Monday, 30 April 2012

Z - Zoology

In my idle time at work, when I'm not taking calls or escorting people from a towering inferno as the building’s fire marshal, I sometimes imagine what my ideal job would be like (sometimes whilst I should be doing these things too).

There are many jobs that I think I would be perfect for.  For example, I believe I could make a successful career for myself in the field of bed-testing.  Considering the ease of which I can remain prone on a mattress, I don’t think there’s a person in the universe more suited to this particular vocation, and I would happily fight anyone who says otherwise.  After I’ve finished my nap, of course.

Another job I think I’d be great at is zoology.  I mean, zoologists get to watch animals being awesome in enclosures all day, then get to write about it.  I reckon I’ve seen enough nature documentaries to overcome the required biological knowledge for the job.  I know that animals are chock full of meat, and they need to eat and poo at least once a month.  That is entry level zoology right there.

Is there anything better than being a zoologist?  Actually, yes there is.  There’s a job out there that combines the amazing aspects of zoology with a touch of imagination and creativeness.  That job is cryptozoology

These footprints were probably made by some sort of snake

Cryptozoology is a fancy word to describe someone who likes imaginary animals.  These are the type of people who get to go on a 6 month expenses paid camping holiday to try and catch a sight of Bigfoot.  If you’re even luckier, you might be sent to discover some sort of shape shifting reptile that some country bumpkin thought he saw after an evening of moonshine and unprotected sex with his sister.  The Judgement Lizard is known only to appear in rural areas, peering through people’s windows when acts of incest are about to occur, and generally doing a great service to the community.  It is my intention to prove that the Judgement Lizard exists; I saw him shortly before I lost my virginity.

One aspect of cryptozoology does puzzle me, though.  Where does the money come from?  Are they university funded, or are they self employed?  As I’ve never seen a job opening for a cryptozoologist in the job section of my local paper, I’ve come to the conclusion that they are privately funded, or that so many people want this amazing job, that new positions don’t crop up very often.

I imagine that being a cryptozoologist is rather easy.  You could spend weeks dicking around in the forest, then come back and say you saw some suspicious tracks, or heard a mating call in the distance that you’ve not heard before.  While you have nothing concrete, you are convinced that there’s something in those woods, and you’ll need to come back and investigate again with more supplies, more beer, and more prostitutes in tow.

So, if I ever get fired for daydreaming about imaginary animals at work, at least I have a backup vocation.  What awesome jobs would you folks like to move into?

Saturday, 28 April 2012

Y - Yummy

Music?  Pah!  Modern music is destroying the fabric of our society, what with it's hip hops, bitches, and atonal cadenzas.  There's no wonder that our kids are turning into porn-wielding, mass-murdering, turnip-molestering thugs.

Back in my day, we didn't have this problem.  Mainly because songwriters back then had the decency to cover up any smut with a thin layer of ambiguity.  Sure, those songs sound innocent enough at first, but under that pretty veil lies the face of a rotting zombie-bride, and you've already said your vows!  Erm, I mean you've probably not noticed the erotic and violent subtexts of some of the classic oldies your granny likes to dance to.

As a prime example, take the song "yummy yummy yummy I've got love in my tummy".  Sounds innocent enough, right?  That's until you realise that you can't actually eat love, what with it being an abstract concept.  So what kind of love is in my tummy?  The only conclusion you can draw is that it refers to seminal discharge, making the whole thing a massive reference to oral sex.

That's not the only depraved showcase out there.  Take a look at this monstrosity and see if you can spot the sick references:

"Sugar sugar, doo doo doo doo doo-doo
Oh honey honey, doo doo doo doo doo-doo
You are my candy girl"

First off, no girl is made of candy, not even Katy Perry.  Secondly, the song insinuates that it would be nice to eat a girl as a dessert, which is obviously erotic cannibalism.  I'll stick with a cheese board thanks, even if she does use strawberry body wash.  Lastly, the song makes several references to "doo-doo", which is basically poop.  Pooing on people for sexual pleasure, no doubt.  Was this song written by a German?

Which leads me onto my next song, The Candyman.  No, not the Charlie and the Chocolate Factory version, that one is actually about chocolate (although Gene Wilder does say that he mixes it with "love").  I'm talking about the one that talks about "giving a sweet side of sugar for the candyman".

"What's wrong with a peck on the cheek?" I hear you ask.  Not a lot, unless you have herpes.  However, the song is actually referencing something far more seedy and sinister.  You see, a "side of sugar" is a sexual act in which you roll your testicles around in the sugar jar, then dangle them over a dog.  And if that wasn't the original intention of the song, it certainly was by the time Christina Aguilera covered it.



Ban this sick filth!  Well, just give me 5 minutes to finish up first, then ban it!

Friday, 27 April 2012

X - Xenophilia


No doubt you’re already aware of xenophobia, the fear of foreigners.  It’s something that right-wing government parties are routinely accused of, mainly because they don’t like foreigners very much.  You’ve probably, at some point in your life, come across a person or two who could easily be described as xenophobic.  Maybe they declared hatred of a minority because they “take all our jobs and women” (as opposed to looking at themselves and realising that they are lazy and shit at sex).

During my more immature days (I now only show my bum at classy events, rather than at random as I did in my youth), I used to try and counter this with a wave of xenophilia; an overwhelming passion for foreigners.

I once signed up to a message board named “Fly The Flag”.  The main goal of this jingoistic forum was to campaign to the government for the right to put up St George’s flags all over their homes, cars, dogs and children.  They believed it was illegal to display a St George cross due to political correctness, as it might offend immigrants.  While I’d like to point out that putting up English flags in every window of your home and having them tattooed on your boorish, hairy arms is utterly tasteless (as tasteless as inviting Abu Hamza to a finger buffet), it is not illegal.

The moron's calling card

So I did what any left-leaning rapscallion would do, I trolled the fucking British bulldogs out of them.  I hope you’ll forgive me for my sins, as I said, I was young and bored.  I created an account and operated under the guise that I’d misunderstood the intentions of the board.  I acted as though I’d joined a group of people with a fetish for foreigners.

My first thread was subtly titled “Come One, Come All, Glorious Immigrants”.  A lot of the forum’s denizens simply thought I was being ironic and responded with comments like “yer come on paki basterds. Its not like wer full”.  A few people then sent me private messages asking if I was serious.  Obviously, my intentions had been expressed in the fullest, so I opted to create a more controversial thread.

My next form of attack was a thread called “Beyonce Is British”, in which I claimed that the bootilicious singer had an English heritage that stretched back to the Celts.  I received many outraged comments, many from a chap called Shonfield who called me many racist names, including “sand-n***** sympathiser”, which was a bit difficult to get my head around.  It was at this point that I dropped the bombshell that foreign women were generally more attractive than English women. 

