Scraaaaatch, oops, aaaaaah!

You know how they say that bad things happen in threes? Well I think I can say I've officially been three'd today.

The 'Scraaaaatch':
Let me start by telling you that my car has white painted alloy wheels. They go well with the white roof, the white bonnet strips, and the white wing mirrors. Well, I say 'white'; what with all the road grime and the lack of me actually bothering to wash it recently they're a bit more dirt-coloured. Rather than a red and white-coloured car it's more like a dull red and dirt-coloured car. Must do something about that soon…

Anyway.

So there I am this morning driving through Chiswick on my way to work when I notice an ambulance roaring up behind me with its lights flashing and its sirens blaring. I did what any good motorist would do and pulled into the side of the road to let it by. However, where I was I had to pull into the top of another road, and part way up onto the pavement; Chiswick's roads a tad tight, I should add. Anyway, the ambulance zooms past, and I start to pull out again. The front wheel bumps of the pavement all well and good, then the back wheel … well, there was this sort of unhealthy scraping sound, readers, that sort of made me feel a little bit sick.

I got to work, ran round to the left-hand side of the car, and yep, there it was: a four centimetre gash on the alloy.

Humph.

This has happened to me before, truth be told, and luckily I've got the number of this awesome dude who can repair such offending surface abberations quickly, efficiently, and with minimal impact on my wallet. I shall give him a call and get it sorted, but, y'know, "Grrrr" in the meantime.

I do hope that ambulance was actually responding to a genuine emergency, and they weren't just rushing back to home base because Doris the kitchen-hand was preparing sausage and bacon for breakfast, or some old bid had knocked her personal alarm because she'd lost the TV remote and couldn't turn over to Supermarket Sweep…

The 'Oops':
You might recall back at the beginning of the month I told you about how we had the doorframe replaced at the office. Well the time has come for it to be painted in vibrant and beguiling tones that enthrall any and all visitors!* We've hired a Polish chap for the task at hand, and he seems to be doing a very good job too. And he always says "thank you, thank you, cheers" when I make him a cup of coffee. Anyway, today he started applying a layer of rich red gloss paint to the door, and stuck a notice on the window that said "WET PAINT."

Not five minutes later a courier turns up with a package. I signed for the package using his little PDA thingy, then went to the toilet. Mid-flow I look at my hand, and notice that it's covered in, well, red.

Either some weird genetic anomaly means I'm having my first period, or the stupid courier touched the door, I thought.

The stupid courier had touched the door. I found fingerprints! Obviously he transferred the paint from his hand to his PDA, and from the PDA to my hand. Outrageous! And yet with such deductive skills I can't help thinking that the FBI should recruit me, or I should at least get a recurring role on that TV show Without a Trace.

Washing the paint off I then went and informed the painter of this annoying turn of events (and by that I mean I told him about the courier touching the door, not the bit about me having a period or joining the cast of Without a Trace). He nodded sagely, shrugged his shoulders, and basically told me that there's always one idiot that touches wet paint. Anyway, he still needs to do another coat or two, so it's not really a problem.

Stupid couriers!

The 'Aaaaaah!':
One problem with having the front door painted is that it needs to be open all the time, and the office is getting very cold. At least downstairs; upstairs they're all sweltering in a veritable tropical paradise. So us two Trekkie boys are getting, well, darn chilly. But hell, ever resourceful, I found a way to solve that problem.

I went to Starbucks and poured hot coffee on my leg!

Not on purpose, you understand. I set down my paper cup (obviously a china cup with its broader base would've been more resilient to a nudge from a writing pad, but their dishwasher's broken, so no china cups), slid my writing pad over, and knocked the bloody thing on it's side. I sat there dumbstruck as it poured out of the little hole in the plastic lid onto my thigh. The thing is, it was quite warm, so I considered leaving it to pool around my arse until I realised I'd have nothing to drink. Fortunately I only lost about three mouthfuls.

Unfortunately, after about 15 minutes it had lost all its warming properties, and I was left with a rather sizeable lukewarm damp patch of what looked to be either piss or liquidous poopy, or a combination of both. I spent most of the afternoon leaning to one side on my chair so as not to sit on it. I was also troubled by the fact that I was wearing white undercrackers today, and if any had seaped through they'd have to have gone right in the bin.

Here's some photographic evidence of the damp patch**.

Impressive, huh? Anyway, the story ends well. It came out in the wash!

