of families do that, you greedy git!", I hear you cry. Well, I'll sodding tell you what's wrong with that. My sister now rules the house. She's even made it regulation for everyone to bow down and murmur "Hail, queen of the groceries!" when she passes by.

Another bloody thing:How much do you eat in a week, eh? No, not "Lots", the exact amount. Don't know, do you? Well, how in god's name am I supposed to know precisely what I eat in one week, and precisely the right quantity of it. And what if I want, say, a "Taste The Difference" Pannini, or a pack of Belgian Waffles in a hurry? What then? The system she's using simply does not allow for unforseen foodstuffs.

And she's taken to shopping at crappy, low-grade outlets like Asda, Tesco's and Battersea Dog's Home. This means I have to come along too, just to make sure she doesn't buy none of that "Economy" crap, neither. I had to call on the gods of Sainsbury's (may their spirits live forever!) to aid me in my hour of need, when she decided to get sweetcorn that wasn't Green Giant! Sweetcorn that isn't made personally by the Jolly Green Giant (who does exist, you faithless bastards!) is sacreligous, unholy, and tastes like it's passed through some's digestive system a couple of times already. Seriously, shopping at Asda is a horrible experience. They have this speaker system, see (yup, now in "rehab" mode!), that periodically subjects everyone in-store to an obnoxious, raucous American woman (just think, Americans: you share a country with this cow!) who tells us than we can get a free tulip for each kilogram of fresh cod we buy. How very helpful. (The real object of these announcements is clear, however: to give old people heart attacks with thier sheer 747-taking-off-during-a-rock-concert-in-the-middle-of-a-volcano volume, so they can be carried away, chopped up and put into Asda-price burgers.)

What's more is my sister's now got my dad hooked on the scheme! He's not buying cheaper crap, oh no. He wants wants me to buy economy this, and high-value that, not because we need to, but because it's cheap. And in my house, cheap, as manifested by my sister, is king. I think my dad and sister have some sort of quota system worked out - for each low-grade product he gets me to buy, she allows him one more luxury, or something like that - "saving money", it appears, means "I'll buy fifty quid's worth of caviar and you buy an artist's impression of a decent meal". New one on me, that.

And it's not like either system actually costs/saves us much money anyway. Her "Buy weekly, work out the price beforehand, don't buy anything without "Ox Turd" in the list of ingredients" system, and my "Buy stuff and eat it" system only have a net difference of about a fiver.

I don't even mind using economy products, provided they're from Sainsbury's. It's the one-shop-a-week system and the "No-Sainsbury's Products. Ever." idea that really get to me - I think I'm going to have to be the world's first (and only) Underground Supermarket Resistance Shopper, escaping the house Steve McQueen-style, and sneaking down to Sainsbury's, armed with nothing but a credit card and a shopping list. I'll forge Asda receipts, bribe checkout staff, sabotage delivery lorries and kidnap trolleys. The people of Sainsbury's will honour me as a hero, and there'll be songs and poems in my honour for all eternity.


Or I'll be submitted to a mental hospital.





Either way, I'll get a decent meal.








Rosie, No! They're advertising his Astoria gigs all over the place, but I've never even heard a song!

Trishey, better stop there. Otherwise it'll only end with me burning down ITV's television centre.

Elly, I hate Neighbours and Coronation Street equally!

Inbrederic, while you're there, hit a goth or two for me!

El Destructo Bunny, discount chocolate on Valentines day? The drawbacks of having an ocean in between you and youir bloke, eh!

Gingery, it's only compulsory if you pick up a girl capable of using a calendar. So find a chavette and you're okay.



Shan, your comment went:

>>They can't find my site! hee hee!
...
This, that, the other...
...
>>Hyperlink to your site!

Well done!


Whatever-rank-you-are-now Biscuit, who's giving out these promotions? I want one!

Trishey, no, I haven't been dead. I have, however, been completely out of touch with the plastic fiver community. (Shocking, isn't it!)

Betty, from some angles, Top Gear appears witty. That doesn't make it any more valuable than a bowlful of used sweetcorn. (Or Neighbours!)