This claim spawned hundreds of replies, each one more illegible than the last.  I wish I had saved some of the correspondence, but then again, reading that discussion might make you lose all hope for humanity.  Many people speculated on my ethnicity (I’m white and British by the way), claimed I loved the Euro (I don’t have a problem with a single currency), and that I was looking for handouts (I’ve never claimed a benefit in my life.  I wouldn’t even know how).

FILTHY FORRIN COIN!

 I did, however, save one message sent to me by the aforementioned Shonfield.  I’ll leave you with his staggering stupidity, but before I go, I just want to say that I am in no way proud of what I did, and trolling is generally a bad idea.

“do you seriously think the beyonce is celtic? she has blond hair for starters. she woud have red hair. shes also black and lives in usa.  i don’t know who your trying to kid mate but i reckon you should fuck off before you get into proper trouble. a lot of blokes on here have beat the shit out of nerds like you for less.  don’t think you can hide in the basement from the big bad men.  then they can explain to your mum why your unpatriotic and she will kick the shit out of you too. i bet you love immigrants so much because you were raped by one.”

Thursday, 26 April 2012

W – Wizards


Everyone loves a good wizard, don’t they?  They do a lot of wonderful things, such as shooting lightning bolts from their fingers and wearing pointy hats.  When they’re not doing those things, they tend to speak words of wisdom, and grow fantastic beards, like the grandparents you wish you had.

Many of you may already have your own favourite wizard, but are they really a wizard?  They might be a warlock, who is a male witch.  Or they might be a necromancer, who tends to raise skeletons and zombies from the dead.  With so many different types of magic user out there, it’s important to know how to classify them correctly.

Wizards are predominantly male.  This isn’t through some kind of gender discrimination where women who apply for wizarding positions are routinely overlooked in favour of their male counterparts.  No, this is because most women lack the ability to grow a magical beard.  A beard is the most magical property a wizard can own.  In a similar way to how Samson drew his strength from his locks of hair, wizards can channel paranormal forces through their facial fuzz.  As such, the wizarding world is sorely lacking in ladies, except for my aunt Ada, who is the only woman I know who managed to grow a successful beard.  She also tends to scream a lot and throw her cats-I mean familiars, at passing trains.

A group of wizards is called a Band

 Due to the lack of a woman’s touch, wizards tend to live isolated lives in stone towers.  They don’t tend to go for soft furnishings or comfy sofas, instead preferring wooden chairs and crystal balls.  Sometimes, I think Gandalf could do with a lady in his life.  At least they would encourage him to wash his robes once in a while.

Robes are another valuable resource in the wizard’s wardrobe.  Normal clothes only prove to be a distraction for a magic user.  When you’re busy throwing lightning spells at a dragon, the last thing you need is to be worrying that your shoes match your jacket, or finding your mobility limited due to wearing a pair of leather trousers.  So that settles it; plain grey, black or white robes all the way.  I tried to replicate this style by wearing nothing buy a dressing gown once, but was promptly arrested after being challenged to a dual by a local child, and reaching for my wand.

Now that you’re aware of these points, you’ll be well placed to spot a wizard.  However, Even though you might now be the authority on wizard recognition, let me throw a curveball in your direction.  How would you categorise Wizadora?  She’s not a witch, her name suggests that she’s a wizard, but she doesn’t have a beard!  She’s like the jaffa cake of magic; uncategorisable.

Or perhaps she's one of Santa's elves?

Wednesday, 25 April 2012

V – Video Games

Here we are at V, the inevitable topic of discussion.  Long time readers may recall my unwillingness to discuss video games on here, for fear of turning this into yet another games blog.  And yet, in an A-Z of things that interest me, there isn't a more fitting topic for this particular letter (and don’t any of you dare suggest that I should have written about Vaginas.  I know how your minds work).

Rather than list my favourite games in order (1 would be Silent Hill 2, if you’re interested), I turned to the Internet for inspiration, motivation, and salvation.  I came across the rather amusing Video Game Name Generator [http://www.generatorland.com/glgenerator.aspx?id=132&rlx=y] which dishes out randomised game names.  I’ve listed some of the more chucklesome ones, along with an imagined description that I’ve made up.  Please enjoy:

Jacked-Up Pudding Fighter

Takes place in a school cafeteria.  You choose a generic school kid to play as (geeky kid, goth, bully, sports kid etc.) and your aim is to start a food fight, and come out with the least stainage on your clothes.  If your stain level reaches 100%, your character will pass out in fear of what his/her parents will say.  Being the last one standing nets you maximum points.  Multiplayer only.

Jesus Designer

Similar to Mario Paint, but with heavy religious overtones.  You can make lovely crucifix prints, draw a beautiful landscape of burning sinners, and compose 8-bit church hymns about praise.  The highlight is the 3D fully customisable virtual Jesus, which you can dress up and modernise with low slacks and bling.  After you’ve dressed him, you can plop him into a virtual shopping centre and watch him interact with people, all while Depeche Mode’s Personal Jesus plays in the background.

Grueling Mortician Rising

A guy who works in a mortuary falls and hits his head, killing himself in the process.  That is, until a nefarious necromancer raises him from the grave to reap souls for his collection.  The game involves you harvesting bodies and hauling them back to the mortuary for collection.  You have to avoid detection; otherwise the police will arrive and discover your heinous deeds.

Worms Incursion

In an unusual move for Team17, they’ve swapped their cuddly, cutesy earthworms for the bottom-dwelling parasite kind.  In this game, you have to lead a legion of worms into a human sphincter and keep them there, negotiating an obstacle course of barrelling excrement, and probing dildos.  The game is over after a certain time when your worms become too fat to feed anymore and just sort of, drop out.

That’s enough fun for me, now I’d like to invite you to have a go.  Generate some video games and post them in the comments.

Tuesday, 24 April 2012

U – Um Bongo


Um Bongo, Um Bongo, they drink it in the Congo.  Or so I have been reliably informed.

Um Bongo is a fairly mediocre juice drink which attained mild popularity in the UK around the mid to late nineties.  It’s probably still available for all I know, but I haven’t noticed it on supermarket shelves for many years.  Now I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking “What’s for dinner?” or “I wonder, if I were to throttle a Smurf, what colour would he turn?” but in between these important ponderings, you may also wonder why I’ve chosen to write about a relatively unimportant juice drink.

They (i.e. The Um Bongo Marketing people) are responsible for reprogramming my brain.  It was like MK Ultra, only with tropical blended fruit instead of mind altering substances.  My prepubescent brain decided that it craved Um Bongo, solely based upon the catchy advertising jingle.