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Epilogue: And so my day of three unfortunate events ends… but not before my first attempt at writing this post was lost mid-way through when blogger froze! Holy crap - that's four things! Duh-duh-duuuuuuuuuuuh!


*OK, went a bit Russell Brand again for a minute there, huh?
** Or just another excuse to post a photograph of my thighs and the crest of my arse? You decide!

Winner! AKA: Free stuff is good!

I don't think I mentioned this last week, but I won some CDs off the radio. Just as I won gig tickets off Shaun Keaveny on Xfm last year on his fictional pun headline game (where you had to come up with a fictional pun headline based on a chosen celebrity), I did it again on his new fictional pun headline game on his new Radio 6 show. I quite like fictional pun headline games. The chosen celebrity was Courtney Love. And what were my winning entries I hear you ask?I shall keep you in suspense no more!

Fictional story: Courtney Love is revealed to be a post-op transsexual.
Pun headline: Courtney Cox.


Fictional story: After Courtney Love is entered into a witness protection scheme, Police officers argue over what her new identity should be.
Pun headline: You give Love a bad name.

OK, admittedly not the sort of thing that makes you pass your spleen as you double over with laughter, but I got four free CDs out of it, and you didn't, so snaps. And what were the CDs? Why, I'll tell you! They were Feeder's singles compilation (that's greatest hits to you and me), The Fray's album (good, good, because I almost bought that the other week anyway), The Fratellis' (I like some of their stuff, so hmmm…!), and LCD Soundsystem's latest (only listened to one track so far, and on that basis it's not rocking my world, but I'll reserve judgement until I've had a chance to checkout the whole thing). All in all, then, not a bad haul. Perhaps the biggest plus here was the Feeder hits CD; I'd thought about picking up a copy when it came out last year, but held off because I've already got a lot of the songs on some of their studio albums. But it's nice to have them all on one shiny disc, and it's kinda re-awakened my love of Feeder. I'd actually forgotten how many quality tracks they had aside from the one that was used in Gran Turismo on the PS2, and I've finally got that awesome song (Feeling a Moment) that they played while supporting the Rolling Stones last year that *totally* filled the massive void of a half-empty Twickenham Stadium. Good times.

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Here's an etiquette-based dilemma for you. If you were arranging a meeting with someone for work, and couldn't settle on a suitable location in which to conduct said meeting, then you hit upon the idea of meeting in, say, a bar or lounge in the person's hotel, does it sound weird when you write "I'll meet you in your hotel" in an email? Because it kind of makes me feel a little bit like a gigalo, and I'm not 100 percent sure that's appropriate.

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I spent a little bit of time looking at the books at work today. And by books I don't mean a tatty paperback, I mean the accounts stuff. Thing is, maths isn't exactly my strong suit, and however much I raise an eyebrow and nodd all wise and sage-like, I can't help wondering that I was put in that office simply to do the nerdy stuff and look pretty.

More 'dud' than 'dude'

I should really have guessed that the new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie (or TMNT as it's called - we'll come back to that) wouldn't exactly be my cup of tea by the sheer fact that I kind of felt awkwardly embarrassed asking for a ticket to see it. Once that hurdle was passed, I settled into my seat, and looked forward to what I hoped would be an exciting 90 minutes.

How. Wrong. I. Was.

It is dire. Where shall I start? Oh, well - how about the animation, that swerves from reasonably awesome for the turtles themselves (or should that just be 'T' in the new naming system?), to horrifically dire Incredibles-esque knock-offs for the supporting characters. And despite the marvels of CGI allowing anything and everything to be brought to life, it seemed like the turtles just kept bouncing around the same five crappy rooftops. And the story? Incomprehensible! Something about bringing some statues to life, and some monsters being released when some stars were alligned. In fact, at one point I thought they were fighting the shaggy blue monster from Monsters Inc.

What's most surprising, though, is that there were actually some decent voice-over artists; Sarah Michelle Gellar, Chris Evans (the American actor, not the ginger TV presenter), and Patrick-bloody-Stewart. He's done Shakespeare and Star Trek for crying out loud!

Anyway, it all made for a ridiculous mess of a movie, and a complete waste of my money. I should've gone and seen the sweaty Greek movie. What's it called? Oh yes, My Big Fat Sweaty Greek Battle.

