Shoevolution

My feet were wet, it is a horrible feeling that squelching cold sensation as my foot pushed down on the sodden pavement as I reluctantly make my way towards work.

Amazing isn’t it, that after a squillion thousand and billion one years of evolution we can sew a human ear on the back of a mouse and synthesise Posh Spices voice to make it sound audible (if i was Beckham I would cut my own ears off and sew them to the closest mouse to avoid listening to her trite all day, poor mouse though) yet we still have not mastered the art of making a waterproof shoe.

I still insist on wearing the finest Italian leather shoes to convince myself I am successful and not a talentless poor salesman. Evolution in the shoe department (or Shoevolution (c) as I like to call it) has not really come along in leaps and bounds. Whilst Darwin may have approved of Marty McFlys automated Nike future boots (I always wanted a hover board) I bet he would turn in his grave to think I was still strapping an animal skin to my foot held together with a piece of string.

If I wanted a wet foot inside an animal skin I would slice open the back of a rabbit and squash its little rabbit kidneys in-between my toes and like an eel when you cut of its head, it might even run for a while before its nervous system collapses, and it could rabbit power me to work just that little bit faster.

There’s no cock without fire.

It is very cold in the house now. No radiator in the lounge and I can see my breath, too long in there and i’ll get frost bite on my danglies, I watched it on the TV once, on my last expedition to the Arctic, a guide had his knob chopped off due to frost bite, his cock looked like a badly sun burnt slug that had snorted a value size pack of table salt.

To avoid this kind of episode I set about finding some logs for the fire to warm us up a bit. What was left in the log heap at both the garden centre and the petrol station was old and soggy. Who really wants a wet soggy log, apart from someone with a bad case of piles?

Apparently the local log man had not delivered any dry logs that day so it looked like a cold night ahead, possibly with a hot water bottle down my trousers. I’m no supply chain expert but I reckon that chopping up a tree and putting it in a lorry is not the most complex of processes, and I’m pretty sure we haven’t run out of trees yet as I think it may have appeared on the TV.

Anyway, I would like to thank http://www.blazelogs.com/ who will deliver some dry logs to my door this week so I can avoid any kind of pecker amputation.

Faking It

Nobody likes to waste time, unless it’s watching mindless TV, getting wasted in the pub, or surfing the Internet for the latest fetish, eeeer fashion.

 

There has been a flutter in the Beeb (BBC) recently about “fake” guests being used in competitions such as Blue Peter, where they used floor staff as bogus competition callers to name a cat. Gone are the innocent days when the presenters were labeled as hedonistic cocaine fiends. A precious 90 seconds of my time was wasted the other morning as I sat down with my whole meal toast to BBC Breakfast. (I put myself on the clock to see how fast I can eat my toast to maximize sleeping time)

 

“So Dr Macleod” says Fiona Bruce, “what is the main conclusion drawn from your 18 month study about children being let outdoors on their own?”

 

“Well” answers the Dr (looking rather sheepish).. “The main conclusion was that children, who are let out, tend to be spending more time outdoors than those who are not”.

 

I’ve heard more useful uttering’s from a drunken tramp I once accidentally stepped on as he rolled about in the gutter. In 18 months I could come up with at least a whole book worth of plagiarised material.

 

I look forward to his study next year.. ‘White Lightening Cider, is it an ASBO inducing superfood?’ My mind boggles as to what the correlation might be.

PooTube.vom

As part of my general house overhaul I had some excessively expensive work done to renovate my original floorboards; to try and re-create that Victorian feel, which as I found out is cold, draughty and noisy. To add to this I installed a real fire (again for that Victorian effect). For the fire to fit in with red tape regs I then had to cut large holes in my new floorboards to put air vents in. This led on to an unexpected new Victorian feature.

The stench of sewage now wafted up into the lounge.

The water man rocked up this morning, admittedly a jolly fellow for someone that has to push peoples poo down a pipe with a stick, I think the fumes damaged his brain.  The drain was blocked and on my property so £65 it was then, I quipped that I could borrow his rod and do it myself, but I was feeling faint from the fumes.

He lifted up the drain cover, the stench of old poo and part dissolved bog roll launched a direct nasal attack on my senses, a tsunami of smell spilled into my house, leaving it smelling like a sulphur spewing volcano (I’ve not smelt a volcano, I read a book, once). It was worse than spelling a pub toilet rim whilst your spew splatters back in your face (I did experience that one last weekend).

Anyway… the drain man proceeds to tell me how he left his home in Mauritius to come to Berkshire. After I finished my laughing fit of hysterical disbelief, he told me he did it for his kids eduction. If my old man ever took me from a permanent home of bikini babes and beaches to live in Berkshire, I’d poke him in the eye, or worse. This guy had swapped his perfect island lifestyle to be at my house at 8am on a cold winters morning to shove poo down my drain.

Then the poo man left, a whistlin’ and a smilin’, he seemed bonefide happy.

Fucking strange bloke.

I considered he should have a change of career as he seemed like a really decent bloke. I hope I don’t have to meet him again, but  if I do I’ll recommend he goes into colonic irrigation. It’s the same skill-set, with the added bonus of you get to put a tube up a woman’s arse.