Drink a carton down, and you’ll feel unremarkable.  This is ultimately a bad thing, so I suspect the manufacturers put more time and effort into their promotion campaign, which consisted of various jungle animals juggling fruit and singing about it.

It completely sucked my childhood self in.  So much so, that when my brain is idle (essentially 93% of the time), the Um Bongo theme plays on a loop, like a mind screensaver.  I believe that I have been brainwashed by advertising execs, and am considering legal action.

In a desperate bid to expel this from my mind, I tried to imagine another advert from my childhood.  I came upon the equally infuriating Wiggly Worms song “Wiggly Worms, you just can’t catch ‘em”, which has become an alternate screensaver and is driving my adult self wild with a mixture of frustration, and extreme nostalgia.

The bastards at Um Bongo HQ tried to rush my demise through earlier with the advent of a spin off drink named Um Ognob.  Those of you with eyes will have noticed this is Bongo spelled backwards.  They even had a spinoff advert in which they declared “UM OGNOB?!” in an obnoxious and startled manner.  When I was ten, shouting “UM OGNOB?!” was a way of declaring mild surprise.

Congo representatives have been unavailable to comment as of publication time.  Regardless, might I point out how deep my psychological scarring is by asking you to read the first word of every paragraph I’ve written so far?  Yes, that infuriating jingle even permeates my writing.  However, let me leave you with a YouTube video of the offending article:


Monday, 23 April 2012

T – Tofu


What is Tofu?  Yes, yes, I know it’s a meat substitute that’s suitable for vegetarians, but what actually is it?  What is it made of?  Where did it come from?

Tofu is like the dark matter of foodstuff; the Higgs Boson of gastronomy.  We believe it exists and we’re starting to be able to measure it under laboratory conditions, but it’s difficult to describe to someone.  How do you define it?  It’s an unquantifiable chunk of...thing.

As you can tell, there are many questions in my mind regarding tofu.  Is it carbon or silicon based?  Is it grown or created?  Is it healthy or chock full of additives?

I’m sure I could easily find all these answers and more by simply looking at the Wikipedia article for tofu, but that would shatter the mystery for me.  I’m a simple guy with simple pleasures, such as imagining the magical properties of a food which is probably a lot less magical in reality.  I know it’s probably created by adding a load of artificial flavourings into a stock cube of maize extract or something, but I prefer the illusion that it’s a type of natural resource that has to be mined from the Earth’s core in deepest, darkest Borneo.  Perhaps they are created from the yolk of alien eggs that were laid on this planet millennia ago.  That’s much more interesting.

WHAT IN THE FUCK ARE YOU!?!

 Let’s face it, someone needs to liven up tofu.  It’s blander than a BBC4 documentary on sandpaper.  Quorn is just as bad.  Unidentifiable lumps of non-meat that don’t really taste of anything are hardly going to set the world on fire (unless you leave the oven on).  I think I’m the man to liven it up a bit.

Taking a leaf out of PETA’s book (they recently claimed that veganism can improve your sexual prowess), I’m going to start a marketing campaign which tells people that tofu can give them superhuman powers.  Quorn sausages are scientifically guaranteed to give you laser eyes.  A meat-free life will essentially elevate you to the status of a God.

However, that bacon sandwich does look tempting...

Saturday, 21 April 2012

S – Signal Intrusion


S leads me onto a slightly stranger interest of mine; Signal intrusion (which sounds much better than Sausages, which I was going to write about).  Signal intrusion is basically the act of interrupting a broadcast (such as a TV or radio broadcast) and hijacking it with your own content. 

Now, when I say this is an interest of mine, I mean that I am fascinated by the concept.  I don’t attempt to jam TV broadcasts in order to influence a political uprising and brainwash people into doing my bidding.  Not yet, anyway.  The equipment is a bit pricey, and I don’t have the time to take control of the Earth right now, what with my cheese collection which is in urgent need of re-categorisation and everything. 

Signal intrusion might sound all very Sci Fi, but according to Wikipedia, this is quite easily achieved with the correct equipment, which makes it rather surprising that there are so few examples of it occurring.  Perhaps the fact that it is a highly illegal act in most countries is enough of a deterrent, but that’s never stopped murders in the past.

Anyway, one particular example which caught my attention and has fascinated many others, is the Max Headroom Incident:



This was broadcast twice in the same evening.  The first incident occurred on American station named WGN-TV, but only for a few seconds before the station reacted to the hijack and restored the usual broadcast.  The second incident occurred a few hours later on WTTW, but this time the hijacker managed to run the whole thing.

As you can see from the video, the guy in the Max Headroom mask mentions “nerds” a lot, and also references the Coke advertising slogan “Ride The Wave” while holding up a Pepsi can.  He also makes reference to a “dirty” glove, and says that his brother has the other one.  I’ve no idea what this means.  Then he gets a spanking with a fly swatter before the screen goes blank.

The Max Headroom incident may seem rather immature and uninspired, like a schoolkid in an argument who can’t come up with a rebuttal, so just lets out a massive fart instead and says “that’s what I think of you!”  However, I find the idea that someone can interrupt a broadcast and put out what they want a little unnerving, yet utterly compelling.

In the past, I’ve written short stories about pirate TV or broadcasts which have been designed with malicious intent.  One story (which I never finished) involved a new TV station which appeared unannounced one day on people’s TVs, and broadcast nothing but a pale, eerie face with no sound, 24 hours a day.  People became obsessed with this station, trying to find a reason for its broadcast, picking apart tiny details on screen and finding non-existent secret messages.  Eventually, the general populace decide that it’s a government conspiracy designed to distract them from political inadequacies, and start a full blown revolt, toppling the regime and executing their leaders in the streets.  In the end, it would turn out to be nothing more than a viral advert from a new film.  I really ought to get around to finishing that.

On a slightly different note, another strange broadcast-related occurrence is the existence of numbers stations.  Numbers stations are unacknowledged radio transmissions, which occasionally relay sets of numbers at random across the airwaves.  It is widely believed that these are government sponsored stations which broadcast codes to spies who are working out in the field.  As usual, Wikipedia has more information than I could possibly give.  However, I find it rather interesting and again, unsettling, what with the musical chimes and computer generated voices reading what appear to be strings of nonsense to us, but what might actually be an order to have someone killed.