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Skillz has been influencing a lot of my posts recently. Well, OK, it was just the bit about cereal yesterday, but it's about to happen again (I'm not sure if it counts as plagiarism or if he's just become my muse of late) – and it has to do with movie titles. Basically, Skillz's referral to Aliens as The Alien 2 over on his blog got me thinking about other quality alternate titles for movies. Adolescent Genetically-Modified Martial Arts-Trained Testudines anyone? That's just silly*.

But I did come up with the following:

Batman Starts
Superman Comes Back
South Park: More Epic in Scope, with a Longer Running Time, and Some Rudey Bits
Monkey World

My favourite, however, once again takes me back to Star Trek. I seriously think that Paramount should look into re-releasing Star Trek III: The Search for Spock with the following new title: Finding Nimoy.



*Something else that is silly is a new movie called The Last Mimsy. It sounds all sorts of pervy-weird.

Fun on the Sunday

Well, no, not really. Here's what I've done today in brief (not 'in briefs') so that you can decide whether or not to read on:

• Got up late.
• Drank tea and ate toast with marmalade!
• Changed my bed.
• Went to Sainsburys.
• Read my book.
• Fell asleep.

If I may, and as you might recall I have on occasion done before, I'd like to go into a little more detail about the trip to Sainburys. I genuinely thought it might be a bit empty at the time I went, and was a bit shocked to find that what appeared to be every single dithering idiot in a 20 mile radius had descended on it. I really hate stupid people who leave their stupid trolley parked lengthways across the aisle. Everyone seemed to be doing this today. And if I stopped to look at a variety of products on a shelf, this same old woman would push her trolley in front of my field of vision then wander off back up the aisle where she'd just come from and where it was COMPLETELY EMPTY. This happened first while I was checking out fabric softeners, and last when I was looking at shampoos.

There were also a lot of annoying, pushy people. I'd stop to let someone else coming from the other direction push their trolley through a small gap, then some old bid would ram her trolley into me from behind, tut, and barge through. Is it illegal to chin old bids in the cereal aisle? Talking of cereal, I was excited to see if my Sainsburys had an 'adult cereal' section like Skillz noticed in his; sadly it did not, and my disappointment rapidly descended into confusion when I reached for a box of Sainsbury's own corn flakes. These were piled two boxes high on the shelf, and while the top one offered a 'kid's science CD-ROM', the bottom one, I noticed had an additional green segment on the Sainsbury's wheel of health. What a dilemma! A CD-ROM and two dangerously orange sections, or no CD-ROM and better health? Oh, the decisions facing the young scientists of this day and age! In the end I decided to go with the healthier option; I expect the CD-ROM wasn't Mac-compatible anyway.

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One of my other purchases was a packet of Café Switch, the exciting new coffee-based beverage that you have to pump with your thumbs for frothy fun! I had a choice of three varieties: True Kick, White Innocence (which sounds like something the Ku Klux Klan might claim), and Creamy Indulgence. I went for the latter.

Anyway, first thoughts? Well, I won't mince words - it tastes like petrol. To be honest, though, I get the impression it's one of those things that, despite tasting foul, I'll no doubt become inexplicably addicted to. It's either that or take a mouthful from the pump next time I'm filling the car up.

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I just got a text message from the place where I get my hair cut. "We haven't heard from you in a while - why not phone and book an appointment?"

OK, I was actually only thinking this morning that I need a cut, but to actually get a text that basically says "yer hair looks shit, get it cut you hippy" is a bit disconcerting.

I'll book an appointment tomorrow.

Playtime

As I've mentioned before, I used to play Badminton a lot. And by 'a lot' I mean 'A. LOT.' Geez, I used to run the freakin' club! Every Friday… Yes, admittedly it was a bit of a killer for the social life, but there was always Saturday night to go out boogie-ing.

Anyway, recently I've been trying to get back into Badminton, for several reasons. First of all, I have indeed given up my membership to the gym in order to concentrate more on the running side of things, and I figured Badminton would make a nice exerciserly addition to my new fitness regime. Secondly, my former Badminton cohorts kept texting me and appealing for me to return. And who am I to deny them the pleasure?

(Seriously, a few well-phrased texts and I'll cave into pretty much anything. I'm *such* a push-over.)

I've been pretty consistent at going, only missing one Friday this year (last week when I went to see Sleeping Dogs.), and d'ya know what? I'm really enjoying it again. Can I use the phrase joie de vivre? Hell, yes, I can, despite the fact that I'm not entirely sure what it means!