Ahh, Valentines day today! The day where the twin forces of romantic affection and capitalist profiteering run hand-in-hand. Unfortunately, I'm unable to feel either force, seeing as I'm

A) Not in love, and
B) A socialist

It seems I'm not alone, however. My favourite radio station, XFM, today tried to do a Valentines feature where people could phone in and request love songs. Most people asked for angst rock or goth metal.

But I've got nothing against the Valentines Day idea, really. What's getting on my nerves for this one is the way everyone's treating new ideas as traditions. You know, people are selling things in high-street stores like crystalware with hearts on it, claiming that they're "Traditional English Love Trinkets" or whatever. I'd bet all the points on my Nectar card that traditional Englishmen have never so much as loved a single trinket in all their born days. And restaurants are providing special meals for couples and things under the guise of "Our age-old Valentine feast for two" or some similar nonsense. No it isn't. It's your "Only invented yesterday by the assistant manager to use up whatever random ingredients are left over from last night's "Age-old pre-Valentines day feast for two special" and which costs twice as uch as Prince Charles' sperm, with no noticeable difference in taste" is what it is. And they trot out the most filthy stuff possible on Valentines day, because they know that nobody will interrupt a sweet, romantic meal to loudly complain to the waiter and get themself and their loved one thrown out of the restaurant.

But on the other hand, it's not all bad - they usually put brilliant stuff on TV on valentines day, because they know that single people are going to stay in all day, refusing to go out and see they sickeningly happy couples swanning around the place.

In other news, I went to London yesterday. Yes I know where I am.But I grew up in the suburbs, and so I define "London" as "parts of the capital thet are closer to the City than my house". So, yesterday, I went to London, scampering faithfully along at the heels of Dave, Greg, Dan, Rosie, Will and Charlie. Interesting fact: Yesterday marked the first day of the Chinese year of the Rooster. Nice bloody time we picked to visit the place! There was a Sainsbury's, though, so the day wasn't a complete waste.







Update for lonely people who didn't get a card:

I opened up paint with the intention of drawing a teriffically witty image of cupid with Ozzy Osbourne's head, but it sort of turned into some surrealist classroom image thing. Ah well. In the name of art:



Click it, my lovelies!







I currently have about ten minutes to post this before valentines day is over. Perhaps I should wait, and post it at midnight...

...

No. 'Fraid not. It seems my brain won't let me sit still for the remaining nine point five minutes. Accept this humble card, my loved ones, with all the romance in my heart! (To be honest, there isn't an awful lot of romance in my heart! In fact, the estimated redeemable value of my romantic feelings is worth about three quarters of a Nectar point.)







Trishey, Safe in the knowledge that I'm at least three hundred miles away, Coronation Street is crap! It isn't interesting, exciting, clever, funny or original in any way whatsoever. It, along with every single soap ever produced, is the televisual equivalent of pissing in a shot glass - you can do it, but it's not very pleasant, and there's no point to it anyway.

DJ, you misspelt "typo"! Now that, class, is irony.

Tweed, don't be so easily satisfied! Homing devices on remotes? Pah. I'm holding out for telepathic TV sets.

Shan, if people at your school visit this site, they can easily get your details from comments on previous posts. Not so smart now, are we, miss "Oh-look-at-me-I'm-safe-from-spam", eh?

Happypillgirl, Sainsbury's was actually founded by a couple - John James and Mary-Ann Sainsbury. Nice try, but no cigar.

Biscuit, I respect you as a god among men. Any time you want assistance on a bank heist, gang rape or furniture restoration project, just give me a call.

Charlie, you may possibly be right. In which case, remotes make brilliant lovers - how many men can turn someone on from up to fifty feet away and require nothing more than two AA batteries?

Shan, as far as I'm concerned, Stonehenge, along with the leaning tower of Pisa, Noah's Ark and the Statue of Liberty, was built by Jesus. (The pyramids were built by Aladdin.)