In other words, unexpected happenings on TV unnerve me somewhat.  I find white noise almost unbearable, and I feel anxious when stations experience technical trouble.  I used to feel freaked out as a kid when those old test cards used to appear on screen.  It was looking at something that isn’t meant to be seen by humans, like peering at Satan’s sphincter.  So, to try and creep you out, please enjoy this rather fetching picture of a test card:



Friday, 20 April 2012

R - Rats


We’ve all heard the saying “a dog is a man’s best friend”, but does this sentiment still ring true today?  Sure, domesticated dogs were brilliant in the olden days for herding animals into pens, or chasing down freshly wounded prey, but these outmoded tasks are not performed by the cosmopolitan dogs of today, which prefer to ride in handbags and wear fluorescent coats.  Instead, they tend to loll around under the dinner table, blowing off farts in an attempt to disgust you so much that you’ll give them your food.

Cats are no better either.  Most cats don’t enjoy the company of their human counterparts, maintaining an aloof veneer of self importance whilst expecting us ape-like serfs to provide food and lodgings on demand.  They strut around with an undeserved sense of achievement, like a four legged Piers Morgan.  Even that is better than having a cat that likes you.  If it actually likes you, a cat will try and initiate you into its clan by bringing home a half dead baby bird, and watch earnestly as you cave its tiny head in with a shoe, sobbing to yourself as you put it out of its misery.  If you don’t kill the animal, the cat will continue to bring home more semi-living animals, starting with sparrows and mice, slowly working up to polar bears and jaguars.  Horrible creatures.

So then, for the modern person who doesn’t enjoy dinnertime flatulence or bludgeoning wildlife for the sake of decency, what is the perfect pet?  Well, I’m about to reveal all, so keep on reading!  Oh wait, you’ve already read the title at the top of the page.  Alright, smartarse, the answer is rats.  No, there are no prizes for guessing correctly.

There's only one appropriate response to this picture, and that is "D'awwwww"

Rats are quite simply the best animals that you can subjugate and hold in captivity in your home.  Put in simple terms, they are like dogs that you don’t have to take for walks.  However, if I left it there, this would be a very short post and a poor argument, so I’ll elaborate further.

For small rodents, rats are blessed with a decent amount of intelligence, similar to most dog breeds.  As such, they can be taught to perform simple tasks, such as putting a ball in hoop, jumping through a hoop, shitting through a hoop, and carrying a hoop.  In terms of hoops, rats have got that area sewn up tight.  They can also be taught to use a litter tray for extra hygiene, which makes cleaning their cage less of a chore than it would with a turd-machine gerbil.

Another thing that people don’t tend to realise is just how affectionate most rats can become.  Even if you had 100 rats, they’d still want your attention, jumping up lovingly when you enter the room, queuing up for a fuss.  As they grow older, they also learn to play little games.  They’ll wrestle your fingers and love to be chased around the room and tickled.  They always come back for more.  Females are by far the most active, whereas males still like to play, but also enjoy a nice long rest on the sofa with you.  If you want a lively animal, female rats are definitely the way to go.

“But Addman, don’t they spread diseases?” I hear you cry narrow-mindedly.  Wrong.  Wild rats can carry disease, but mainly because we pour diahorretic turds over them on a daily basis through sewerage systems.  Domestic rats, however, do not have this problem.  Chances are they are more likely to get sick from you, what with your dirty lifestyle of going outdoors and touching things.  You’re probably also going to say that their tails are “icky”, for which you would be wrong again.  Their tails are similar in touch and texture to a human finger, so unless you find yourself repulsed by your own hands, you can’t use this as an excuse.  How would you function in modern society if you are frightened of human digits?  If someone waved at you, you’d have a heart attack whilst madly swinging a sharp object at them, like a dying villain in an action film making a desperate attempt to kill the hero despite having already lost.

D'awwww2.jpg

 If that’s not already persuaded you to buy some super intelligent rodents to do hoop tricks and love you until the end of time, then think about the costs when compared to a more traditional pet.  Dogs and cats cost a lot to get set up.  New collars, leads, food bowls, water bowls, chews, toys, beds, vaccinations, flea spray, worming tablets, and special shampoo are all required, not to mention the cost of the animal itself.  Rats on the other hand, need very little.  Once you have a cage for them (be generous with size if you can), all they need is a couple of plastic tubes and a hammock to sleep in.  To chew, you can use the cardboard innards from toilet rolls, and empty cardboard boxes.  Ours love to sleep in old Belvita boxes (probably because they can smell the biscuit goodness).

This brings me on to another fantastic point about rats.  Their food is really cheap.  Standard rat muesli does the trick, but they can also eat anything that people eat.  If you’re having mashed potato, slam some in a small dish and let the rats have a bit.  They absolutely adore egg, and will peel a boiled egg in record time.  If you give a dog a piece of chocolate, it could potentially die, but rats just shrug it off and look for the next piece.  Obviously, don’t cook them an entire burger and let them eat it because they’d get so fat you wouldn’t be able to fit them through the cage door.

There we go, is that reason enough for you?  I suspect you aren’t reading this anymore.  You’ve probably run straight to the pet shop, banging on the windows and demanding ratty satisfaction, and who would blame you?  No me, that’s for sure.  Just remember to thank me when your life is greatly improved by having such a super cool pet.

Thursday, 19 April 2012

Q – Quakers

I must admit, I was in a quagmire when it came to quantity and quality whilst quantifying Q words.  I quickly quarrelled with a quartet of options and queued them up as I quietly quenched my quest by quickly ascertaining which would produce the quirkiest quips.  Eventually, I decided to talk about the Quakers.

For those who aren’t members of the Quakers (that’s 99.9% of you), they are a mysteriously secret organisation, a bit like the Masons, the Illuminati, or Inuits.  Their membership is a complete secret and no one knows what they meet up to do or discuss.

The idea that an organisation operates in this manner has intrigued and aroused me for years.  What exotic delights lay beyond those double-bolted doors?  As I imagine the possibilities, my mind starts to wander freely through a variety of delightful scenarios.  I picture a great hall in which a hundred men in hoods and robes chant in unison, praising a pedestal upon which stands a solitary and delicious strawberry gateaux.  I daydream of a delectable vat of luxurious yoghurt being mixed and churned in constant rhythm, solely for the palettes of members.  I imagine the most tantalising honeydew being produced from the arse-end of an overgrown wasp queen, being bottled and enjoyed at exclusive Quaker banquets.  To be fair, most of my dreams involve food in some way.

The world's most exclusive gourmet club.

So what the hell is happening in there?  And, if it’s not food related, why is it so important?  Some might postulate that the Quakers are an elusive society that silently pluck the strings of government corruption and corporate greed to their advantage.  By inviting important figures of power and industry, they are able to discreetly govern the globe to their own advantage.  Of course, we all know that’s utter bollocks, otherwise why would they engineer a massive global recession?  That is, unless the financial collapse is a result of a conflict between the Quakers and a rival secret society of shape changing replicons from the centre of the Sun.  That, and JFK organised 9/11 for some reason that’s complicated to explain right now.