There's still a few familiar faces from years back, which is nice because I do appreciate some consistancy in these sort of things. And steadily the old skills are returning; once again, I am becoming the badminton Jedi of West London…

It's not all perfect, though; seems that my increased focus on a bit of post-run weight-lifting has given me the ability to whack the shuttle* far further than ever before. Have you seen that bit in Superman Returns when Clark throws the baseball and his dog just turns round with a look that sort of implies "you can effin' get that yourself, matey"? It's just like that.


Which of course is a little problematic when you're trying to keep your cock in the box**. In fact, it's been leading to a fair bit of under-the-breath cursing. It's almost like I've developed tourettes. Last night I just started saying "SWEAR" or a random word like "jam jar," because I don't want a reputation as the potty-mouthed Badminton bad boy of West London.

The other problems I've got are pretty much brain freeze-related. First of all, I can't for the life of me manage to keep track of the score these days, and I'm pretty sure that I've just given some games away by my opponents (we play doubles) just saying "That's it - we've got 15," and I go "Oh, really? OK." Secondly, because we play doubles, I'm always under the misguided impression that my partner is just going to get the shot. So I've taken to muttering a number of mantras under my breath to suit specific purposes. Lasts night's favourites were "run like a cheetah!" and "scurry like a weasel!" For the most part they worked, enhancing the impression of me being the tastiest and most capable piece of real estate on the court.

The other thing that got me laughing yesterday was that one of our regulars brought her son along, who despite being only about 11 or 12, is a damn fine player. The thing is, when you serve to him, he holds both his arms out straight in front him. It's like serving to the undead.


*Note how I refrained from calling it 'the cock' purely for a cheap joke?

**Oh, I'm totally making THAT joke.

Snow joke

Right, this is getting silly. It snowed on me AGAIN today. As I left the house it was a bit sleety, and then over the next hour or so it turned into proper snow. But to make it even worse, it didn't settle; it just hit the ground and melted. If it had settled that would've been cool, because I could've made a snowman, or rolled around on the floor in it. Or thrown a snowball at the brat-kids who barge past me on their way to school every morning as I head towards the office.

Damn brat-kids…!

Anyway, so it didn't settle. It just flew up my nose and in my eyes so I ended up blinking like a special.

What's most annoying though, is that I really feel like some angry deity is getting me back for some wrong-doing. I wear warm, wintry clothes, it's sunny; I wear thinner, more spring-like clothes, it friggin' snows. I'm damned if I do, and damned if I don't. I feel like I'm nature's Ken doll, packaged with all the wrong seasonal accessories. No doubt they come separately.

(And if anyone makes a joke about me having a curvaceously-smooth groin like Ken I will shake my fist at you like a comedy villain and go "grrrr!")

And do you know what irks me even more?! When it was sunny the other week, they blamed it on global warming. "No," I shouted at the TV. "It's frikkin' spring!" And now it's snowy again, guess what? Yes. GOD. DAMNED. GLOBAL. WARMING. AGAIN.

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I've been feeling a tad mischievous the last couple of days. The thing is, I'm kind of alone in the office (aside from Planky), because my sidekick in all things Trekkie has buggered off on holiday so there's no one to unleash my mischief upon. Well, except for this freelancer who is in doing … something … but I really don't think it's appropriate to flick elastic bands at him or give him a wedgie. Or is it? Hmmm…

That said, I am spending a significant amount of my mornings evading the postman. The one that delivers our mail is really chatty in a kind of sinister I'd-be-reaching-for-my-pepper-spray-if-I-had-some kind of way. He just comes in and hangs around like I'm going to kick back and chat with him for an hour or two. So I've taken to hiding behind the photocopier or picking up the phone and pretending to talk to someone. And you just know that one day the bastard's going to ring and I'll look like a right tit.

That said, it's not all been barely-restrained mischief and postman evasion. Oh no. My lovely friend Lorna emailed me the other day to complain that the people in her office just talk about boring things like shoes; when Lorna and I used to work together our office was filled with hilarity and smut, and she was hoping that I could rekindle those good times via an email. My smut-filter may've been underused recently, but I eventually gave her one.