Fifty odd years ago, computers were about as mentally powerfull as the average scally, weighed as much as the average American and were about as reliable as the average Sky Weather bulletin - not a brilliant situation. But now look at 'em! They enable you to read my (admittedly pretty awful) ramblings while crouching in an underwater nuclear bunker surrounded by twenty-five tons of slowly rotting spam tins halfway across the globe if you wanted to! And you don't need to be a crane driver to move them about! (The computers, that is, not the spam tins.)

But who cares? What's interesting is that with all this technogically miraculous ...stuff, TV remotes (and you thought I was being philosophical, poor naieve fool that you are!) are approximately the same size as a rhino's surfboard. "Why is this, oh wise one who thinks he knows about technology?" I hear you ask, kneeling reverently at my feet. Read on, my children:

Well, I reckon that there are a number of reasons, the most obvious being the nomadic tendencies of the TV remotes. As everyone who has ever had to get up and physically change the channel, (thinking deep thoughts about the questionable priorities of a society which aims to ban fox hunting in order to prevent cruelty, but takes no precautions whatsoever to prevent it's citizens having to manually change the channel, naturally) it is clear that TV remotes, like American Indians, invading Mongol hordes and pikies, are prone to moving camp regularly, and it takes very strenuous efforts on the part of those-important-
-looking-people-who-are-in-charge-but-probably-shouldn't-be to keep it under control. And, when your TV remote is prone to making a break for freedom every so often, it's alot easier if the bloody thing can't hide itself under a teacup.

Also, the buttons on TV remotes have to be large enough for the nation's toddlers to operate without any danger of choking to death or interrupting Coronation Street. Due to the sheer wisdom of Sony, Panasonic and the like, their parents can go out for the evening safe in the knowledge that their darling little chav-in-training can spend their time without any danger of eating the remote or thinking an original thought.

It seems, does it not, that when TV remotes are bigger things are better for all concerned. Rather like that other device which works best when you push the right buttons and which you're all currently thinking of, sick perverted people that you are. (Americans, this does not apply to you. We all know that you never stop thinking about the subject in question.)







Monkage, the only thing stopping me from immediately rushing out and quizzing women on their masturbation habits is my deep-rooted sense of self-preservation.

Bec, Shan, Elly and everyone else who has nothing better to do than define "pagans", who built stonehenge then, smartarses!

Dan, If I wrot the papers, those pages would say something along the lines of "Do it, punk. Scribble on me - make my day, pussy!"

Matt, give your size, you could be the world's first monkey butler! It's an honour, realy it is!

Why is an iron called an iron when it isn't iron? This is the sort of thing that floats through one's head while one does the ironing. Not that I make a habit of doing the ironing, of course. Come to think of it, the same thing could be said of Irn Bru - it's not brewed, and there's no iron in it! (Actually, I know the glorious history of Irn Bru's name - but that's another story!)

Well, anyways, ironing. I, personally, am looking forward to the day when we all have robot butlers. At the rate they're going, we'll never have them at all - in the fifties, they said we'd have flying cars and robot butlers and all sorts of wonderfull things, and what've we got? Tamagotchis, micro-scooters and speed cameras. March of bloody progress my arse.

Not alot about ironing there, was there? Ah well. Actually, since the science of technology has let us -let me- down, why not hire a sheepdog trainer to create monkey slaves? Just think of it - monkey slaves! That'd be brilliant! In fact, the great Ross Noble had a similar idea, didn't he? But I can't post that here - what with plagarism and copyright laws and things. Honestly.

I'd love a trouser press, as it happens. I know it's just as complicated, tedious and annoying as ironing using an, erm, iron. But there's alot of satisfaction in subjecting the clothes that are getting on your nerves to a good old pressing, and there's the added benefit that each and every trouser press comes with written authorisation to say "Very good, Sir" to people and swan around calling yourself Jeeves.

Ironing. I started out telling you about the useless activity that is ironing. But I really can't be bothered - I may do so later when I don't have any ironing to do.









Trishey, as far as I know, witches ARE pagans.

Sorcha, any male person in that situation would have simply done up the fly there and then, covering up the "Zzzz-zzitt!" sound with a loud belch.

Monkage, if only 10% admit it, how do they know about the other 65%?

