Have A Break, Have A Crack Pipe

I popped to the supermarket today - part of my continuing attempts to 'keep it real.' My doctor suggests such activities are therapeutic, but I reckon he just wants somebody to do his shopping for him. He tells me I'm bi-polar, as if that's a problem. Frankly, I don't see why that should be the case. Can't I like the Arctic AND the Antarctic?

I digress. While I was in Sainsbury's I saw bars of chocolate packaged like pharmaceutical products. I think that's splendid. There are many people out there who identify themselves as 'chocoholics.' usually women of a certain type, and this tremendous jape would, I imagine, be right up their street.

But I wonder what it would be like if chocoholism were treated as a genuine and debilitating addiction. Would chocolate be banned, and if so, what would happen then? And here I am, wondering...

My name is Muriel Pugh, and I'm a chocolate addict. It's been six years, four months and nine days since my last bar.

I suppose my story is the same as so many other people caught in this trap. I mean, when you're a kid, you think, "There's no way I'll ever do Buttons."

But then you become a teenager and you go to a party and it gets to 1am and they start handing out the Smarties like, well, Smarties. They seem harmless. But that's how they pull you in.

Before too long I'd graduated to KitKats. I'd make up a Bournvita, but that wasn't enough. It was too slow, so I'd snort it up through a Flake.

I had to get help. I went to my doctor and he put me on Caramacs, but it wasn't the same. I started turning tricks just so I could get a couple of chunks of Dairy Milk.

I knew I was at rock bottom when I found myself eating chocolate Santas off the Christmas tree...

Still, that pharmaceutical chocolate packaging is a cracking wheeze. I mean, I know some people might think that blurring the distinction between sweets and drugs might be a bad thing vis-a-vis the kiddies, but I think they're just stick-in-the-muds.

I think it's such a good joke, I'd sacrifice maybe four or five children for it. Maybe if they got into double figures they'd have to have a rethink.

Gripped

I'm a bit concerned.

From Monday, we're not being allowed to wear our own shoes in work after a number of people have tripped on the toes of their footwear.

Apparently we have to take our shoes off in reception and wear big yellow slippers with very thin soles.

And they're replacing the current carpets with a series of gripper rods. You know, the strips of balsa wood with sharp tacks which stick up. Apparently this is to "help us adhere to the floor."

And they've sacked the people in the canteen and some of the sales staff and used the cash to employ men and women with clown make-up, who'll wear suits made out of meat. These people are supposed to walk around the building, kissing people with tongues and whispering in their ear: "Don't fall over. Don't ever fall over."

I think it's health and safety gone mad.

Rough Trade

Well done, Cadbury, for leaping into action so quickly.

You see, I do like those new Cluster things. But I was really disturbed to find a number of them were - I won't beat about the bush - a bit scuffed. I, like so many of you, like my Clusters to be smooth. If I want rough, I'll eat a Flake.

Like I didn't have enough to worry about. I'm already trying not to do sex while I'm walking.

So I wrote to Cadbury* with my concerns.

Dear Cadbury,

I was really disturbed upon opening a packet of your new Cluster things to find a number of them were - I won't beat about the bush - a bit scuffed.

It's not so much the scuffing that's upset me - I've been around the block and I know that life isn't perfect - as the unexpectedness of it.

Is there not some way you could prepare me and other lovers of the smoother Cluster that there is a possibility of scuffing? This would alleviate the crushing disappointment.

Yours sincerely,

Graham Bandage

And today... 

I don't mind saying it's reawakened my faith in humanity.

* It's Cadbury these days, not Cadbury's. I think the apostrophe-s migrated to Tesco's in Liverpool.

Where Is Love?

I've Got Blues Real Bad. Note: Not THE Blues

I have been pondering the definite article following the elevation of Birmingham City to the FA Premier League, as, I am sure, have you.

The Second City's second team plays in blue, just like Chelsea and Everton, and one could reasonably expect them to be known as the Blues. But one would be wrong. Dead wrong.