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Ooo, ooo, ooo! Excitemondo Fonzy!! The Rolling Stones are touring AGAIN! And this time they're performing at the old Millennium Dome, which is now called the O2 or something equally inane. For those that don't know, the Millennium Dome was this huge … thing in London that opened in the year 2000, and was full of lots of 'interesting' things. It stayed open for just one year, and it was by all accounts a huge shitty failure. I can't possibly comment, because I never went. But it did look like a huge shitty failure. Did anyone go? If you did, leave a comment - especially if it was shitty because then I won't feel bad about not having gone.

Anyway, the dome has stood empty since 2001 at huge expense to the poor British taxpayer bcause we like nothing more than to pay for huge, empty, shitty failures that the government tells us are going to be the greatest thing since Prime Minister's question time and paying taxes. I'd always harboured a hope that they'd turn it into a huge Star Trek exhibition, because quite frankly I always thought it looked like the crashed Enterprise saucer section from Star Trek Generations.


So yes, The Rolling Stones are going to play there in the summer. The thing is, no bugger appears to want to go with me. No one. Bastards. But I'm not going to let that stop me - I'll go alone if I have to!* And maybe, just maybe, I'll see if I can ransack some of that advanced 24th century technology that Starfleet left behind…


*Or will I buy two tickets and beg someone to go with me if I promise to give them the spare ticket at a discounted price as the day looms...?

The dark side

I'm wondering if my slight obsessiveness about emos and the emo way of life is having a detrimental effect on my life.

Let's review:

1. I am a HUUUUGE fan of Panic! At the Disco. So much so that I'm seriously considering getting a ticket for the Reading Festival because they're playing one day. Please note: I do not do 'festivals'; congregating with hippies and stoners in a muddy field to watch a band is NOT my idea of fun. If I do decide to go, though, it should be relatively easy to convince my bro to go with me; the Red Hot Chili Willies are also playing that day, and he likes them.

2. I've seen a stripey hoodie in Gap that I think I might buy.

3. I discovered the other day that I can do an awesome emo impression. It consists of a quick "huh," a roll of the eyes, and a flick of an imaginary fringe (all done within the space of one second). I seriously thought about recording myself doing it and posting it here, but I'm not convinced that me doing an emo-impression would be a very auspicious start to video-posting.

4. I have downloaded 'This Ain't a Scene, It's an Arms Race' by Fall Out Boy from iTunes. Don't judge me - it's a good song.

5. I am considering downloading another Fall Out Boy song from iTunes. Go ahead, you may judge me now*.

The whole Fall Out Boy thing is kinda troubling because I always start out hating their songs, then they grow on me until, after about two weeks I can't get enough of them. They're like musical herpes, and there doesn't appear to be an over-the-counter remedy.

Is this acceptable behaviour, or do I need a serious slap? Either way, you should definitely check out this youtube video that was emailed to me today. If you're not singing "I'm a little man, and also into cats" whenever you hear this song from now on, there's something wrong with you.




*Please bear in mind that I will NEVER wear skinny jeans or eyeliner (even if it will bring out the colour in my eyes).

The Monday stuff

So, last week: beautiful, spring-like, warm, sunny, etc, etc. I hope you're building up a beautiful mental image. Hell, I even went to lunch on Friday wearing just my hoodie. Um, OK, don't build up THAT mental image, you pervert - I mean that I didn't need a jacket. I was fully trousered up, I assure you.

(You at the back - stop giggling)

And then there was today.

...

...

IT FREAKIN' SNOWED ON ME!

One minute Yaz and I are sitting outside Starbucks, a little chilly, admittedly, but the sky was nevertheless blue. Twenty minutes later I'm Scott of the bloody-Antarctic. Seriously, my entire front was coated in snow. I looked like I'd been hosed down with foam. Or some frikkin' huge bird had done the shat to end all shats on me. And to add insult to injury there was thunder and lightning too!

I am NOT impressed. I am, however, glad that I left the thick duvet on - snuggily fun for me tonight!

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After seeing Dinah's pics from her Highball the other day I've realised that I'm completely in the mood for some dancin'. I can't completely blame Dinah, however; there's been a lot of quality music around recently that's got my ass shaking while I'm listening to my iPod on the walk down to Hammersmith at lunchtime, which quite frankly is a little embarrassing because the slightest hint of a hip-gyration makes me get all subconscious and think that everyone's looking at me. And I really don't like the idea of being a one-man iPod flash-mob.