Secret societies are interesting solely because of their secrecy.  In reality, they probably just meet up to play darts and discuss their irregular bowel movements with other balding, middle aged men.  In all likeliness, it’s possibly just a golf club with a large sense of worth.

This lends itself nicely to the paranoid notions of secret governments which many people seem to hold.  There are plenty of conspiracy theories out there around powerful organisations who run things behind the scenes while we vote for what are essentially powerless figureheads.  These societies include the likes of the Illuminati, the Freemasons, the Knights Templar, and others who are most definitely real in every possible sense.

While these concepts make for a thrilling story or book, it just doesn’t seem to hold much water if you ask me.  For starters, why would a secret organisation choose such hopeless figureheads?  George Bush?  David Cameron?  People like that can only be elected by moronic masses.  A secret society would appoint someone who is slick, calm in a crisis, and popular.  A bit like, gasp, Barack Obama!  That’s it, we’re doomed man, we’re all fuckin’ doomed!

Wednesday, 18 April 2012

P – Pet Shop Boys


I come to you today with an urgent question; is it acceptable for a straight guy to enjoy the music of the Pet Shop Boys?

I can’t be the only person out there who suffers with this dilemma.  There’s something overwhelmingly camp about them, like a Madonna album being delivered to your door by Liza Minelli.  Every fibre of my being tells me not to listen to them, “this kind of music isn’t for you”, and yet, I can’t help it.  I used to think I was comfortable in my sexuality, but these guys just throw me off course

Who can resist belting out “Go West!”?  The Pet Shop Boys are pure, undiluted joy that has been digitised and pushed through your ears.  I don’t care what people think of me any longer.  I’m coming out of the closet.  It feels liberating to say this out loud.

I guess that’s all I have to say about that.  Instead, let us enjoy some videos of them in action:






Tuesday, 17 April 2012

O - Old People

As a person who has spent a lot of time with old ladies (I was the unofficial full body masseuse at my local retirement home, until the police got involved), I have noticed that they all share one thing in common.  They all love illness.

Surely I’m not the only person who has noticed this.  If you’ve never been privy to this phenomenon, stand near any group of old women and listen intently.  Sure enough, you’ll hear them talking about their various afflictions, comparing diseases like football sticker swapsies.  Keep listening at this point, because it is guaranteed to turn into a bragging match over who is the most poorly.

It all starts innocently enough, with Mavis mentioning her dreadful cold that she’s had for a week now and can’t shake off.  Then, Beatrice pipes up to talk about the flu she’s been contending with for 6 months, flu that is possibly of the swine or avian variety.  Then Betty throws down the gauntlet with her suspected myeloma she caught from tumbling down the stairs.  Finally, Margaret sweeps the table by declaring that she’s been dead for ten years, she just hasn’t been officially diagnosed yet.

The big C is a pressing concern for the elderly (that’s Cancer, not Cucumber, dumbass), and any signs of illness are immediately interpreted as the first signs of a malignant tumour.  A slightly runny nose indicates nose cancer.  A case of alopecia is hair cancer.  Smelly feet is foot cancer.  The doctors never ‘fess up and admit its cancer, but old people read between the lines.  Deep down, they just know.  It seems that the closer you get to the grave, the more in tune you become with the balance of life, death, heaven, hell, Torvil, Dean, and the universe.

I have a theory that grannies actually go out their way to become ill, just for something to talk about.  As soon as a new flu strain comes out, they start rubbing themselves against victims like affectionate cats, hoping to contract the disease and brag about it to their friends.  Just like fans who queue up overnight to get the latest iPhone or to get tickets for their favourite band, old women will line up round the block to catch a dose of the clap from a homeless chap.

Not only that, but they also have to compare the ailments of people who they know.  They’ll delight in telling you about their grandson Johnny who has had childhood asthma that has slowly developed into HIV somehow.  All that, and little Johnny being mugged and forced into becoming a transvestite by hoodie yobs, that is.

It’s no surprise.  If you pick up a newspaper such as the Daily Express (a granny favourite), they usually have a headline about cancer.  In fact, they should just stop printing news altogether and turn it into a daily list of things that might give you cancer:

“TV sets, fluffy pets,
cordless phones, static homes,
fuzzy felt, seat belts,
toilet bleach, Halo Reach,
rock, pop, laptops,
computer games, pocket change,
petrol fumes, dusty rooms,
PC screens, windolene
Rudolph, Dasher, Blitzen, Prancer,
These things can all give you cancer”

Monday, 16 April 2012

N – Norse Gods


So, which is your favourite set of Gods?  Do you prefer your Roman Gods of pizza and poor foundations?  Or maybe you prefer the Greeks idea of Gods for loincloths and the sea?  Perhaps you prefer the animal-headed insanity of the Egyptian Gods?  Well, I’m here to argue in favour of the Norse.

Norse paganism is stocked to the gills with Gods and Godesses, many of whom had sex with each other and were capable of despicable acts of cruelty.  Allow me to present my favourites, in the form of a top five list.

5)  Frigg

Frigg makes the list mainly due to her name.  Despite being a slang term for female masturbation, Frigg is pretty cool.  Fridays are named after her, which as we know, is the best day of the week. 

Frigg is the wife of Odin and the mother of Baldr.  Being the badass mother that she is, she instilled Baldr with the gift of invulnerability, which he promptly abused by inviting people to try and kill him.  Annoyed that her son was taking this for granted, she told Loki of his one weakness, allowing him to kill Baldr.  Friggin’ hell!

4)  Thor

We’re all aware of Thor, the hammer-wielding maniac of Asgard.  Often seen laying the smackdown on people with lightning bolts, Thor has been popular since the Roman era, but the endearing hammer symbol has endured through the ages.  He’s even had his own starring role in a blockbuster movie, the first appearance of a God on the silver screen since Bruce Almighty.

Unfortunately, after some rudimentary research, it turns out that Thor is a massive racist.  The swastika symbol is often attributed to Thor’s strength, and has been seen since the 9th century.  Not cool Thor, not cool.

3)  Baldr

Baldr was Odin’s son, who is primarily known for his death.  Pretty rock and roll or what?  Baldr used to dream of his own death (probably because he was off his tits on some recreational drugs), so his mum made him immortal to try and stop his dreams from becoming a reality.  So, with Baldr’s newfound immortality, what did he do with this wonderful gift?  He became a professional stunt man for the Gods, inviting people to sling stones and spears at him all day long.  That’s pretty awesome, but the fact that he went running to mummy over a bad dream in the first place is pretty wet, and why I can’t place Baldr any higher on the list.  Plus, he has a weakness to mistletoe, meaning he probably won’t be up for any festive snuggles.