Nuclear Nonsense

Those clever folks at Halifax have added a new clause to my contents insurance.

“Carpets, fixtures & fittings etc will not be covered under any instance of nuclear attack”

Anyone who understands the science of nuclear physics and watches ‘Heroes’ knows that even a beardy weirdy with wobbly jelly hands can reduce a whole city to twisted metal and rubble. If this is the case I wonder what a direct hit might do to my house.

I have a gut feeling that I may have better things to do than claim for my carpets, such as scoop up my remaining burnt flesh from a 50 mile radius and stick it back together.

Happy New Year.

Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas to me!

And anyone else that accidently stumbles upon my page.

See you next year!

Burning cats, not mice.

When one gets caught up in the romanticism of having something they really desire, then the price of the object seems to become unimportant. Whether it by buying Kylies panties, re-engineering the Spice girls to be conjoined sextuplets, thus making posh and scary share the same poop hole, or my latest purchase which is a real fire place. When I say fire place, its more of a hole in the wall, for which I paid 41.6 pence per square inch of nothingness (its 20×20x12). Quite expensive for air.

Anyway, this waste of money dawned on me, and as I drowned my sorrows in another bottle of wine I thought that maybe I could rent out the hole in the wall as a mice house. But then I would burn down their house every few days when I used the fire, so I crossed this one off the list. It could be a summer home for mice though, but then I couldn’t work how they would pay me, in cheese perhaps, I’m not sure what currency mice deal in these days.

I hate cats as well so I thought developing the mice relationship would be a good one. I could catch cats for the mice in summer, skin them and hang them to dry, and burn them on the fire in winter. I would get free cat fuel in the winter and free cheese from the mice in the summer, perfect. There was only one snag, could I really butcher a helpless population for no reason apart from my own self gain? Bush seems to have got away with it so I set my conscience aside and got on with business.

I drew up the cat killing / rental / cheese favour agreement and sat down to business at the mouse negotiating table. I didn’t get what I wanted, only half the cheese I desired. They had me over a barrel really, the chief mouse pulled out a brown envelope, and inside was a picture of me in my Kylie panties. Crafty little rodents.

Lager Guided Darts

Last Saturday Eric Bristo entered me. Not in the biblical sense you understand, that would have hurt, and he didn’t actually get inside me like one of those serial killers who wears their victims skins over their own faces. Anyway, in either sense he would have split me in two, my bulls eye will never be ready for the Bristo.

Back to the matter in hand….  Daleks were not built to walk up stairs, Gary Glitter wasn’t designed to be a children’s worker and Keith Chegwin wasn’t engineered to be a barman. My own dysfunction is an inability to play any sport. I occasionally go running where I can guarantee to win every time as I only ever go out on my own.

I am worse at sports than Eddie the Eagle on crutches or Tim Henman after a multi limb amputation. The runt of the sporting litter if you will, the last little piggy in lycra to suckle on the sports milk of genetics.

But last weekend something mysterious happened, a magical moment, my moment, not a goal at Wembley or an ace on Centre Court, but I won a pub darts competition against my mates. I can only put this down to the butterfly effect, or that I slipped into another dimension for a few minutes in time.

More probable though was that after my eighth pint of lager, iron bru cocktails (amaretto dropped into lager) and other such glamorous drinks is that I had forgotten who I was and therefore had gained some sporting confidence.

Thank you Eric, but you can get out now, and please can the hangover go away.

Orca the Red Canoe

I am a Bachelor of Science, which means that while bluffing my way through University, I also learned to speak on important matters such as Time Travel.

We all know that time travel is impossible unless you own a flux capacitor, can bend space & time, find a wormhole, or have a red letter day planned on the Starship Enterprise. FACT. Until yesterday that is, we now have to add Orca the Red Canoe to the list, chosen vessel of missing canoeist (now found) John Darwin. http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/7124119.stm.

I deduced this amazing fact as last night on the news I saw John ‘Time Traveller’ Darwin in a Global Hypercolor T-Shirt, not seen anywhere since 1987. Lost his memory my arse, he has been whizzing about watching dinosaurs, seeing Gordon Brown being thrown out of number 10, and shopping for bad T-shirts.

Dab a Granny

People have some weird fetishes.  Fetishes by nature are weird. I’m not sure how I would feel if I discovered I had one, and if I did, I don’t think I would want to tell people about it here.

I did discover today though that I absofuckinglutely DO NOT have a ‘watching old women on the toilet fetish’. Having just bought some petrol at the services, I headed towards the gents, which was out of order. I gave the disabled / women’s toilet a good push. I think you know what is coming next (that would be you if you are very very odd).

There was Granny, trousers round her ankles, little skinny white legs, crouched on the throne with a wad of tissue in her hand “dabbing” her Granny privates.

I am scarred. Possibly for life.

If you are twisted and have arrived at my site because you have googled ‘toilet fetish’ then Twenty Majors readers (link to the right) have been making some interesting comments about a video called “Two Girls, One Cup”.

I’m off to try and erase this memory forever.