Sara, I think the thing about the taxi that depressed you could have been the number on the mileage clock.

Matt, bunk a few more lessons yourself and you'll be a tramp yourself, so be nice to 'em while you can!

Charlie, the homeless, by definition, are the people who don't have homes. People without homes can't recieve the dole, by law. So don't be a callous bastard!

Dan, that's another thing - thay have a sixty-foot cliff-face that stretches out for about four miles in each direction, and the council thinks to itself "Well, unless we put up a sign post, people may not notice it" and you get the whole "Attention: That thing behind you? Well, that's a cliff, that is." Bloomin' politics.

It's an ugly thing, is self-loathing. But everyone gets it. Even (gasp, shock, horror) me! And I, of course, am perfect in every way.

You're supposed to get it after masturbating, stealing or stabbing someone in the back. (All you horny, back-stabbing thieves out there are probably one step away from suicide. Shame.) But not me. I get it either for stupid reasons , or for no reason whatsoever. Things like eating the last Jaffa Cake (along with the twelve before it!) or not giving every single note, coin and hockable jewellery item I have to the fat bloke with a collecting tin outside Sainsbury's. (But then - for me, shopping at Sainsbury's is a form of masturbation).

Or sometimes, I'll catch sight of myself in a mirror, pause, and think "God, I look like a pillock!" the proceed to spend twenty minutes trying to imagine what people passing by must think of me. Or (and this really messes with my head) I'll hear myself on an answerphone message. And spend the next week haunted by the sound of my own -terrible- voice.

But yesterday evening, slap bang in the middle of a delicous meal I'd waited all day for, I suddenly started to hate myself. I hadn'd hoisted the food from a starving tramp, and I wasn't snacking on human entrails, I just began to hate my own existence, my life, and everything I stand for (not an awful lot, admittedly!). I now reckon there is a section of the brain that has the job of kicking in and doing this to you just when things are going well - a kind of "anti-cocky-bastard" reflex. The only downside to this theory is that I get it on a purely random basis, not just when I'm in a particularly good (or bad) mood. The last time I got it - and the inspiration for this post - was a while ago, on the bus. There were some noisy, smelly, ugly little toddlers running round, and I was just about hanging on to life, about twelve hundred yards from my stop, when I suddenly caught myself thinking "What I wouldn't give to be able to shoot just one of 'em!" Then, went my magnificent brain in all its wisdom, "Hang on a tick - that's not right! Shooting toddlers for amusement?" and then the self-loathing kicks in.

The one cure (apart from a massive dose of crack, obviously) is to have someone immediately on hand to loathe at instead. My personal solution is to keep a signed photograph of Jerry Springer at instant readiness at all times.








Trishey, Sun god -> Yellow -> Mac. I think that everyone was confused by that (rather stupid) reference, but only you cared enough to point it out. Which is ironic, because if you post any more photos of blood red/vomit green eyes about the place, you're the one who'll be burnt at the stake.

Betty, you can see nothing erotic in a woman wearing nothing apart from a loose-fitting mac standing under a shower nozzle, and you're making wild accusations about b-list celebrities' sexual activities!

Monkage, yes, he can, but is that really a possibility before the first date?

Shan, you didn't leave Blogspirit for another weblog site, you created one. That means, in my book, you didn't leave Blogspirit, you transcended it!

Dan, we're a special breed, we are. I have a deep respect for all those who approach "Wet Paint", "Unsafe Ground" and "Danger: Toxic" signs in a spirit of energetic enquiry!

Is it me, or is the weather getting sexier and sexier? Back in the old days, when Vinnie Jones played for the Dons and BBC newsreaders would use the word "Gentlemen" alot, the weather adverts used to be all about harming the environment, but in a very hardcore, manly sort of way. Things like power stations and steam trains and things. Nowadays, it's just some bloke throwing a stick for his dog, or a woman in a huge anorak with an umbrella. Pathetic.

In case you're wondering, there is a reason for this mindless drivel. I've just lost a tremendously witty post about one of my numerous mad aunts due to that stupid sodding Blogspirit logout thing! And so this post has been decided randomly by fate (heavily disguised as the ITV's programme schedule) and will center around the Powergen advert I've just witnessed.

