Thursday, August 31, 2006

The infamous Starbuck chewing gum incident

OK, so I'm now eight episodes into the Battlestar Galactica Season Two DVD boxset and - WOW - it's frakkin' amazing.

(Note to non-BSG fans: maybe skip this post, mmmm?)

I'm a big fan of this show, which in my opinion trumps rudely on the face of it's nice concept, sadly lucklustre 1970s predecessor; this Galactica reboot just has so much going for it - high concept, an engaging story arc, great characters, top notch effects, and Katee Sackhoff.


Katee Sackhoff, the new Starbuck. She is hard as nails and has boobs and everything.

Which leads me nicely into something that I'm sure Marcosy won't mind me sharing with you. Something that I like to call the infamous Starbuck chewing gum incident...

Last year Marcosy and I went off, as we do every now and then, to indulge our nerdy tendencies at a Collectormania fair-thing in Milton Keynes; y'know the thing - it's like a sci-fi convention-slash-market in the middle of Milton Keynes shopping centre, so if you get bored you can wander off to Top Man to look at this season's latest fashions. Anyway, I wanted to meet Jolene Blalock (Star Trek: Enterprise's sexy Vulcan T'Pol), and Marcosy wanted to meet Katee Sackhoff (the aforementioned new Starbuck). Oh, I also met Uhura from classic Star Trek, went a bit wibbly in front of her, and probably looked like a complete spacker.

Where was I? Oh yes: Starbuck. So we queued up to meet her with our lovely glossy wipe-clean photos ready to be signed, and Katee looked all lovely with her hair and boobs, and was definitely being really charming with everyone who went up to her. Marcosy was ahead of me in the queue, and when it was his turn he walked up to her and exchanged a few words. After a short while I noticed that he held his hand out in front of him, palm up. I was intrigued to see Katee's happy-go-lucky expression gradually disappear, but I couldn't make out what was being said (it's also quite possible that Katee was rapidly punching a panic button under the table).

Anyway, she signed his picture, shoved it back towards him, sneered a bit, and watched him walk off with something approaching mild disgust. Then she looked at me, the smile reappeared, and she beckoned me forward for some pleasant banter about the show, a little bit of insider gossip, and something approaching mild arousal (mostly on my part *ahem* but it's also quite likely that she felt a special tingley bond between us).

With picture in hand, I wandered back to meet Marcosy.

"What did you say to her?" I asked.

"Well," he muttered. "I asked her how her day was going..."


"And I asked her if she was getting a bit bored..."


"And I asked her if she was chewing gum, which she said she was..."


"And I asked her if it had lost its flavour..."


"Which she said it had..."


Then Marcosy shuffled awkwardly a bit. "So I held out my hand and asked if I could have it."

I slapped my hand to my forehead. "You didn't?!"

"Yeah, I did. But she looked a bit put-off by that, and I asked if she thought that was a bit weird." He looked down at his signed Katee picture. "She said it was a bit. What's her problem?"

Quite frankly, I didn't know what to say to that.

Wednesday, August 30, 2006

Naughty Dora

So I was browsing the interweb as I do, still reeling from Dora's snapshot of me, when what do I find on the always awesome Across-the-Board?

Dora... explain yourself!

Sparky Vs the spiders, man

So I'm chilling out last night after a little bit of a Battlestar Galactica marathon that was broken only because Lost was on and I live in continual hope that it might get good again and actually answer some of my damned questions, when I notice something out of the corner of my eye.


I take a step back, flick the light on, and what do I see?

It was a goddamn Alien face-hugger is what it was. And by that I mean a spider. A MA-HOO-SIVE spider. Sitting right by my sofa.

It flipped me the finger and sneered at me.

As I was rendered almost catatonic by the sheer size of the thing, it seized its opportunity to attack.

Fortunately, working on Star Trek magazines has taught me what to do in these situations. Yes, it may have had the element of surprise, but I quickly fought back, stunning it with a Captain Kirk-stylee double-fisted punch to the gut. As the creature flew back into the wall, slumping to the ground with a thud, I body rolled into the kitchen, making sure to tear my t-shirt at the shoulder in the process (Shatner would be proud).

I saw the spider's legs scrabbling to turn it upright, and used those mere seconds to assemble a weapon, much like how Kirk fashioned a bazooka out of diamonds and bamboo to defeat the Gorn in episode 19, 'Arena'. My weapon was far more rudimentary - a lighter and some fly spray - but nevertheless every bit as effective.

Only when I had dispensed my own form of rough justice upon the beast did I realize that fly spray on its own would probably have been just as effective. Whatever.

I settled down to watch the rest of Lost, my only concern being that I hoped to god there wouldn't be a Hurley nudey scene.

A package arrived today from my Japanese colleagues. The latest issue of the Star Trek magazine I produce for them, I wondered?

No - far from it.

They'd sent me samples of a bug partwork, complete with massive, hideously realistic plastic bugs.

What sort of merry hell has been unleashed, I wondered, as I realized we've fallen a bit behind with their schedule...

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Hair apparent

Today was my first day back at work after a super week off. And do you know what I realized after settling into the captain's chair this morning?

Damn, my hair is getting long.

Which is a good thing.

Long time readers will know that I've been harping on about growing my damned hair for ages, and my nefarious plan is finally reaching fruition. We're not talking Rupunzal length here, folks, but it's certainly longer than the stock 1.5-2 inch spiky mess that I've previously sported since discovering hair gel waaaaaay back in the early 90s.

The only problem I've noticed thus far in is that hair... well, it gets in your eyes, dunnit? I've lost track of the amount of time it's poked me today; my corneas are probably scratched to hell, but at least I can blog about laser eye surgery at a later date, mmmm?

And before anyone offers the practical advice of a hair-band - um, NO, and secondly, it would be super-hypocritical of me to wear one bearing in mind that Jo and I spent a good 20 minutes pointing and laughing at some dude with a hair-band at the cinema on Saturday night.

Anyway, I give it another month, after which it will have grown past my lovely eyes (winks coyly).


Another thing I noticed at work was, despite copious amounts of blogging last week I seem to have last the ability to type coherently. I've used the backspace key so much today I've pretty much worn the arrow off it.

And what do I say to my dyslexic fingers? I'll tell you what: jk agrjbgw gwhighjkgads ladgskhgdshjk thtewk.

(And that pretty much verified all my comments for the next day or so too)


Dear Customer,

Thank you for ordering Battlestar Galactica Season Two DVD; unfortunately we require a further 1-2 weeks to dispatch this item to you. I hope this does not cause any inconvenience.

No worries! I'll buy it in HMV - and, ooo, I've got a five quid HMV voucher too! Done, done, head back to office and cancel Amazon delive-

Battlestar Galactica Season Two DVD - dispatching soon!