Odin!  Yay!

2)  Odin

Odin is basically the God of all Gods, the ruler of Asgard.  He fathered many little Gods (including Baldr and Thor), and is generally considered to be main inspiration behind Father Christmas.  He’s basically the world’s best father!  Also, he has a beard that could make men cream themselves with envy, winning Movember every year since it began.  Tolkien based Gandalf on Odin, so that’s enough reason to include him on the list, but there is one other who can beat Odin to the top spot...

1) Loki

The God of mischief and mayhem, Loki is the original badass.  His DNA is so awesome that he fathered a wolf and a snake, then, not content with all that, he turned himself into a mare and gave birth to an eight-legged horse!  That’s right ladies, this man knows the pain of child birth!  In fact, it’s not even child birth; it’s horse birth!

Loki is a shapeshifter with a penchant for being deliciously evil.  Turning himself into an old lady, he tricks Frigg into revealing the weakness of Baldr’s invincibility (that’s mistletoe, in case you weren’t paying attention), then constructs a spear made entirely from mistletoe, and tricks someone else into throwing it Baldr.  Now that’s a plan even Skeletor would be jealous of!

And there you have it, more than enough reasons for you to enjoy Norse mythology.  If you’re feeling pumped by all this Norsey goodness, I suggest that you use your Internet to do some further reading into the subject.  Preferably whilst playing Led Zeppelin’s Immigrant Song.



EDIT:  It has also come to my attention that some people's comments have not been appearing on here.  I can only apologise and blame Blogger for flagging them as Spam.  I'll try and keep better tabs on this in future.

Saturday, 14 April 2012

M - Magic


Ahh, I remember the days when I were a wee lad.  Back then, you couldn't get GPS on your phone, so you had buy a device that clipped onto a pigeon to tell you where you were.  This was before the invention of money, so we exchanged turnips for food at the supermarket, buying carrots, beetroot, and other turnips.  Also, I had an interest in magic.

Now I know what you’re thinking.  You’re imagining me as a child, wearing a shimmering purple waistcoat to school and pulling rabbits out of the teacher’s flies (a trick that most kids at my school were forced to do at some point).  I certainly wasn’t as bad as that, but I did perform a couple of magic tricks at school in front of my class.

As a budding, eager, amateur magician, I managed to perfect a massive array of three tricks.  Three whole magic tricks to mystify and astound your friends and family, or so it said on the box for the Paul Daniel’s Magic Set I owned (showbiz’s most detestable dwarf before it emerged that the Crankies were swingers).  After years of silence, I will reveal the secrets behind my illusions, a bit like that masked magician, except that everyone knows who I am.

This is the man I wanted to be like.

The first trick I knew was a simple card trick.  You’d fan the deck and ask them to “pick a card”.  I know, I know, it’s complex and unusual set up for a trick, but bear with me.  Tell them to look at and memorise the card, and whilst they do that, you split the deck and take a peak at the card at the bottom of the first half (say the Ace of Spades).  Then, you invite them to put their card back on top of the second half “in the middle”, then put your half back on top.  This means that you now know the card directly before their card.  Next, you start turning the cards over, face up on the table, and you look for the card after the Ace of Spades.

Unfortunately, I was never blessed with the sleight of hand required.  I was a pretty clumsy kid, and I was often caught looking at the card at the bottom of the first half.  Basically, I messed up the easiest card trick in the universe on a regular basis.

The second trick I knew was more of an optical illusion.  In fact, 99.9% of people already know how to do this trick, especially the average bored office worker.  The magic set came with a plastic wand, about the size and weight of a biro.  Hold it loosely at one end between your thumb and index finger, then move your hand up and down to wobble the wand (you can do this with a pen), and it looks like the item is bending.  If you did this in medieval times, they’d burn you.  Not for witch craft, but for owning a Paul Daniel’s magic set.

ARGH!

 As mentioned, a lot of people already know this trick.  I like to think that I am solely responsible for the trick’s spread and distribution, mainly because it’s the only trick I could do with any sort of success, and I promptly told all of my friends how to do it.  The magic circle has since made several attempts on my life.  They've released a whole flock of rabbits infected with myxomatosis into my house at night, and have made a tiger reappear in my wardrobe.

The last trick I knew, I didn’t actually understand it.  Basically, you’d get someone to hold out their thumbs, then you’d hook a loop of rope over them, with a gold ring threaded onto the middle.  Without taking the rope off of the person’s thumbs, you’d hook the rope around them in such a way that the ring would just fall off with a little manipulation.  Although I didn’t understand the methodology, my seven year old brain could just about follow the instructions to occasionally pull this one off.  The problem is, sometimes the ring would get knotted in the rope and become stuck, as happened when presenting this trick in front of the school one time.  Neverless, I finished off with my wobbling wand technique and won over the crowd again.

Thus ended my flowering career as a magician.  After this, I decided that I would only use my magic powers when absolutely necessary, as they cannot be controlled properly and I don’t have the time to train them further.  I’m too busy tending to my shrubberies to develop my paranormal potential further.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, some men have appeared at the door and are demanding that I climb into a box on wheels.  I’ll just go and see what they want....

Friday, 13 April 2012

L – Lepers

Here's a question for all of your social philanthropists out there; do leper colonies still exist?

We’ve all heard of the hideous wasting disease known as leprosy.  We all laughed at the idea that their arms might fall off at any given moment.  We’d all like to slap them on the back and watch them crumble to bits like a crash test dummy.  But do lepers and leprosy actually exist in the modern world?

I’ve never come across a leper.  After spending a lot of time amongst the homeless (the free lunches they get sure are tasty.  If you simply piss in your own pockets and tousle your hair and they’ll accept you as one of their own), I’ve never seen an actual, real life leper.

I have come to the conclusion that lepers are simply make believe creatures, like the unicorn, the griffin, and the platypus.  If they do exist, it’d be difficult for them to fully blend in, especially in the business world.  If you find someone who refuses to shake your hand, perhaps they might suffer from leprosy.  A man who regularly shuns high fives must be a leper.

On that note, what exactly are leper colonies?  I imagine a leper colony would work in a similar manner to a bee colony, with one leper queen and thousands of leper drones toiling to provide food for the colony.  Unfortunately, they wouldn’t be able to carry much more weight than a handful of leaves, otherwise their hands would drop off.  Starvation must have been a common dilemma amongst leper colonies.  That’s not to mention the sheer horror faced by leper drones when mating with their queen.  I’d guess it was like a discarded string of sausages across her chamber floor.