Well, the ad was basically a short clip of some skinny bint in a shiny yellow mac standing in a shower, while a voiceover says "The weather, sponsored by Powergen - safe, clean energy" Give it three months, and the commercials'll all be "Cheap backstreet electricity - you know you want it, bitch!". I can't wait.

Anyways, the most interesting thing (apart from the naked model, obviously) was the fact that she was wearing a fluorescent yellow mac. Either she'd also been doing commercials for British Rail or ITV are trying to appeal to pagans. Though, on second thought, "Buy from powergen - the energy provider of the vengeful sun god of the east" is more likely to appear on a heavy-metal album cover than on internatial television. But then there's always MTV.

My guess is the people who thought up the ad campaign just all happened to be wearing macintoshes.




Anyhow, advanced marketing bollocks aside, ("Bollocks aside"! Brilliant phrase - I must start to use it more often!) it sems to me that as it gets closer to Valentine's day all the single girls are having trouble telling whether the blokes they are interested in are serious. (Except Laura, who's more interested in getting me and Rosie into bed with her at the same time. Freak.) Well, seeing as you all know what a genius I am when it comes to dirty teenage romance, I feel you're all looking to me to provide some solution. Well, I'm sorry to say thee's only one solution, but it's quite simple:

If you want to know whether or not a bloke is really interested in you, simply throw a stick.

If he fetches it, he's interested.






Dave, I manage it by a strict policy of aggressive neglect when it comes to schoolwork.

Rosie, You're not worthy! He's quite possibly the classiest human being on the planet! You don't even have the right to fantasise!

Sorcha, go back to the psychiatric institution - the keepers are worried about you!

Betty, You can't accuse the bloke of that! You sicko! Feel ashamed! And you're saying "dude" for one simple reason - Keanu Reeves exists.

Tweed, that's actually an actor portraying me.

Laura (the original), there's more than one Laura in the world, you know. I can see how confused you must have been reading that. Well don't worry - you're the bestest Laura ever!

Dan, come to think of it, you do strike me as the sort of person who sees "Unbreakable" as not a selling point, but a challenge.

Biscuit, don't worry, you can now buy groupies on Ebay.

Fi, is that you're way of subtelly trying to indicate that you have a cold? Well, somewher in a previous post I mention the perfect cold remedy. Do some research, girl.

Molet, some smug bastards I know (who shall remain nameless, won't they, Ian and Martin etc?) actually managed to get tickets to Green Day's American Idiot tour! The bastards! They'd sold out in less than fourteen hours of going on sale. I personally reckon they've sold their parents, souls and kidneys to get the tickets.

Mistyblue, Well, you're probably the first stalker (barring Fi!) to ask for permission beforehand! And if I catch someone hiding in my bin, I'll think twice before calling the police. Carrot, baby.










~UPDATE~

Firstly, It's my proud duty to inform you that Matt owns a blog! It's here, (and he thought of the title without any help from the Sex Pistols!)

Secondly, I think you people win the record for the sheer speed at replying to any post ever. It went out this afternoon, and I come in to find a whole load of comments sitting quietly underneath what was, quite frankly, a stupid and meaningless ramble through nothingness. Well done!

Well, seeing as I'm far too lazy to make another post today, I'll reply to your comments, which are far from pleasant, by the way - you've discussed the merits of stalking, the undesirability of sleeping with me, the abnormality of my face and questioned my sanity. I don't deserve this, people, I really don't!



Sara, stalking a boring person would probably be alot like watching Trisha... except it provides more exercise and you get to meet new people. Fair enough, the new people are all members of the police force...

Charlie, I'm not the best at relationships in the world, but I'm pretty sure that throwing a stick for a girl to fetch isn't the best way of seeing if she likes you. (Whether she wants you institutionalised, however, that's another matter.)

Janelle, TRAITOR! Leave Blogspirit why don't you? Hmph!

Charlie (again), yup - It must have been posted after Johnny started posting, and I deleted it by accident. Sorry! Stick it on again if you can remember what you said.