(On the plus side, i've just watched the first three episodes of my first Battlestar Galactive Season Two DVD boxset and it's frakkin' awesome)


I had some peri-peri turkey for dinner. It was delicious, but it didn't half stain the pan I cooked it on. Makes me wonder what it's doing to my insides, and if it'll go straight through me like I've had gastro-intestinal bypass surgery. A bit like that hot chocolate I had last year in that cafe on the Charing Cross Road; it was almost like I poured it down a very small drainpipe. Came out exactly the same consistency at the other end...

Monday, August 28, 2006

The immense purple warrior

So Sunday was spent helping Mr Chunt and the lovely Nikki move flat - effectively from one end of the road to the other, but don't underestimate the herculean task that that necessitated. And as phyiscally strong and visually muscle-bound as I am, we needed some help.

And that's where the immense purple warrior, the almighty purple-ness of West London came in. It made young children run away in fear, woman gasp in awe, and men turn away wishing that they too had something so... immense and purple.

What was it?

It was a big purple van, you perverts. Get your minds out of the gutter.

(It was, unfortunately, a Peugeut van, not a Chevy one. but beggars can't be choosers)

Alas, I did not take any photos of the van, but imagine this, if you will: a big van, shabbily painted purple; rust holes patched up with copius amounts of filler. A gaping hole in the dashboard that allowed you to see the inner workings of the gearbox. No power-steering (in fact, virtually no steering; at one point I, sitting shotgun, had to assist with steering duties as we carried too much inertia into a particularly vicious corner). And who needs brakes? It was, I'm sure you'll agree, Keith Richards in van form.


Everywhere designated driver Mark piloted the van people stopped, took note of their lives, prayed to whatever god they worshipped, and smiled.

Funnily, one particularly spectacular reversing maneuvre reminded me of the scene in Star Trek III where Kirk steals the Enterprise and they back it out of spacedock. However, we were not chased by the Starship Excelsior. More's the pity...

And we didn't later blow the van up, although I got the distinct impression that Mark would've liked to.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes... regardless of our initial fears, the immense purple van did its work well, despite rolling into a bush at one point.

And so, to the Almighty purple van I say this: I salute you, and all who travel in you.

Wowsers, peggy!

OK, I know that Inspector Gadget's niece was called Penny, but it's late and it sort of made me laugh.

Look at this:

Whatever will they think of next!? It's a tiny peg I've just stol- um, borrowed from a pub. It was connected to the menu. But I figure the bar staff probably nicked it off some little fairytale, forest-dwelling elf while she pegged her husband's undercrackers on the washing line.

Either way it's mine now.

I'll regale you with the tale of how I spent a significant proportion of Sunday with an immense purple thing that drew gasps of shock, awe, and yes, delight, from everyone who glimpsed it.

Saturday, August 26, 2006

You, me and Dupree sucked

I've just got back from another jaunt to the cinema (such a whore to the big screen...) which saw Jo and I watching You, me and Dupree.


I mean it was JUST NOT FUNNY. And I'm not one to take the mickey out of someone's appearance, but what is going on with Owen Wilson's hair?! And don't get me started on his nose! I just don't get it!! It was a bad film. Although the two old ladies sitting just along from us seemed to like it if their constant giggling was anything to go by (either that or they'd been hitting the sherry beforehand).

No, I must say that John Tucker Must Die was a far superior film. Talking of which, I've still not got a response from Sophia Bush for my friend request on Myspace.

Sophia - 'mail me, let's talk. Do you want to come to Ikea?

Friday, August 25, 2006

Heaven on Earth

Muchos excitement. Sparky Nan gave me a new Ikea catalogue.

Now, I moved into Sparky towers on January 2nd, 2006, and I've fully furnished it to my taste. But there's something about a new Ikea catalogue that just makes me go "OooooOOOoooooOOOooo..."

I do not need anymore furniture.

And yet... that little red table for the bargain price of £7.99 is *SO* tempting.

I do not need a little red table, nor do I have anywhere to put said little red table.

But it's *ONLY* £7.99.



Me thinks there'll be a trip to the Wembley branch of Ikea soon...






A very Sparky Friday

Goddamn; you get in and you really want to write a blog post, and goddamn blogger goes down. Goddamn.

Right, that’s enough blaspheming.


Phew… OK, all good now.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Friday…

(Imagine this like the video for Madonna’s Ray of light – you know, the whole speeded up whizzy traffic thing. Don’t try to imagine me gyrating like her because it’ll probably cause you to have a seizure or a stroke or something)

Woke up at 7:30 to the sound of vibro-fridge doin’ its thang. “Ha ha!” I shout, holding one finger aloft like a wizard, “Vibro-fridge – your time is up!!” Get dressed, run downstairs, make tea, sit and wait for fridge repair man to arrive and vanquish vibro-fridge.

Sit and wait.

Sit and wait.

Sit and wait a bit longer.

Vibro-fridge kicks off, taunting me with its nefarious vibrations.

Boot up the computer and check EVERY SINGLE WEB PAGE I LOOK AT.

Sit and wait a bit longer.

Door bell goes! It’s Bobby Ewing from Dallas! Or rather it’s the fridge repair man who happens to look like Bobby Ewing from Dallas (Perve fingers want to type Booby Ewing here). Fridge repair man pulls vibro-fridge out, tinker with innards, and … fridge vibrates no more!

Shout “IN YOUR FACE, VIBRO-FRIDGE.” Get odd look from Bobby Ewing. Bid Bobby Ewing farewell.

Sit down on repaired sofa and begin reading comics. Something goes ‘pop’ in the porch. Investigations reveal that the lid of some wood varnish has opened itself. Investigations also reveal that small tin of wood-filler has at some point in the last few months exploded, depositing what looks like petrified poo on walls and ceiling of porch. Cleaning efforts are initiated.

Decide to poly-filler holes in bathroom wall. Mission status: incomplete – poly-filler has unexpectedly solidified. Add ‘poly-filler’ to shopping list.

Look at boxes of unwanted books and miscellaneous items that have loitered in porch since moving. Load boxes into the Sparky mobile, and drive to Sparky Ma and Pa’s house. Regale Sparky Ma with patented Mick Jagger impression; reminds her of Stones gig and results in instant smile. Recruit Sparky Ma to assist in taking boxes to charity shop.

Return Sparky Ma home, and blag free lunch. Jump back into Sparky mobile and set new course for Sparky grandparent’s house. Enjoy free beverage and convivial conversation with Sparky grandparents.

Depart for coffee in Kingston; discover the delights of Solitaire on Star Trek Communicat- erm, mobile phone, while enjoying Grande Misto (Peabody blend) in Starbucks.

Head back to Sparky mobile – vroom vroom! Depart Kingston for Staines and a cinema excursion with Jo. Traffic works and a thick ditherer in Vauxhall Corsa result in unforeseen errors in my ETA; fortunately, rendevouz with Jo with mere minutes to spare.