Birmingham City are known, simply and perversely, as Blues. With NO definite article.

This leads to what I have termed Ida - Imbalance of the Definite Article. This occurs when the definite article is expected but does not appear. But, as nature abhors a vacuum, so linguistics provides its own remedy.

For example, Russian has no definite article. 'Vot dom' is Russian for 'Here is the house', but it is also Russian for 'Here is a house.' This appalling lack of 'the'-ness is amply compensated for by German, where one cannot move for definite articles. Blimey, even French has four.

Latin, too, has no definite article, but Ancient Greek rides to the rescue with zillions of the buggers.

I think I've proved my point amply. But this doesn't solve the Blues problem. Where, oh, where can we find the definite articles to compensate for this cosmic imbalance?

I've discovered that Liverpudlians have taken, in force, to referring to the Wal-Mart owned supermarket chain ASDA as "The ASDA." (This is quite specific to that supermarket chain; there's no groundswell referring to "The Tesco"* or "The Sainsbury's".)

Once again, the people of Liverpool have come to the aid of the cosmos**. But will they receive any credit? No, they bloody won't.

*There's a bit of excessive possessiveness, with common use of "Tesco's," but that is neither specific to Liverpool, nor of any relevance to my thesis. I'd be very grateful if you'd ignore it altogether. Ta.
** Cf. the Great Pyjama Imbalance of 2001. Too many pairs of pyjamas were being worn at night and indoors, so many Liverpudlians did their part and turned out on the streets of the city in their PJs. Just to be on the safe side, some vigilant Scousers continue so to do.

Is This A Blogger I See Before Me?

They say if one gives an infinite number of monkeys an infinite number of typewriters, one of them will eventually come up with the complete works of Shakespeare.

That all seems a bit of a rigmarole to me. The complete works of Shakespeare are readily available from the likes of Borders and Waterstones, after all.

It appears to me that there is a number of issues which would have to be resolved.

1) How would you feed them?
It seems irresponsible in a time of food shortages to waste an infinite amount of food on this folly.

2) Where would you keep them?
On the face of it, this seems a much easier problem to solve. You could keep them in one of those infinity pools. But you wouldn't want them to drown. Monkeys, as you know, can't swim.
So you'd have to empty the pool. But how long would that take?

3) How would you source them?
Frankly, I'm not sure which would be harder to get hold of these days - an infinite number of monkeys or an infinite number of typewriters. Manual typewriter production has been scaled down for years, and I can't remember the last time I saw a typewriter ribbon.

Supposing you overcame these obstacles, what level of accuracy would be acceptable? I mean, it could be quite frustrating if you were expecting perfection. Imagine your dismay if a manuscript was finally delivered, and Hamlet's most famous soliloquy made reference to "outrageous frotune."

If you are hell-bent on going down this lavish path, I recommend that you restrict yourself to, say, a million monkeys with a million typewriters. You would probably be in for a longish wait, but nothing ventured...

In any case, I wish you luck.

In other news, my alter ego has set up a Facebook group, which you are more than welcome to join.

Blameless

Why are we blaming the poor pigs for this horrible new strain of flu which you might have heard about briefly on the news? How on earth do we know that pigs have it in the first place?

MIGUEL:
Eh, Jose, what's up with you?

JOSE:
You know, Miguel, I don't feel so good. I think I'm coming down with the flu.

MIGUEL:
The flu? What? Is it going around little Rosita's school?

JOSE:
No. I think I caught it from the peeegs.

MIGUEL:
The peeegs? How do you know?

JOSE:
I've been watching them for days, amigo. They've been snuffling, snorting and generally lying about. Classic flu symptoms, I think you'll agree. Do you want to finish these refried beans?

MIGUEL:
Better not.

It's probably quite hard to quantify. It's not like pigs have jobs to do and even if they did, it would be difficult, if not nigh on impossible, for them to hold a phone in their trotters to ring in sick.

I don't think I've ever heard a pig sneeze, but I imagine it would look quite funny, if a bit messy.