Friday, 25 April 2008
I was amused to hear a young chap break off from his mobile phone call in the Sainsbury's Local across the road and ask the cashier "Can I get 20 Benson & Hedges?" My understanding is that that request is normally reserved for transactions in coffee shops.
Anyway, the cashier said yes, but then picked up the cigarettes himself, which, strictly and accurately speaking, is not what the young mobile phone chap asked.
The young mobile phone chap was asking if it was physically possible for himself to take a packet of 20 Benson & Hedges from the shelf.
The only honest reply from the cashier should have been "In theory, yes, but it is company policy to discourage customers from walking behind the counter."
Ideally, the customer should have asked, "Please may I have 20 Benson & Hedges?" But I imagine he would not have found that sufficiently cool to impress the person at the other end of his telephone call.
So he had to use a form of words he has probably heard in the TV programme Friends. It probably made him feel a little bit like Chandler Bing, but more sexually successful.
In a way I pity him, but in another way I despise him.
Thursday, 24 April 2008
I was minding my own business, as is my wont*. I try not to mind other people's businesses, having enough on my own plate, thank you for asking. I'm not even sure how you could mind other people's businesses, unless it was a bit like in EastEnders, where Pete Beale used to ask random cast members to look after the stall while he went off to have a barney with Kathy, Den or Pat, and then call Sharon "Tweacle."
Anyway, I think I've put you in the picture as to my state of mind, if not my location. I was walking along a road, with a pavement of decent width, when the aforementioned little old lady hoved into view, swinging her long white stick.
As a result I went into full blind-person-coming-readiness. Now, as I walked I noticed there was a lamppost ahead, with a car illegally parked with its nearside wheels on the pavement, leaving a very small gap. I've a certain degree of sympathy with the driver as it was a narrow road and I absolve him of blame for the incident which was to occur.
The blind old lady was approaching at, I assumed, normal blind old lady speed, sweeping her cane ahead of her. I was confident that I would reach the lamppost before her and could nip around it, enabling both of us to go on our way. After all, I'm reasonably spry, and, crucially, sighted.
How wrong I was. The little old blind lady was walking at least as fast as me. She reached the lamppost before me, blocking my path with the sweep of her cane and I had to fling myself into the small gap between the parked car and the lamppost, grazing my elbow on the lamppost.
She, of course, was unaware of the distress she had caused and continued on her speedy way, scattering chickens and small children who ventured into her path.
I had no idea that blind people could move so fast. However later last night, I found the film Daredevil on BBC Three, and that answered a lot of my questions.
Apparently, blind people's remaining four senses are so acute they can balance on high wires, beat up an entire bar of hoods and brigands, deflect a hail of bullets with some sort of magnetic field, by the look of things, and make out people's features just by hearing the sound of raindrops falling on their faces. Avoiding a lamppost at speed would be child's play to these people.
So it wasn't an accident. That evil little old moo made me hurt myself on purpose. Damn her to hell. And then beat her. And then damn her to hell again.
*Not sure what a wont is, will look it up later.
Monday, 21 April 2008
Anybody found laughing at jokes about John Prescott's bulimia is frankly beyond the pale.
I mean, anybody who points out that there's a difference between bulimia and eating so much you're sick is not welcome at this blog.
Similarly, anybody who says that we need to tell Prescott that it's not bulimia unless you actually vomit after you gorge yourself is also banned.
Finally, those who say they are looking forward to reading about Ann Widdecombe's sex addiction and Heather Mills's restless legs syndrome in next week's Sunday Times must also go somewhere else for their sick thrills.
I hope I've made myself clear.
Thursday, 17 April 2008
Tuesday, 15 April 2008
D:Ream on, you Irish snake-oil merchants. Tell that to the victims of the credit crunch. I think you'll find that the value of stocks and shares can go down as well as up.
I'm Like A Bird (Nelly Furtado)
No, Nelly, you are a bird. The clue's in your name, which is traditionally associated with women. Although there is that rapper.
For Your Eyes Only
Well, I can only speak from experience, but when I saw this James Bond film at the Classic cinema on Allerton Road in Liverpool in 1981, there were loads of people there. And I don't recall hearing anybody saying afterwards, "What was all that about? Couldn't see a thing. What do you think about the new Adam And The Ants single/upcoming Royal Wedding, by the way?"
I Believe I Can Fly (R Kelly)
I'm going to call you out on this, R Kelly. I don't think you really believe that. If you do, you've had your brain addled by all that under-age sex. Either way, you can't.
Ain't Talkin' About Love (Van Halen)
Actually, Mr Van Halen's singer, you go on about not talkin' about love at great length. Now, as far as I'm concerned, if you say constantly you're not talkin' about something, that's the same as talkin' about it.
No, Val Kilmer. Like George Clooney, your replacement, you only played Batman once.
Boys Don't Cry (The Cure)
When I was eight, I was cycling down my road, which was on a hill. I fell off, skidding down the road on my arm. I still have the scar. Let me tell you, I cried. I'm not ashamed to admit it. And I know I'm not alone in this. Anthony McMahon cried all the time and he was one of the toughest boys in my class.