Buy tickets for John Tucker Must Die; consider buying ‘Fling‘n Fly Superman’ for the bargain price of £2.50. Lateness of arrival necessitates immediate and hurried run in order to not miss beginning of movie, however.

John Tucker Must Die = enjoyable popcorn fodder; appreciation of Sophia Bush also increases exponentially. Make note to check for Sophia Bush.

At conclusion of film head to sports shop and buy three pairs of shorts for running (I’ll never be caught short again). Bid Jo “adieu!” and jump back in Sparky mobile. Devise cracking introduction for Ambassador Soval article I’m writing for the Japanese Star Trek Fact Files while en route to Sparky towers.

Arrive home, put dinner in oven. Logon to Myspace, find Sophia Bush; submit friend request (although as her last login was in 2005, am not holding breath). Forget cracking introduction for Ambassador Soval article I’m writing for the Japanese Star Trek Fact Files.

Eat dinner. Try on shorts. Marvel at sexy legs (mine).

Try to write blog post; find blogger’s buggered. Write in Word for later posting.

Spin round in chair to face the Artist Formally Known as Vibro-fridge. Grin maniacally.

“In your face, fridge, in your face.”

(and rest)

Thursday, August 24, 2006

Vibro-fridge continued...


(Walks off shaking fist in the air in an irate and possibly comical fashion)

This post would be longer, were it not for the fact that I'm going to have to go lean against the fridge again.

On the plus side, leaning against the fridge is quite pleasurable, and possibly has medicinal benefits for sore/aching muscles.

The amazing vibro-fridge

I've been off work this week; no particular reason, just wanted/needed some time off, and I liked the idea of tying it in with the Stones gig last Sunday, and the three day weekend coming up this weekend.

The initial plan was to decorate my bathroom. I even pulled some screw-plugs out of the wall that the previous owner had painted over. Actually, I pulled them out about three weeks ago, and I've been staring at the holes ever since and thinking that I should really get the poly-filler out and fill them in. I do like poly-fillering.

Anyway, the whole bathroom decorating thing fell by the wayside bacause I just couldn't be bothered. That's not to say that I haven't done my fair share of exciting things my friends! Oh, no - I've had a haircut (well, more of a trim to be honest; I'm still in the 'growing it longer' phase, and anyway, Inexplicable Device threatened to dare me to a duel if I cut it), and - can you contain the excitement?! - a financial review!


Annoyingly, though, there's been some micro-disasters in Sparky Towers. First of all, I noticed that some of the stitching had broken on my 'oh-so-comfortable-king-of-all-sofas' sofa; thankfully, a chap came round to stitch it back up today. He had a really long curved hook-needle thing. I swear if he'd said "I know what you did last summer" I would've shrieked and confessed to running over the mad fisherman and being infatuated with Jennifer Love Hewitt. He didn't, though, and we had an interesting conversation about Lost instead.

The most annoying holiday micro-disaster so far has involved my fridge freezer, however. I don't know exactly why... but it's started, erm, vibrating rather severely...

The thing is, it's making such a racket that it's actually louder than my TV. Which meant that on Tuesday, I had to watch Lost while leaning against the fridge door to keep the noise down. And it's lucky I don't have any cans of fizzy pop in there, because, quite frankly, they'd be a bit like Elvis now. And by that I mean they'd be all shook up, not face down on a shag-pile carpet with burger smeared over them.

So tomorrow, fridge man is coming to sort vibro-fridge out. At 8:00 am. Yes, in the morning. That is just not right. I'm on holiday - I shouldn't be made to get up at that time! That being the case, is it acceptable to just let fridge man act as my alarm clock, answer the door in a dazed state in my undercrackers and wrapped in the duvet, point out the offending vibrating applicance in the corner, and collapse face-down on the living room floor while he fixes it?

I don't know about you, but that sounds perfectly reasonable to me.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

Agent Smoulder

Wow. I FINALLY got round to getting some photos done for a photo driver's licence today. I've been meaning to do it for ages, but y'know how other things are always more important; like watching that Boston Legal DVD boxset, and making shampoo mohawks in the shower.

Anyway, so spur of the moment, I remembered to actually do them today. And even without making an effort (I didn't even put a tie on!), I think you'll agree that the results are nothing short of stunning.

In fact, I've had to apply a special photoshop filter to rein back on my inherent smouldering intensity so your puny human brains can actually comprehend the following pictures.

I reckon I could be caught driving 100mph over the limit with an old granny clinging to the bonnet, and a family pet wrapped around a tyre and still get off scott-free with one flash of one of these babies on my license.

Oooooooh, yeah...


Sweatband hates me. As preparation for the upcoming Hampton Court 10k, we decided to go to the running club that organised our last 10k. "Six-thirty for seven!" she excitedly told me. So, after an awesome day's shopping, I rushed home, jumped into my running gear, hopped back into the Sparky mobile, and legged it over to Richmond (IN THE BLOODY RUSH HOUR, NO LESS!). I got there at 18:34 to find the clubhouse empty except for an old man with an extraordinarily thin, some would say two-dimensional, face and a beguiling turkey neck. "Oh, they went about six minutes ago," said the 2-D man. "They had a new girl with them. She was very nice." "Humph!" I replied, briefly loosing sight of the 2-D man as he turned around. I subsequently got back in the Sparky mobile, and drove home (IN THE BLOODY RUSH HOUR, NO LESS!).

All dressed up and nowhere to go, when I got home I decided to do my familiar route. I wanted to do a run anyway, as my knee was playing up a bit yesterday (long story short: I walked into a chair at work about five years ago. We'd employed this - I'll be brutally honest - divvy bitch to do menial editorial work, and I'm convinced she thought she'd be promoted if she got me out of the way. Thus, I went to talk to someone, and she appeared to place her chair RIGHT BY ME so as I turned to walk away I smashed into it; I've had niggles with it ever since. On the plus side, we fired her), and I wanted to try running with a knee support.

I'll be honest, it was swings and roundabout; on the plus side the knee was great. On the downside, it appears to have squeezed the problem down to my ankle (which I also have problems with - remind me to tell you the infamous Box Hill sledge story at some point), and the sodding thing clicked all the way. I thought briefly about putting on an ankle support for my next run, but I figure either a) I'll end up a bit like the Michelin man and barely able to move my right leg, or b) my toes will explode.

No, I think the answer might be to explore the possibility of having robo-legs installed.

Oh, and on the plus side, Sweatband is going to buy me a pizza to apologise for standing me up. Although she phoned to tell me this just as I was getting in the shower, and promptly hung up just as I picked the phone up having run naked and dripping water into the bedroom to get it.

Anyway, I hope the pizza will turn up soon - I'm a little bit peckish.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

Mr Potato Head in rehab

I was reading with interest... actually it was more like complete disinterest, if I'm brutally honest, that the lead singer of Keane, Tom Chaplin, has gone into rehab, initially for exhaustion, before owning up that he's actually succumbed to that ol' chestnut drink and drugs.

