Chrissie Hynde Has Ruined My Life

I was reading one of those questionnaire things in the Observer Magazine. This week's subject was Chrissie Hynde out of The Pretenders. Now don't get me wrong*, but what she said was frankly disconcerting.

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.

The Chomsky/Titchmarsh Axis

I had a look on blogsearch.google.co.uk because somebody came to visit me based on a search for Judi Dench. To be honest, I doubt my visitor found what he/she was looking for, as my detail on Dame Judi's current whereabouts/projects was sketchy at best.

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.

Thank you.

Vote Boris (If You're Eligible, Which I'm Not)

I think Boris Johnson should be voted the Mayor of London because he is funny and would be a good laugh.

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.

My Trouser Pickle

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.

The Friday Definition: PIN Cushion

I used to like cash. It was great, but it wore out your pocket. And you'd forget, so you'd drop a five-pence piece into your pocket, and feel it go through the hole and roll down your leg like some sort of unholy cold metal wee-wee.

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.

Glad That's All Cleared Up, Then

A poll carried out on this blog has determined that the name Roderick is funnier than the name Ratan Tata.

The number of respondents reached double figures, which I reckon is quite definitive.

Good news for Rodericks everywhere, I think. I always like it when people in sitcoms are called Graham. Imagine how many Rodericks will pitch up in them, now that we've firmly established the comedic value of the name.

In celebration, I am happy to republish The Funniest Cartoon Ever, which sparked off this debate.

Thank you to everyone who voted. Here it is . . .

Sort It, Now!

Right, you've got one more day to sort out, ONCE AND FOR ALL, which is the funniest name - Roderick or Ratan Tata.

Get voting. NOW!

I did not do an April Fool today, as I was abducted by aliens.

Ha! April Fool! I wasn't really.