Rosie, hey - I'm the (self-appointed) gatekeeper of Taka Hirose's sex life, thankyou very much! And you really know how to flatter a chap, dontcha?

Trishey, when I say "Throw a stick", I bloody well mean "Throw a stick"!

Molet, I think you'll find you can have a face like that. Provided you hit it with a bus, first.

Elly, right, fine: "Naked apart from a mac" I hope you're bloody well satisfied, now!

Why is it always the people I don't know or like that get all the good luck, eh? It's now reacehd the stage where there are several international lottery syndicates which specify "A bitter personal hatred of John" as the number one rule for entry. In fact, when they trot out the "One in three smokers die a horrible, painful smoking related death" statistics, people around me get nervous - every single smoker I know will almost certainly become part of the unlucky 1-in-3's.

Anyways, The fact of the matter is this. One of my sister's grubby, annoying little friends got to meet Taka Hirose, the Feeder bassist a while ago. How in god's name is that fair? It means that I had to go grovelling for autographs and photos and things, not so much shelving my pride as strapping it to a suitcase filled with bricks and dropping it in the Thames. Well, on the condition that I don't remove her face from it and replace it with my own, I've somehow managed to coax her into lending me a photo of the two of them:

But, of course, that's when I first got it. I personally prefer this image, however:







Also, she got an autograph. I'm sure there's some law about putting other people's signatures online. You know, in case someone gets hold of their credit card. Ah well:







So, girls, if you ever find yourself ascending to the highest peak of groupiedom, try and slip your hand into his pocket and steal his wallet. Also, don't spit or swallow - I'll buy that off you, too.






Elly, where could you research that? Nope, I just know a couple of sluts.

Charlie, my source of information is Laura and Allison. And they ougt to know. (Actually, that's what Laura's doctor said. Or what Laura said to her doctor. Or what the lord said to Laura's doctor in a dream, also predicting the death of the western world for their crimes against Allah. Or something like that.)

"Aunty", bloody typical. You've just turned eighteen and you're already trying to appear as a mother figure!

Dan, it's not protected from you - "foolproof" was not one of it's many qualities!

Dave, could it be... a small dog?

Phone companies are probably the most unscrupulous, hard hearted uncaring swine ever to float themselves on the stock market (since Tesco's, obviously).

I bought a new phone yesterday. It took about ten minutes, max. I walked into the shop, went up to the bloke at the desk, pointed to a phone, said "Ahr warnt thart wunn" Little-Britain style (Americans, you don't know what you're missing) and gave him my dad's credit card number. Simple.

It now remains for me to cancel my old phone subscription. This is probably the one thing guaranteed to bring someone down off of a hefty dose of extacy or something.

My first step was to send the phone company an email asking 'em just how one cancels a subscription. The replied about two seconds later to the effect that I would need some sort of authorisation number, and I could phone up to get it. Now, get this - the people you have to phone are called the "Loyalty Team" (already I'm feeling a touch of guilt, deep down) "Customer Careline" (They care, and here I am dumping them like a hot brick. What an arsehole I must be).

Next, I phoned the Loyalty Team up, and a quiet, gentle chap answered. I expect he must be a renegade priest or something, because he sounded like he was talking to the relatives of the desceased. I could hardly bring myself to tell him I wanted out. When I did, he told me that I was eligible for a free mobile worth up to £350 (top of the range, in other words) based on my credit rating if I kept with the same tariff (The marketing equivalent to "I know I my be hard to live with, but I can change, darling"). I told him I preferred to have a £350 mobile, but on a better tariff, which took him about five minutes to understand. And when he did, it broke his heart. I almost offered to meet him somewhere to talk things over. Anyway, he then gave me another number to ring (I guess he just wasn't ready to meet my personal and emotional needs!)