How very rock 'n roll, particularly as they don't use guitars. Actually maybe it's an addiction to full-fat coke and sherbet dib-dabs. Either way, they've cancelled a load of gigs, yadda yadda yadda.

Anyway, I'm not going to take the mickey out of Mr Potato Head because, well, you can make your own jokes there; rather, I'd like to pick up on a comment made by one of his bandmates.

Basically (and I did make a half-hearted attempt to find the exact quote, but after about a minute of Googling Keane I feel asleep), one of the other Keane people said (and at the time, they were still saying it was "exhaustion", mmm'kay?) that Mr Potato Head needed some time off because he's THE most energetic front man of his generation.

Now, excuse me here, because I'm just going to lay down on the floor and roll around while shrieking with laughter.


I may not like their insipid music, but by gum those boys can sure tell a joke!


No, wait... THEY ARE HAVING A GIRAFFE, Cockney rhyming-slang fans!

Have they not seen Matt Belamy of Muse? Geez, even that Johnny bloke from Razorshite, he's an energetic little bitch!! But Mr Potato Head from Keane?! Not unless you call rhythmic swaying and the occasional balancing on one leg energetic. And I do not.

That said, if he displays any signs of on-stage energy when they resume the tour, it'd probably be best to pack him off to rehab again...

Monday, August 21, 2006

I don't know why...

...But I *REALLY* want one of these Thingamas. It's like a little square Bender!

And I'm not even a musician!

I will worship forever the first band I see using one of these onstage.

The Rolling Stones at Twickenham: It was only rock 'n roll, but we liked it

"You were not born in a crossfire hurricane," I said to Simon, despite his protests to the contrary. "You were born in West-Mid hospital."

And so began the Sparky family outing to see The Rolling Stones play the first gig of their UK A Bigger Bang tour at Twickenham Stadium.

Sparky Ma has wanted to see the Stones for years - since the sixties, in fact. Yes, she might have met ALL FOUR BEATLES (!) when they were FILMING 'HELP!' DOWN HER ROAD (!), but at heart she is a Stones lady. And so I clicked my fingers and made it happen - eeeeey... (Actually, I ordered four tickets off ticketmaster, but the result is the same).

Anyway, we got to the stadium, got to our seats, and laughed at all the people in the really expensive seats on the pitch when it started raining; aaaah, the joys of being undercover in the north stand.

Feeder were supporting, and I do like Feeder. Feeder! FEEDER! FEEEEEEEEEDER!! As they started playing their first track, Simon lent over and asked me why they were singing about Heathrow airport. WTF!? Heathrow airport!?!? "Yes," he said. "He's singing 'terminal four."

"You dumb joey," I replied. "He's singing 'Tumble and Fall!'"

So Feeder were great, culminating in a rousing singalong of 'Just a Day,' complete with all the prerequiste "DO-DO-DO-DOOOOs."

And then - 40-odd minutes later, in an explosion of lights and, er, explosions, the Stones hit the stage.

And, by God, they've still got it! Mick still moves around the stage like a five-year old on ketamine, Keef still looks like he hasn't got a clue what's going on (but f**k it, he's got a guitar so he's damn well going to play it!), and Charlie still looks like he'd rather be at home watching Corrie. Oh, and Ronnie just looks like he's a complete nutter - and good for him!

Mick apologised for the fact that we all should've been at Wembley (I had no problem with Twickers - far more convenient for me, in fact!), then said that he'd heard that the new Wembley stadium was going to be ready for the farewell tour of the Arctic Monkeys. We all laughed... then realised that never a truer word was spoken in jest.

The stage was amazing, and changed colour quite a lot:

The stage went yellow.

The stage went blue.

The stage went red.

The stage went bang!

The stage even drove into the centre of the pitch while a big inflatable tongue poked out at us!

Of course, they also had some amazing visuals on the big screen - like a half naked chick dry-humping the Eiffel Tower (there's something I never expected to see!).

And as the show hit the last few minutes they rattled through the hits. We "WOO-WOO-ed" to Sympathy for the Devil, "Yeah, yeah, yeah - WOOO'd" through Brown Sugar, and 40,000 people shook their booties to Satisfaction.

Then there was a few more explosions (they do like their explosions), some flame throwers, some huge rolls of fabric that shot out the top of the stage onto the audience, a few MORE explosions, some fireworks, and that was it. (I'd hate to have to clean THAT lot up...)

As all 40,000 of us tried to squeeze out of the gates we passed a guy with a megaphone directing people. "Turn left for Hounslow buses, right for Richmond." Then he smiled, held it to his lips again and shouted "WOO-WOO!" to which we all turned and "WOO-WOO'd" right back at him.

And that was it. I was "WOO-WOO-ing" and strutting all the way back to the car (I do a mean Jagger impression).

If you get the chance - go seem them. They might have a collective age of about 4 million, but they've got more life and energy in 'em than any band a third of their age that I've seen this year. I hope I'm as limber as Mick when I'm 63.

Rock on - till next time!

Sunday, August 20, 2006


Would yee look at that: I’ve been tagged. Yes, thanks to Inexplicable Device, I’m temporarily putting aside my inane chatter about kittens, joeys, spackers, and Shatner to take on an altogether more highbrow topic: my reading habits. Kick off your slippers people – this is serious.

1. One book you have read more than once:
I very rarely re-read books, purely because there’s so many books I want to read. But one that I have returned to time and time again is Frank Miller’s Batman: The Dark Knight Returns. Now, a lot of people might turn round and complain that this is a kids book ‘cos it’s got pictures, but I know you lot are a more learned and educated bunch than that. How do I know that? Well, you read my blog for one thing.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, The Dark Knight Returns. I first read this back in 1989, the year that Tim Burton’s first Batman flick hit cinemas. I’d hated the character up until then, thanks to the campy sixties TV show, but I got caught up in the Hollywood hype machine, and by August of that year I was the tubby little kid with the Batman t-shirt, the Batman baseball cap, the Batman undercrackers… I think you get the picture. So after the movie hit, I began to lap up everything to do with Batman. My grandparents bought me DKR for my birthday that year, and it knocked me for six. GODDAMN! This was some serious S-H-one-T! Batman was hardcore, and he knew the score.

For those who don’t know, it’s basically about a really old Batman coming out of retirement to strike out against a corrupt government in a world that’s gone massively tits-up.

As I’ve grown older, every time I've re-read this book I've gotten something new out of it. I’ve come to appreciate greater depths to the story beyond just the super-cool Batmobile; the fine artwork; the political statement; how risky and daring the story is with such well-established characters; Catwoman’s kick-ass rack.

Not bad for a funny book that it, to this day, one of THE defining moments in comic book history.