Monday, 14 April 2008
They asked Miss Hynde (impertinently, in my opinion): Is sex important to you?
This was her reply: "I guess it is, but that doesn't mean I have to have it. Sex can be just about the way you walk down the street."
Now that is an eye-opener. I've been round the block. I know things. I've watched documentaries on Five. I thought I was unshockable.
But I did not know that, walking down the street, I could be looking at people walking towards me . . . and they're doing SEX!!! Blatantly!!! Not caring who is watching!!!
I don't know, maybe they do care. Maybe that's part of their sick thrill. I mean, how dare they? How bloody dare they?
Now it all becomes clear. All those people standing there, smoking outside my office. They're having post-coital cigarettes, aren't they?
I don't know. I thought there was enough to worry about in this world, without worrying about walking down the road and accidentally doing sex.
I hate Chrissie Hynde now. There's no way I'm becoming vegetarian after this.
* I am so clever. You see, Don't Get Me Wrong is a Pretenders song. I tried to weave other Pretenders titles in, but it proved too tricky.
Thursday, 10 April 2008
Anyway, it turns out that if you put the search term "Noam Chomsky Alan Titchmarsh" into blogsearch.google.co.uk, THIS is the only blog which mentions both of those luminaries in the one post.
I find that frankly astonishing. They're both leaders in their field (or garden, in the case of Titchmarsh, Ha! LOL! ROFFLE! LMAO! LFL!). Why would nobody else speak of them in the same breath? How dare they, how bloody dare they?
So my challenge to you is this. If you are a regular, or irregular, blogger, please give the pairing a mention. Let's give the Titchmarsh/Chomsky axis the kudos it deserves.
Wednesday, 9 April 2008
I don't know if he would be very good at all the day-to-day stuff like making things work and that, but I'm 100 per cent convinced that he would make a decent fist of shambling along a bit later on to say sorry with his blond hair and sheepish grin.
Also, I don't think David Cameron would let him do anything on his own. He'd get that tough Australian man to make all the important decisions and leave Boris to do all the bike riding and scrumping and sex. Which I'm sure would suit Boris.
In fact, the only downside to Boris getting the big job is that he wouldn't be able to do Have I Got News For You so much any more, but maybe that would leave an opening for other guest presenters like Noam Chomsky or Dame Judi Dench or Alan Titchmarsh or one of those.
It's nothing to do with me because I don't live in London, but I'm reminded of when I was a student and there was a big campaign to make Reg Holdsworth off of Coronation Street the new chancellor, even though that wasn't even his real name.
Tuesday, 8 April 2008
I got myself a new pair of trousers. They were lovely, two legs and everything. I'm not an amputee, not yet at least.
Anyway, the right-hand pocket has a sort of split in it, giving the pocket two chambers. I imagine they're called chambers, but I've no idea what they would be called. I bet a decent tailor would be able to enlighten me.
Oh yes, the pocket! So, I slipped my house keys in when I left the house one day and dashed off to work.
I did my work and that, and then I prepared to leave. I put my hand in my pocket to check my keys. And they weren't there!
There's not much suspense in this, is there? I think we all know where my keys were.
Everybody had a good look around to help me. Even Fat Brian put his packet of cheese and onion crisps down and shifted his bottom slightly while looking at the floor.
Of course, 12 seconds after I, like Stockhausen, alerted my colleagues to my keyless state I found them in the other chamber. But I was too embarrassed to tell them they were in my pocket all along. I let them carry on looking for about five minutes.
In the end, I ducked under a desk, whipped them out my pocket, then crawled out, holding them above my head. "Got 'em, everyone. Thanks for looking," I said.
And that's why I understand the pickle poor Shannon Matthews' mum, Karen, has apparently got herself into. It's very easily done.
Friday, 4 April 2008
Now I like debit cards. They really are great, because they involve pressing buttons - and everyone enjoys pressing buttons.*
But the thing I like most about debit cards is playing PIN Cushion.
What's PIN Cushion? Well, have you ever noticed there's a small period of time between the message appearing on the keypad saying "Please Enter Your PIN" and the shop assistant saying "Enter your PIN, please?" It's usually only a second or two.
That period of time is called the PIN Cushion, and lends its name to the game. The object of the game is to type your PIN code BEFORE the shop assistant can say "Enter your PIN, please."
You get a point for each digit successfully typed and bonus points if the shop assistant issues her instruction even if you've already typed the whole PIN.
Today I have taken part in three transactions and taken four points, which gives me a PIN Cushion score of 4/3.
Can anybody do better?
* That's why the prime minister hasn't really got a nuclear button. Too tempting. Instead, he has to call somebody on a nuclear submarine and read out some codes, which I imagine is a bit like paying a bill over the phone, boring and costly. Frankly, I'm all in favour of any small obstacles that could slightly put leaders of the free world off launching atomic attacks.
Thursday, 3 April 2008
Tuesday, 1 April 2008
Get voting. NOW!
I did not do an April Fool today, as I was abducted by aliens.
Ha! April Fool! I wasn't really.