If there are any lepers or leper experts out there, I’d love to hear from you.  Please don’t take this post as an attack on lepers, I am just a little loose on the facts.  Forgive my ignorance on the subject, as I’d hate for you to fall apart over it.  In fact, I’d like to take a leper out for a beer and watch him get completely legless.  On beer!  Nothing else was meant by that comment, oh god!  Please don’t throw any punches at me.  Not that you’d be detaching your fists and literally throwing them at me or anything.  Again I didn’t mean it like that...I’ll shut up now.  I'll pull my finger out for the next post.

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By the way, have you noticed the new layout?  Well you can thank Elton over at Elton Says Things for that.  He created that nice spangled banner up there, which I feel has really livened this place up.  In a show of appreciation, I urge you to visit his Blog which is really very, very good.

Thursday, 12 April 2012

K – Kleptomania

What is the point of stuff?  Seriously, it just sits there clogging up your house until you trip over it or stand on it and break it.

I try not to have a lot of stuff.  In our house I have three drawers for all my stuff, and one of those is for clothes.  One drawer contains everything I need such as passport, keys, phone chargers and that kind of thing.  The other is full of wires. 

Mrs Addman hates that wire drawer.  She’d rather I got rid of all my wires so we could put bedsheets in there or something equally useless.  However, if there’s one thing that women need to learn about relationships, it’s never to come between a man and his wires.

I’m guilty of being a hoarder when it comes to wires.  I have wires for everything.  I have wires for TVs, games consoles, phones that we no longer have, car chargers, headset wires, wires that plug into other wires, electric wirebrush wires (probably), you name it, I’ve got it.  I want to amass a collection of cables that could be deployed to ensnare potential burglars.  I’ll sell the blueprints as home security devices.

Sometimes, when I’m alone in the house, I like to strip naked and writhe around in my wire drawer in the dark.  Or at least, I would, but I’m scared of becoming trapped in the dense tangle of wires and suffocating to death.  I reckon this is exactly what killed David Carradine.*

Let me at 'em!

As a couple, we tend to hoard DVDs and games.  At last count, between us we own more than 450 DVDs, and I’m sure we’ve got plenty more than that after a rather busy, entertainment filled Christmas.  Mrs Addman collects Disney DVDs and has nearly all 50+ Classics.  Unfortunately, most of them came bundled with straight to DVD sequels like Tarzan: The Burger King Years, and The Rescuers vs Predator.

If this trend continues for the next few years they’re going to have to cut through our back wall to save us from an avalanche of used discs, like when they have to chainsaw obese people free from their homes.

I was wondering what weird and interesting things you lovely people like to collect.  Don’t be shy, share with us.  We’re all friends here.

*Note to brain:  David Carradine jokes?  Really?  In the next couple of years I might put up some Michael Jackson jokes.

Wednesday, 11 April 2012

J – Jabberwocky


I’m sure you’ve all heard of The Jabberwocky, the famous poem by Lewis Carroll.  This poem is a big inspiration to me, which is probably reflected sometimes in my style of writing.  I adore the way in which it’s a nonsense poem that makes perfect sense.  Most of the words are completely made up, yet the way in which they are constructed and used means that you understand it as though it were a science text book.

Anyway, J gives me a great opportunity to post my favourite poem, in its entirety:

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought-- So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought.
And as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! and through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.

Yes, I know it’s lazy to repost a poem as part of the blogging challenge, but what the hell, you’re getting content everyday this month anyway!  Don’t be so greedy!

Tuesday, 10 April 2012

I – Indigo Children


Have you ever wondered why there are so many socially maladjusted children in this day and age?  As the months tick by and the Information Age gathers steam, we seem to be breeding more and more introverted, behaviourally challenged children who lack the social skills deemed necessary to survive in the modern world.  Some say our sedentary society of distracting screens is destroying the attention spans of our younger generations, but some parents know the truth.

Psychologists, psychiatrists, and psychopaths have managed to diagnose a number of fairly new conditions which have only become prevalent in recent decades.  These include dyslexia, autism, ADHD, aspergers, and dyspraxia.  But what if scientists are wrong?  What if these children are instead gifted, rather than being saddled with disorders?  Enter the Indigo philosophy, an idea which explains how these children are guaranteed to lead us to the promised land, or somewhere equally fertile, like Greggs.

There are many websites on Indigo Children.  Most of them include tie dye backgrounds and exude a faint smell of hemp, but all of them contain lunatics who cannot fathom that their children might have difficulties in institutionalised learning.  Instead, they desperately want their child to be special and unique in some way, so they’ve managed to invent a theory that their kids will deliver us from evil and start a new world order of peace and unity.

Such a special little guy.

 Despite being run by new age mums who struggle to cope with their behaviourally challenged sprogs, these websites are surprisingly detailed when it comes to Indigo Children.  Here are some sure fire symptoms of Indigocity (which I reckon should be word):

·         They exude a blueish aura – Hence the name Indigo children.  If you are unsure what colour your child’s aura is, view them through ultra violet goggles.
·         They struggle to concentrate for more than two seconds – This is because their minds are on higher things, such as plotting a course to the Promised Land with enough rest stops to ensure that no one on the freedom bus wets themselves.
·         They tend to get bullied by other kids – Other children will be extremely jealous at not being the chosen one and will try and hold your child back from greatness by pummelling them repeatedly.
·         They don’t do very well in school – Rather than get their child diagnosed by one of those lying doctors so that they can get the classroom help they need, parents of Indigo Children know that there’s nothing school can teach them that will be worthwhile when we ascend to a higher plane of existence.
·         They are extremely sensitive emotionally – Indigos are so in tune with people’s feelings, they can sense someone in mild discomfort from 500 miles away.  Try to avoid being upset or eating spicy food around Indigo kiddies.

I’m sure that by using this not-at-all vague set of guidelines, you’ve already established whether your child is an Indigo or not.  But how do you encourage an Indigo wombshit?  There are several things you can do to make sure that your kid ascends to greatness.  These involve regular cuddles, no behaviour management, never punishing your child, and pulling them out of mainstream education and homeschooling them if needs be.  That’s right, even if your own knowledge of the world would make currently undiscovered molluscs at the bottom of the sea seem highly intelligent in comparison, you’d be better off teaching your Indigo kids yourself.  Provided you can get enough time off from your World of Warcraft guild, that is.

As an aside, if your child has any other aura other than Indigo, you might as well smother them and start again with a new child.  No one wants a child with a grey aura now, do they?