And then Miller went and screwed it up by writing Dark Knight Strikes Again, which looked like it was drawn by five year-old holding a marker pen in his mouth, and had a plot so simple that the proverbial monkey with a typewriter could’ve bashed it out.

2. One book you would want on a desert island:
Locas: The Complete Maggie and Hopey Stories by Jaime Hernandez. Another comic book – whoop-de-doo! But again, one that changed my life and opened my eyes to a world beyond the familiar world of superheroes. Locas (translates to ‘crazy women’) is a 500-page collection of the Maggie and Hopey stories from the indie comic book Love and Rockets, which originally ran from early 1980-something up until 1996-ish. It centres on two girls – I’m guessing you already know their names – as they grow up in the punk scene of the early eighties. They fall in love, both with people they meet and each other, (yes, there’s some saucy lesbotics), and do general everyday things – as well as some that are more fantastical. It’s all so … real and gritty; they argue, they have sex, they age – which is unheard of in comics! – and their lives change, for better and for worse. I remember when I finished reading Locas I actually felt a genuine sense of loss that I wouldn’t see any more of Maggie and Hopey. Fortunately, Jaime and his brother Gilbert (whose major work Palomar has also been compiled into one amazing volume) started a new run of Love and Rockets which continues the characters’ lives as they near their forties. And unlike Frank Miller, the Hernandez brothers can still tell a damn good story.

3. One book that made you laugh:
A Confederacy of Dunces. I remember picking this up when I worked in Putney. I’d been reading a load of Penguin classic reprints, and this was the only one left in the series that sort of appealed to me. So I bought it, and I read it, and it’s now my very favourite book of all time. It’s just so damned funny. I remember the very moment that it made me laugh – the first time any book had made me laugh to the point of tears; I was sitting reading in bed, and there was a line where the main character, an obese layabout called Ignatius J. Reilly, made some reference to a group of kids on television all being prostitutes. It was so unexpected. I kept re-reading that one line, laughing harder and harder each time.

Only the other day I was telling Yaz about how good it is, and promising to buy her a copy for Christmas. In fact, just writing about it makes me want to read it again.

And do you know the only sad thing about it? The author – John Kennedy Toole – killed himself because he couldn’t get it published; his mother made it her life’s work to get it into print posthumously. Shame.

4. One book that made you cry:
OK, really this vote should go to the aforementioned A Confederacy of Dunce because it did make me cry – with laughter, that is. But runner-up is Book by Whoopi Goldberg. It didn’t actually make me cry (because I’m well ‘ard), but it did resonate emotionally with me. Blimey, did I just write ‘resonate emotionally’? Yes I did. I’ve been a fan of Whoopi since that scene in the movie Jumpin’ Jack Flash when she screamed “I’m a little black woman in a big metal box” while being dragged through New York in a phone booth. Book is not a comedy, however; you could say it’s her manifesto on the human condition. Each chapter is headed by a single word: Help, Self, Home, Eggs, Space, etc. My favourite is the chapter Love; you turn the page and it simply says: Ain’t it grand?

That’s stayed with me for the best part of 10 years.

5. One book you wish you had written:
Modern Ranch Living by Mark Poirier. I picked this up a couple of years back simply because I liked the cover. The plot’s actually quite simplistic, focusing on two people over the course of a long hot summer. Kendra is a teenage body builder; Merv a twentysomething who still lives with his mother and works a dead end job. And it’s these characters, so well realised and REAL, that make the book. It’s got a nice vibe to it too.

Oh, and it gave me the line “plussing as which,” which Kendra says all the time, and I still love; I’d really like to claim it as my own. OK, I can’t, but I do try to use it in everyday conversation when I can. If it ever crops up in my blog, please remember that I’m channelling Mark Poirier’s dialogue.

6. One book you wish had never been written:
Erm, generally I don’t because everything means something to someone, right? But on the other hand I thought Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance was a waste of my time, money, and 500 pages of paper.

7. One book you are currently reading:
Tragically, it’s the novelization of Superman Returns. I’d vowed not to read any more movie adaptations, but the cover was cool and I loved the movie THAT MUCH that I couldn’t quite resist. On the plus side, it’s actually quite well written, is a piss-easy read, and was cheap.

8. One book you have been meaning to read:
Ooo… I’m not sure there is one? I’m intrigued by Strangers in Paradise, but haven’t actually gotten round to picking up a copy of the first volume. Oh, and maybe Jimmy Corrigan…

9. One Book That Changed Your Life: Pretty much all the aforementioned books I’ve mentioned in a positive way have changed my life; DKR made me the comics fan I am today; Locas showed me a new type of comics story; A Confederacy of Dunces made me laugh and inspired me to want to write; Book gave me an insight into a woman who, if she ruled the world, would make it a better place; and Modern Ranch Living opened the door to a writer whose work I love, and have subsequently read through his entire back catalogue.

That said, there’s a couple of other books I’d like to mention.

Bone by Jeff Smith is an epic collection of a comic series that ran for YEARS. The collected edition is over 1000-pages long, and if you love fantasy you’ll dig this big time. It’s about three cousins who find themselves in a mysterious valley as a great war is brewing. It’s amazing stuff with a nice line in humour.

Peanuts by Charles Schulz. Fantagraphics Books are reprinting every single Peanuts strip from 1950-2000 in a series of stunning volumes, and it’s incredible to see literally how heart-breaking it can be behind the obvious gags; the way some of the other kids treat Charlie Brown is actually quite painful to read, and Schulz’s simple, beautiful art portrays a young boy’s feelings with amazing strength and emotion. If you’ve only ever read Peanuts in the back of your newspaper, I implore you to give one of these books a go.

And finally, a quick mention of a book I read aged about seven. It was called Beaver Towers (stop sniggering at the back), and was about a little kid who gets whisked off to a far away land where an evil witch is conspiring to depose the ruling family of beavers. It was this book that pretty much introduced me to reading for my own pleasure, so for that fact alone I owe the author a debt of gratitude.

Phew, that’s it! (don’t I go on?)

Right – back to the frivolous stuff!

Friday, August 18, 2006


I've been trying to convince Yaz to see Snakes on a Plane, but she's not biting. I don't know why - after all, it does have the winning combination of snakes, a plane, and Samuel L. Jackson. Despite her not liking snakes, planes, or Samuel L. Jackson, Yaz and I spent lunchtime discussing potential sequels. Our two initial favourites were the one starring the actor who plays Commander Riker in Star Trek: The Next Generation - Frakes on a Plane – and one with a magician - Snakes on a Blaine. But nothing really hit the spot.

Then, on the walk back to our respective offices, one of Hammersmith's resident crazies helped us complete our objective; a diminutive middle-aged woman on a BMX (no kidding!) almost ran into Yaz. With a wry look, a raised eyebrow, and a hint of venom in her voice, she turned to me and said: "Munchkin on a mutha-f**kin' bike.

Coming to a multiplex near you soon, no doubt.