So I called this number, and spoke to what must have been the model citizen of Romford. The type of girl who has a job answering phones because she can't do anything other than speak in [something vaguely resembling] the English language. The sort of girl who is kept separate from the public at all times by five men in Timberland boots with Staffordshire Bull Terriers. Anyways, she started off our conversation by saying someting along the lines of "Hello, this is your phone company, your call is dearly valuable to us, please state your business", which is the marketing equivalent of "Talk, bitch". I told her I wanted to cancel my account, and she told me I'd need authorisation from the person in whom the contract's name was held (ie my dad) and the authorisation code given to me by the bishop I'd spoken to earlier (the market equivalent of "I'm not talking to you"). When I informed her I had both to hand, she offered to put me through to someone else for quicker processing (equivalent: "I'm telling mummy").

It turned out I could have spoken to a machine in the first place, and got it over with in minutes. When I did manage to call it up, it was kind enough to tell me they don't operate the service at weekends anyway. I've been thinking about it, and the conclusion I've come to is that it wasn't talking about the contract closure service, but their entire phone operations system. Which would mean the people I'd been talking to were not trained staff, but most likely just homeless people who'd sneaked into the empty office for the weekend and heard the phone ringing. Which seems more credible than the idea that someone pays to wind customers up.



Anyways, the new phone is a Nokia 5140 (which means nothing to me, but I'm sure there are technology people going "Oh you're a fool, the 5140! Why? You should have gone for the 5139.5-extra, you idiot!). All I know is that it is shockproof, heat-resistant, splash-resistant, dustproof and weighs about the same amount as a small dog. If it was an athlete it'd be George Foreman, if it was a political organisation it'd be the Soviet Union. As it is, it's currently lounging around in my back pocket. I feel embarassed to admit it, but I was even considering naming it! (Shh, don't laugh, it may hear you.)








Charlie, if both parties are under eighteen, but not both fifteen, it's illegal. It they're both fifteen it's legal.

Rosie, what's useful about bicicles? 1) You get somewhere fast, and 2) They're easy to ride!

Tweed, yes but out there the won't let teenagers drink alcohol.

Dave, that's not going to win you the friendship of the female population of Blogspirit. And they're a violent lot, so watch it.

Kat, Join Blogspirit! Livejournal is the Tesco's of the blogging world! (Just out of interest, does the "XXX" signify you're a porn star, or are you merely the star of a hollywood blockbuster?)

Biscuit, you've opened up the possibility of lousy Freddie Mercury jokes. Feel ashamed.

In the (slightly altered) words of Badly Drawn Boy, "Ooohh.. ..something to blog about..."


Well, I caused actual bodily harm to a mate at Tae-Kwon-Do the other day, probably causing him to harbour a subconcious grudge all the way to adulthood, when he'll invite me round to his house for a dinner party, cut me up and feed me to his other guests. Ah well. What happened was, I decided to opt for the unorthodox tactic of rugby-tackling my opponent, who, lying on the floor with me looming over him (Funnily enough they don't teach you that, looming. If I was in charge, "How to loom effectively" would be on the curriculum. Very valuable skill to have.) at which point I swung to try and pin his arm down. Thinking quickly, he protected his arm with his face! The result was simple: enough blood to feed Michael Howard for a week coming out of his nose.



In other news, I -- It's always "me, me, me" on this blog, isn't it? In fact, I'm extremely suprised that Rosie hasn't yet pointed this out! Well, I was going to sing the praises of London Transport, who in their infinite wisdom, decreed that I should be able to catch the early bus today (cue resounding cheer from all my loyal fans!) But I'm not, now.

Instead, I'm going to talk about, err, the Queen. (I think there is absoloutely no doubt about which country I'm from now, is there?) Well, what I was wondering earlier today was whether Her Majesty would be allowed to have plastic surgery. I mean on the one hand, she's like, y'know, the Queen and all, so who's going to stop her? Elvis Presley's dead, so the only kings left are Lemmy, king of Metal and the kings of clubs, diamonds, hearts and spades. On the other hand, they'd have to change all the stamps and things around. Plus, if they ever make a Her-Royal-Highness-the-Head of-the-State-of-Great-Britain-and-Northern-Ireland-Barbie-Doll, would the use the pre-surgery Queen, or the post-surgery one? I suppose they could do a plastic surgery spinoff - two verions of the doll - the Queen Original and the Queen Extra. They could even do a feature - "Plastic surgery Queenie barbie"! I'd buy it.