You may be asking yourself why I've chosen to write about this subject for the A-Z challenge.  I've been asking myself the same question.  I guess I just enjoy delusional people and their crackpot theories.

Monday, 9 April 2012

H - Homoerotic


Have you ever noticed the comedic potential of the word “homoerotic”?  No?  Then allow me to enlighten you.

It occurred to me some time ago that simply by adding “homoerotic” to the title of a movie, TV show, band, video game or anything, you instantly transform it from mundane to hilarious.  After discussing this with a friend, who shall be named as Zoid to prevent stalking, we came up with a large number of examples.  At the risk of running this joke into the ground, here’s a list of some of the funnier ones we came up with:

Video Games:

Homoerotic Gears Of War
Homoerotic Tomb Raider
Homoerotic Final Fantasy
Homoerotic Civilisation

Bands:
Red Hot Homoerotic Chilli Peppers
Homoerotic Sons And Daughters
Scouting For Homoerotic Girls
The Homoerotic Feeling

Movies:
Mr Poppers Homoerotic Penguins
Homoerotic Monster’s Inc.
The Never Ending Homoerotic Story
The Homoerotic Human Centipede

Jim Carey: An advocate for gay penguin rights.

TV Shows:
Inside Nature’s Homoerotic Giants
Dad’s Homoerotic Army
Mrs Brown’s Homoerotic Boys
Harry Enfield and Homoerotic Chums

That’s enough for now.  Please contribute some more if you can think of any.

On a slightly different note, what would be the opposite of homoerotic?  I suppose it would heteroerotic, which probably sounds more deviant and other-worldly than it actually is.  I'd love to describe myself as an exotic heteroerotic pan-dimensional love invertebrate.  In fact, that would look fantastic on my CV.

P.S. This post was inspired by a conversation I had with a friend of mine, Zoid.  Some of the above suggestions are his, but I can't remember which ones.

Saturday, 7 April 2012

G – Great Britain


Coming up with a suitable topic for G was probably the hardest letter so far in this challenge.  I was all set to write a 1000 word essay on the joys of gravy, but then I realised that I know very little about gravy other than it tastes nice.  I don’t know how to make gravy, and I barely understand the mechanics behind instant gravy.  In the end, I figured I’d write about something that I know something about and settled upon my homeland, Great Britain.

Only, I don’t know much about Great Britain either.  I know that Britain is made up of three countries (England, Scotland and Wales), has a population of around 60 million, includes the capital cities of London, Cardiff and Edinburgh, and is named because it is the greater piece of land in the United Kingdom in terms of landmass.  Other than that, it is complete mystery to me.  On one hand we’re a nation of overly polite queue mongers who wear bowler hats to keep our jam sandwiches in.  On the other, we’re a nation of racist, thuggish football hooligans who’d rather glass you than pass you in the street.

So what is Britain?  For those outside of these green lands, here’s a small list of useful information which might help you define bloody Britain:

·         The first person to live in Britain was a chap called Dave, who moved into a council estate in Huddersfield that didn’t even have a downstairs toilet.  His surname has been lost to the annals of time.
·         Bruce Forsyth was the first man to immigrate to Britain.  After being born to a family of dingoes in Australia, he swam the whole distance from Sydney to Dover at the age of 3, stopping only to nip into a Brewer’s Fayre and have a go on the outdoor play area.
·         The most prolific disease in Britain is known as “Scouse Pox”, which affects 816,216 people in the North West of England.  This disease makes the victim speak in an unintelligible drawl, and triggers a cranial response which gives them the uncontrollable urge to steal.
·         The only indigenous animal to Britain is the common garden snail.  Before colonists bought crows with them, or started exporting them to the French, snails covered 90% of the available surface of Britain.  So much so that going hiking used to be referred to as “Crunching”.
·         Roses are red and violets are blue, except in rural England where roses are tartan, and violets are rampaging sex pests.
·         Alex James, a British scientist, has invented a dairy-based cloaking device which, when applied to objects, makes them appear distorted.  He’s named his device Blur Cheese.
·         The most popular hobby in Britain is Complaining, just beating Masturbation to the top spot.
·         British cuisine is gaining popularity around the world after visionary food guru, Heston Blumenthal, created talking ingredients, giving people advice and cooking tips during preparation.
·         The River Thames is named after John Thames, who was recently crowned Britain’s Smelliest Tramp.
·         The leader of Britain is known as the Prime Minister.  His skeleton is known as Prime Rib, and his buttocks as Prime Rump Steaks.

There you have it, the world’s most comprehensive list of British facts.  There is absolutely nothing else to be known about Britain.  Anyone who tells you otherwise is a fraud and a charlatan.  

Friday, 6 April 2012

F – Fog


Under normal circumstances, I am a very sunshiney person.  I prefer warmer weather, lighter evenings, and generally don’t enjoy rain and cloud.  Sunlight alters my disposition, giving me an irrepressible smile.  You could attach crocodile clips to my testes, hook me up to a car battery and cook me like a catfish, and I’d still have a grin on my face if it was a sunny day.

There is only one darker weather condition that I do have time for, and that’s fog.  Fog instils an alluring sense of mystery to the surrounding world, especially when it’s so thick that you can’t see the person next to you.

I live on a hill, and as such, I am no stranger to fog.  For the past week I’ve woken up to fog and gone to bed with fog.  Not sexually you understand, as the mechanics of that would be mind boggling, but what I mean is that I tend to live with a lot of fog in my life.  I guess it’s rather fortunate that I happen to enjoy it.

How delightful

It’s fantastic going to work on a foggy day.  What’s that inscrutable figure emerging from the gloom?  Is it a fellow commuter?  Is it a dog?  Is it a genetic mutant, freed from the laboratory where it was trained only to rape young, fog-wandering men on their way to work?  Your heart begins to pound so fast, it’s creating a samba beat on your rib cage, which is no doubt causing other people in the vicinity to dance, if only you could see them.  As you reach said object, you slowly realise that it’s nothing more than a post box, but you feel exhilarated by the whole encounter.  This is the magic, mystical world created by fog.

Due to my location, I feel like I dice with death on a daily basis just by walking to the bus stop.  It makes me feel like a macho hero, having my bravery tested in this manner.  Not that I don’t feel macho on daily basis, you understand.  Ah who am I kidding, I don’t feel macho at all.  I eat too many carbohydrates for that.

Tomorrow’s weather forecast looks to be more of the same, so I expect yet more fog will envelop my house in the morning.  If I don’t make it through the mist monsters tomorrow, let it be known that I love you all.  Not in the way that I love fog, but love nonetheless.