There's something almost mystical in the way that Star Trek weaves itself into my everyday life. From the constant references to the uncanny similarity I have to Captain Kirk, to, well, what I do for a living.

But today was a turning point even for me.

My friends - I found the Enterprise.


You know I'm doing another 10k in October? Well Sweatband never told me that as part of the entrance fee we got a t-shirt. And, it seems, we sort of have to wear the t-shirt when we do the run.

Fair enough, you might say. But the t-shirt is cotton, and that means it's going to get sweaty, clingy, and uncomfortable. Fine. I'll wear a damned base-layer, problem solved.

But that's not all. You see, the t-shirt is turquoise.

And I don't really do turquoise.

Could it get any worse, you ask. Well let me tell you: yes, it can.

Because the run is sponsored by Tesco. And the t-shirt has Tesco printed on the arse.

I'm thinking I may have to cross it out and write Sainsburys above it in marker pen.

On the plus side, it seems Sweatband has ordered a t-shirt that's a couple of sizes too large; for pure comedy value, I've suggested that she ties the excess material in a knot at the front, pops on a pair of leg-warmers, gets a frizzy perm, and pretends to be one of the kids from Fame.

Thursday, August 17, 2006

I'm going to hell

And so are you.

You see, I've got a new favourite word, courtesy of Dora and Miss Haversham.

It is spacker, and I am VERY naive.

So the last few days I've been blundering my way through life affectionately calling all and sundary spackers. It's one of them made up words, right?


Look here.


And seriously - when my brother and I used to call each other joeys as kids I thought that was just a comment on how ungainly and clumsy baby kangaroos are!

I am *SO* going to hell.

But seeing as I am, I'm also quite fond of the term window-licker and mouth-breather. Anyone got anything more to add?

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

Feety pains and other nonsense

My feet hurt today. Well, my ankles, to be more specific. And I blame my boots - although you could also blame my general dapper sense of dress over the last couple of days. You see I bought a really nice posh new shirt, and I was a bit hesitant to tar it by matching it with my trendily battered (not in the chip shop sense, mind) trainers. So I pulled my posh boots out of the wardrobe - might as well make full use of them seeing as they've got some exciting new laces now, I thought.

So there I was, effectively half-suited and booted. And of course this illicited the usual round of are you, A) on the pull tonight, or B) going for a job interview, from my workmates. Sadly, the answer to both was "no." What is it with the constant questioning when I actually dress smartly? I ask you, you walk around the office in your undercrackers once...

(As an aside, bearing in mind that we can all dress slobbily at work, I've been trying to instigate a Formal Friday, as in the opposite of other companies who have dress down Fridays. No one's biting yet, but I'm eager to buy a top hat so will carry on pushing for it)

Anyway, yes, so there I am all smart and rather hot-looking (as in smouldering, not in the temperature). Except for the fact that I realised I'm a bit unfamiliar with the boot situation. Trainers they are not. So I effectively clippety-cloppetied around the office like a two year-old girl in mummy's stillettos all day. Sort of destroyed my sexy aura.

I think I'll practise round the house before I try that again.


You know that sodding awful Microsoft assistant that pops up whenever you're doing something and says "Ooo, you look like you're writing a letter - would you like me to screw it up for you then crash?"

Well I've had a genius idea (I think you'll agree that I've been having a lot of these recently). Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I present to you the next generation of computer assistant:

The iShat.

I think we'll all be grateful to have one of these helping us make a spreadsheet and send an email this time next year. You saw it here first, remember.


Inspired by an email I received from the lovely Nikki, I'm thinking of changing the tagline to this blog (the 'puny human brain' thing was never meant to be permanent - as you can tell from the above idea, my brain is anything but puny).

And what is this proposed new tagline?

Sparky Malarkey - Guaranteed to make you snort tea out of your nose - or your money back!

OK, so you won't get your money back if you don't snort tea through your nose because none of you are paying me for this drivel, but the thought is there.

Before I do go racing ahead and changing it, though, can I just ask if anyone else has suffered a tea-based incident at my hands? Because basically I don't want to get done by Trading Standards for false advertising.

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

No-show Libre

Yaz and I went to see Nacho Libre today. And by 'went to see' I actually mean 'failed to see.' You see, just as we were about to buy our tickets we noticed that it was a subtitled screening. With words.

Now Yaz and I both work in editorial positions where a good portion of our lives are filled with reading all bloody day, so we really don't want to have to read at the cinema straight after work (unless we've gone to see a film that we know is going to be subtitled, in which case we'll have time to mentally prepare). We thought about going in. Even thought about bunging our ears up so we too could legitimately call ourselves 'hearing impaired' (when did we stop saying 'deaf'? It's not as if they can hear us...). In the end though I moaned that I'd probably be distracted by the big words blocking up the screen, although in hindsight the most irritating thing would probably have been a load of hearing impaired people chowing down on nachos, popcorn, and other assorted snacks of increased volume without the slightest consideration for those of us who were actually trying to listen.

Selfish bastards.

Anyway, so there we were, footloose and fancy-free in Shepherds Bush mall. What else to do but shop? And what a treat we had. You see, one of our mutual friends - El Deanio - has just become a dad (who's the daddy?! YOU the daddy!) for the first time, and I was wondering whether I should pick up some kind of gift... El Deanio is quite a fan of the labels, so I'm torn between baby's first Airmax and baby's first Converse...

Just looking at the baby trainers made me regret not getting Smudge the kitten. She would've looked awesome in two pairs of Converse.

Monday, August 14, 2006

OK, who moved my light switch?

Right, so I got in tonight, plopped myself down in a chair, and stayed there for a good hour. By the time I felt about ready to stand up the sun had gone down and my house was in utter darkness.

So I reached over to the wall where the switch to my landing light is (it's great - it lights up both upstairs AND downstairs in one foul swoop - multifunctional, environmentally friendly - just an all round perfect lighting installation. Genius).

Seems that the switch wasn't where I thought it was though. It's been there for the last eight months, so I really don't know what was going on.

So I just stood there in the dark, slapping the wall like a special.

It's kinda lucky I live alone.

After about three minutes I decided to broaden my search radius, and whadya know? Yeah, I found it. Little bastard was there all along.

Sunday, August 13, 2006

Fantasy movie casting

I met up with Emma today for a jaunt to the cinema to see M. Night Sham-a-lam-a-ding-dong's new movie Lady in the Water.

"Oh," said Emma. "Is that an adaptation of the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical The Woman in White?"

"No," I replied. "It's called Lady in the Water, and apparently it's a crap adult fairy tale by the guy that did the Sixth Sense."

Having sold the movie to her as well as I could, we wandered into the cinema, her thinking that I was taking her to see a sub-par Harry Potter style fairy tale with a 'surprise twist ending,' and me hoping to god it wasn't actually anything to do with Andrew Lloyd Webber.