I suppose she could have a boob job, because her breasts don't (currently) appear on stamps. And if she wanted to have Michael Jackson-esque style alterations she could probably make some sort of excuse to the Cabinet, saying it was a measure to stop terrorists recognising her or something.


There. See - I'm not as shallow as you thought, eh?







Charlie, there's stupid, and there's stupid. Top of both lists is "Impersonating a fictional character".



Rosie, It's simple. I'm saying she has sex up trees!

(Wheras most girls have sex up their vaginas, tee hee!)



Elly, okay. "People wear suits to boring places like offices and weddings therefore... ...if you turn up naked, you'll feel a bit out of place."


Sara, that could mean more or less anything, that could. You could have done anything from swearing at someone on television (In my opinion, that's the modern equivalent of voodoo.) to kidnapping a small child to sell on Ebay.


Andrea, there is a simple remedy for brain-the-big-word-that-you-used-ness, and that's the puzzles page of the Metro newspaper! It provides an interesting alternative to classwork, anyway.


Dan G, cricket isn't realy confusing (in fact, it's the only sport that inbred toffs with testicles like sweetcorn that can't keep track of their own dribbling are capable of understanding), but it probably scoops whatever awards are going for the most repetetive most repetitive most repetitive repetitive repetitive sport ever.


Eric, I just have an overactive conscience (which takes to form of an angel. But not in a homoerotic, lord-of-the-fairies sort of way) Plus, I'd been copying up the last fortnight's homework. And copying homework, as every student knows, is the viagra of the conscience!


Monkage, I'm not too young (the age of consent is now technically fifteen), just too innocent!
I think it's been summed up time and time again on what must be the only tit-slogan worth reading - "Brits do it better!"

I'm currently in school, the satisfaction of sitting around doing sweet, sweet sod all while everyone else works being tempered by the annoyance of having lost about ten successive games of cards despite having cheated.

Everyone has a spiritual home, or so they say, and mine is not in a physics lesson right now. I would have gone, but I have a rock solid defence:

The angel that resides on my right shoulder -
"We open this trial with the accusation by the plaintiff, John's conscience, that the defendant, John, callously and cruelly deprived his physics class of his presence, causing irreprable harm to the education process." John, you lazy git, how do you plead?"

The winged pig that resides on my left shoulder -
"Err, not guilty!"

Angel -
"Then how do you explain the fact that you're sitting here typing out some sort of mental court case instead of sitting in physics, eh?"

Winged Pig -
"Well, it's like this...

Firstly, I've forgotten where the lesson is, and under subsection B paragraph 3 of John's Moral Code, if John's lesson involves more than a 300 yard walk, John does not have to turn up to said lesson. Since finding my physics class would involve a trip around the school in search of the classromm, the estimated distance of travel is greater than 300 yards.

Secondly, The teacher for today is Dr Who, and The Ministry For John's Education guidelines make no mention of fictional characters being able to qualify for educational employment opportunities.

Thirdly, I have maths in about an hour, and I'm physically unable to cope with both maths and physics in succession.

I rest my case."

Angel (now brandishing rolled-up school book like sceptre) -
"In view of you history of grevious bodily task avoidance, I find you guilty. I reccomment the maximum penalty this court is capable of applying - you must work extra hard in maths to make up for it. Court Dismissed"










Rosie, that's because you've updated your blog twice in about a month! Out of sight, out of mind! Do you really want me to talk about you, or are you just angling for a poem too, eh?

Trishey, Just who is this mysterious French connection?

Biscuit, I think you'll find that gatevrashing a wedding reception is the easiest thing in the world (apart, perhaps, from gatecrashing a barn-dance). Just look as though you're supposed to be there and people will automatically assume you're part of the other family. Until you get sauced and expose yourself to both sets of parents.

Elly, Rosie's friend afrogirl is probably the world class expert on that subject. Tarzan just doesn't compare!

Andrea, golf isn't the most boring sport - you're forgetting Showjumping!