Merry Christmas!

December 24, 2007

Merry Christmas to me!

And anyone else that accidently stumbles upon my page.

See you next year!


Burning cats, not mice.

December 13, 2007

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 20x20x12). 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

December 11, 2007

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

December 4, 2007

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.

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

December 3, 2007

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.