It was neither. No twist, no Webber. To be honest it was better than I thought it was going to be, even if there were huge parts of it that were pure prententious bollocks. Oh, and M. Night Sham-a-lam-a-ding-dong really needs to stop casting himself in increasingly large roles in his own films; mister - you cannot act for toffee. Geez! Even Alfred Hitchcock restricted his cameos to mere seconds. Sham-a-lam-a-ding-dong gives himself a pivotal role as a man who will eventually influence someone to reshape world politics with his thought-provoking views!! Although on the flip side, that ain't gonna happen in the real world, Sham-a-lam-a-ding-dong, so you might as well make the most of it.

Possibly the best outcome of the afternoon was that it has allowed me to expand my fantasy casting for the live action Simpsons movie I think should be made (I've also got a plan for a live action Penelope Pitstop, but more on that another time).

Previously I had this:

William H. Macy = Ned Flanders

And now I've got:

Paul Giamatti = Homer Simpson

How cool is tha- Oh, hang on a sec...!


It's late, and I just managed to slam-dunk two paper balls into the bin from the other side of the room.

That made me smile.

I don't dare try for a third. That would just be crazy, wouldn't it?



Oh yeah, you know it went in!

Who's the daddy, bee-yatchs, who's the daddy?

Saturday, August 12, 2006

Give me all your money...

... all your hugs and kisses too!

What!? ZZ Top?! Hmmm...

Right: as I've probably already harped on about endlessly, I'm doing the Hampton Court 10k run on October 1st in aid of Cancer Research, and it would be awesome if anyone would like to sponsor me.

The run is in the grounds of Hampton Court, which is home to rather a lot of deer. October is rutting season for the deer. If anything, surely it's worth donating just to see me legging it away from some lusty deer?

You can donate online HERE!

And I salute/doff my cap to each and every one of you who does so.

Thank you muchly.

Pictures of jogger's nipple will be available post-run if anyone wants to see them.

Friday, August 11, 2006

Is this genius … or just a little bit weird?

OK, scrub KFP - we're now talking KFH!


Yes, KFH: Kentucky Fried Human!

Aaaw, c'mon… It tastes like chicken, apparently!

Thursday, August 10, 2006

Sugar tits update

Marcosy emailed me again today to inform me that his use of the term 'sugar tits' was not, as I thought, intended as a term of affection, but was actually something that spewed out of that naughty Mel Gibson's potty mouth when he was arrested recently. Fortunately Marcosy didn't follow up with anything else that naughty Mel said during his arrest, which is lucky because he'd probably be looking at the end of his Hollywood career, and a spell in rehab quickly followed by a six month holiday as Big Brian's bitch in prison.


Yaz and I devised another super money-making scheme over lunch: KFP. Yes, that stands for Kentucky Fried Pork. Genius! I've already got the advertising slogan: KFP - do you dig the pig?

(Free spork with your pork)

I'd love to tell you more about it, but the colonel will never reveal his secret recipe - the swine!


I've also been turning my thoughts toward new TV shows, and I think a makeover show for ugly babies could be next season's breakout hit. The working title I've got is Bling my baby, because I realised that the initial title - Pimp my baby - might just attract the wrong sort of audience…

If anyone's interested, email me!


I'm almost ashamed to admit that I've lived in damned close proximity to West London's chav blackspot most of my life - but apparently there's hope for Feltham after all; there's a new shopping centre that is home to an Asda, a Matalan, an Argos, and a New Look, so it definitely looks like things are on the up. And to top it all off I just saw a poster on a bus advertising the new shopping centre with a picture of a woman saying "Just left the gym … now I'm off to buy that g-string bikini I wanted!"

Now, look, a leopard doesn't change its spots THAT quickly. A better tagline would be "Just left the crack den … where's the nearest clap clinic?"

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

Sugar tits

I was admonished once again by Marcosy today for going longer than, ooo, 12 minutes, without posting a new entry. But at the end of the email he called me Sugar tits, so I think we're best buds again now.

Although I'm not too sure I'll be changing the blog name to Sugar tits Malarkey anytime soon.


Ooo, excitment (she wrote) today - I've only been and gone and spread my malarkey to the XFM website! How so, I hear you say! Well here's how:

Cutting a long story short ('cos me chips are nearly done in the oven) drivetime presenter Richard Bacon was bitch-slapped a bit after his show on Monday, and they've been posting pictures of his injuries, along with a couple showing what he looked like pre-bitch-slap, on the website. Well one of these photos looked hideously like the dearly departed lead singer of Queen, Freddie Mercury to me.

So I booted up photoshop and tickled the picture.

And here it is.

Uncanny, huh?

OK, so it's not the best bit of photoshoping I've ever done, but I was caught between making a cup of tea and farting about on the internet, so... whatever!


Right - must go: I'm off to a wedding party tonight (I bought new shoelaces especially) which is being held in Richmond Park of all places. No doubt the rutting deer will try to moleste me in the dark; if any Suger tits Malarkey kicks off I'll post it up tomorrow.

Lock and load!

Monday, August 07, 2006

Smut 1-0-1

OK people - I might just have to flag myself for objectionable content here!

You might not know this, but I do love a double entendre. And for a few years now I've been the company's resident king of smut, although that probably has something to do with everyone else being a bit crap at it, and me getting the crown by default.


Actually, there was that day a few years back when everyone else bet that I couldn't go a day without making a smutty comment. I was robbed, and they disqualified me on a technicality; apparently a raised eyebrow constitutes a smutty remark! Damn - someone arrest Roger Moore!

Where was I? Oh, yeah, smut. Right. So I went out for a run last night, and just after leaving my house I found a cat rolling over on the ground. Well, it woulda been kinda funny if it was rolling over in mid-air, but I digress. Being a cat-lover (stop it, perverts!) I stooped down and gave it a little stroke (on the head, not one that paralysed it down one side), then carried on with my run. Halfway round my route I noticed a flyer for a missing cat. And would you believe it! It was a Chevy van! No, wait, I mean it was the cat I'd been stroking just minutes before!

Being the action hero that I am, I tore the flyer off the lamp post in a heroic fashion, stuffed it in my pocket, and carried on running.

And when I got home, I picked up the phone, dialled the number, and still breathing heavily from my run, panted down the line in the finest 'Are you being served' stylee:

"I think I've found your pussy."

No, wait - that's not smut - it's pure filth!


Sunday, August 06, 2006

Denny Crane!

As you all know by now, I'm a huge fan of William Shatner. Obviously I first became aware of the Shat as Captain Kirk in Star Trek, but I was also a fan of him because of TJ Hooker, which also starred Heather 'be thy name' Locklear. In fact, Hooker and I share the same initials, which I think was a stunning piece of forethought on the part of my parents. Go Mum and Dad!

The man is a genius.

Don't believe me?

"IT'S A CHEVY VAN" is my new favorite catchphrase, although it did piss Marcosy off a fair bit when we walked past the Chevy stand at the London Motor Show the other week and I JUST. KEPT. SAYING. IT.

Anyway, I'm off to a wedding-party thing on Wednesday night (do you think I can get away with jeans and a wifebeater?), and the Shat has once again come through as a major influence on my life, courtesy of his new show Boston Legal, which I've been watching a bit too much of recently.

Yes, I shall be dancing like this:

Though truth be told, probably not with James Spader.

And if you haven't seen Boston Legal, it's just like Ally McBeal but without Ally McBeal or the CGI fantasy sequences, and it's generally a bit dull unless Shatner and Spader are onscreen; when they are it's just sublime TV. Shatner's character just randomly says his name all the time, a habit I think I might take up...

Denny Crane!

Saturday, August 05, 2006

People say the funniest things

"I think I might go see My Super Ex-Girlfriend at the weekend," I said.

"Aaaaw, it's nice that you're still on good terms," was the reply.


Friday, August 04, 2006


Look - I've got some Kryptonite!

And by Kryptonite, I actually mean a plastic letter opener that was sent to me free by the Royal Mail.

So if Superman ever goes chicken oriental, get behind me - I'll cut him up bad like he was a second class letter!


Thursday, August 03, 2006

Tut. This is silly

OK - this really is silly. I just heard a car alarm go off, and thinking it was mine I went running out into the street in a quickly pulled together outfit of hoody, tracky pants, and mis-matched shoes.

Apparently it was not my car; some inconsiderate bastard appears to have a very similar alarm, and their car is punishing me too.

And to top it off, two blokes were out in the street changing a tyre on another car (well, I suppose they could've been stealing the tyre...), and I just looked like a nutter who ran out of his house, stared at his car for a bit, then ran back in.

At least if I was wearing Spider-Man jim-jams I could've gone "pwish pwish! Just you're friendly neighbourhood web-slinger!" and left them standing there in absolute awe of me.

My car is punishing me

Last night, just two hours after rating Pixar's new film Cars a 'turd' on the Sparky Malarkey patented movie rating-o-meter, my very own beloved Mini decided that I'd gone a little bit too far, and decided to punish me.

I came out of the gym, and noticed a car alarm going off in the car park.

Whoa! Where's that coming from, I thought. It's really shrill and annoying.

As I drove off I noticed that the alarm... seemed to be following me.

Yes. My car alarm was going off while I was driving it.


It was kinda like the opening credits sequence to the Naked Gun movies, you know - where the camera is positioned on the roof of a police car, only in this instance it was embarrassing rather than funny. Everyone I passed was looking. And probably thinking I was a cheeky thief.

I thought about pretending to be a plain-clothes police officer - speeding home and occasionally shouting "Oi you SLAAAAAAAAG!" like I was chasing an evil criminal genius, but my car stands out a little bit too much to be a plain clothes police car, so I just looked a bit sheepish and made it clear that I was very annoyed with it when I pulled up alongside other cars at traffic lights.

A "tut" and a bemused look at the dashboard can go a long way.

Anyway, this being the case:

Sparky Malarkey would like to make it clear that a previous post that listed the new Disney pixar blockbuster motion picture Cars a 'turd' was mis-informed, poorly written, and unnecessary. This being the case, I'd like to apologise whole-heartedly to my beloved car for any distress cause.

But to be honest, dear Mini, you didn't see it. It was REALLY bad. Please don't go alarm crazy again!

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Two hours of my life wasted - just *WASTED!*

Yaz and I went to see Cars the other day. Now, I like cars, and I like films, so you'd think that I'd like the film Cars.

It was shit.

Of course, it looked amazing, but you can wrap a dog turd up in sparkly paper and put a pretty bow on top - at the end of the day, it's still a dog turd.

At least Garfield 2: A Tale of Two Kitties had Jennifer Love Hewitt in it.

Damn. Did I just admit to seeing Garfield 2: A Tale of Two Kitties?


I'm thinking about getting a Tattoo. Do they come with their own little suits, or are accessories sold separately?

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

Everything's falling apart

Well, what about Mel Gibson, huh? Someone's got issues.

It's funny how we all love a spectacularly public breakdown of a successful person; Britney Spears, Michael Jackson, David Hasselhoff at Heathrow Airport with a moist crotch, and now Mel - it's the ultimate car-crash moment, and we, the normal people, love it. And don't deny you're not willing Mel's downfall upon him, or hoping it's going to get EVEN WORSE - we all hate people who are successful. There's nothing like pointing and laughing at the famous people whizzing past us mere mortals on their way to hell.

Seems like that lovable crazy-man act he put on in the Lethal Weapon movies wasn't so much of an 'act,' and certainly wasn't 'lovable.'

I say, if you're going to have the most amazing breakdown in history, doing it in public is certainly the way to go; it's certainly no worse than writing a blog where you just write about stupid things like almost making an incredibly inappropriate comment to someone you're trying to establish a business relationship with.


Right - let's take bets on who's next for the one-way ticket to looneyville.


I've been meaning to mention this for a while - what is this thing where teenage boys walk around in public with their hands down their undercrackers? Really? What the hell is that all about?!

Staines High Street is the last place I want to see someone having a quick fiddle; although to be honest, they're not being quick about it - it's more like their treating it like a marsupial pouch or an extra pocket, and warming their hands down there. Whatever, it's not something I want to see, especially not outside WHSmiths. That's just wrong.

Maybe I AM getting old(er), but it was just never the done thing to be manhandling your Gentleman's Assets in public when I were a lad, unless something got snagged and you were ABSOLUTELY SURE no one would see you. And even then it was just a quick tug (in a non-sexual manner), a little bend of the knees, and everything was right as rain again.

Kids today are walking along hanging onto 'it' like they're worried 'it's' going to drop off. And I'm pretty damn sure if anything of mine 'down there' was going to drop off, I'd know about it. There should be a law that teenage boys should walk around with their hands permanently up as if they're being held at gunpoint. That's the only way to stop society's decaying morals from... erm, decaying!

(Is this nasty habit confined to the UK? Please leave a comment if you've seen a filthy crotch-monkey anywhere else in the world!)


I've FINALLY worn my Superman t-shirt out in public today...

(OK, that makes it sound like I've been wearing it around the house with a towel round my neck and some red undercrackers on - WHICH I HAVEN'T)

Let's start again...

I've finally gotten round to digging my Superman t-shirt OUT OF THE WARDROBE and wearing it while there's still a bit of hoop-la about Superman Returns. And the response has been pretty good, although that's probably due to the fact that I'm buff-ness incarnate now and fill it out a bit better than I did before. Even IT Dave, who ridiculed me for wearing it a few years ago (seriously - I ran home crying that day and it's been in mothballs since), said that he wanted one now.

Just wait 'till the Wonder Woman movie comes out!