Anyway, this mood has just increased because Sparky Bro has lent me his Stevie Wonder Greatest Hits CD. I quite like a bit of Stevie (and I do a blinding impression of him, if you'll pardon the pun), and songs like Masterblaster aren't doing anything to dispell my current dance mood. Maybe have to think about doing something about that soon… It's been a while since I've busted some quality moves on the dancefloor.

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Oh. My. God. I am soooooooo reading an awesome book at the moment - World War Z. Graham bought it for me for my birthday last year, and I'll admit that it kinda got lost at the bottom of a large book-stack I built up over the last couple of months. Feeling a tad guilty about not having read it, I dug it out at the weekend and started reading.

It. Is. AWESOME.

Basically, it's a history of a global zombie war, told via interviews with survivors and influential figures. It's brilliantly written, and I'm whipping through it at quite a rate. I highly recommend it if you've got any inkling of appreciation for the horror or zombie genres. And it's written by Mel Brooks' son! So far, no fart gags, though.

Truth be told, it did freak me out a tad; I went for a run last night, and kept expecting the walking dead to lurch out at me when I was least suspecting it. The manky weather probably put them off, I suspect.

How much is that doggy in the window?

Simon just bought Sparky Ma Nintendogs for a Mother's Day present, which is a pretty damn good gift, and long overdue because he's been threatening to buy it for about a year now but had thus far resisted.

I should add here that Sparky Ma and Sparky Pa are both quite the little gamers. But whereas Sparky Pa confines his gaming to high-scoring bouts of Tetris, Sparky Ma has broadened her reportoire to various different games and genres. Her addiction started around the time I had a SNES back in the early 90s, and quite frequently when Dad was away on business Mum and I would sit down and wile away an evening playing Super Mario Allstars. And by 'play' I mean I'd sort of get whupped.

As the years passed, I traded my SNES down to Mum, then my N64, and then the other year she bought herself a Nintendo DS (I think because Dad kept asking if she would please turn the damn N64 off so they could watch the telly, and although she'd eventually say yes, he'd still have to wait about three hours for her to actually finish the bit she was on and by that time Tomorrow's World with Judith Han had finished).

Anyway, although the DS was a treat for Mum, it also turned into a treat for Simon and I because it's opened up a whole new world of present buying possibilities for birthdays, Christmases, etc. And she now owns about 14 million games. Perhaps the only downside is that whenever I pop over to see the parents these days they're both catatonic in front of their handheld Nintendos. Some would call that a blessing, but I happen to get on with my parents.

Where was I? Oh yes, Nintendogs. Well, I couldn't not have a go while I was round there, so I nabbed the DS and started furiously tapping on the screen with the stylus to get the attention of the little puppies. It's quite fun actually, because you can stroke the dogs in quite a realistic and intuitive way, and they respond to it in an extremely realistic manner. I lifted one up by his front paws until he got pissed at me and ran off, and then, inexplicably, one happy little puppy turned round and showed me his arse. I'm not stroking that, I thought. So I jabbed it with the stylus instead.

Because I don't like dogs.

I then gave it back to Sparky Ma, because I reasoned that eventually one of the little puppies would shat on the virtual grass, and there is no way I was going to clean that up.

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On a related note, I keep bumping into this woman in the back streets of Hammersmith at lunchtimes. We don't talk, mainly because it being London people don't talk to each other in the street for no reason, but also because I was brought up with a healthy respect for the 'stranger danger' guidelines. I do smile at this woman, though, not because I'm trying to pick her up, but because she has an interesting comedy dog.

She walks two dogs, you see. Both are little funky terrier-things, which are within acceptable limits on my dog-human/possible-threat scale chart, and I usually smile because they're always getting their leads tangled up around trees, postboxes, and the mouthy old woman with the wheeled-walking frame.

Did I mention that one of the dogs also has what appears to be a grossly over-sized head? And by 'grossly over-sized' I mean 'looks like it was cut off a big dog and stitched onto a tiny dog's body.' It's freakin' massive. I'm pretty damn sure its tongue drags on the floor. It reminds me of the guy from that Cher movie - y'know, 'Mask,' where her son (Eric Stolz) has that massively deformed head, but he's got a really nice personality so most people don't go "whoa! Look at the size of that dude's massive head!" except for the nasty guys, but we all know they're going to get their comeuppence at the end. Also, his huge head kind of deflects attention from his massive curly ginger 'fro, so it's not all bad. Well, it might be - doesn't he die at the end of the movie?

Oh god. I hope the massive-headed dog doesn't die. It's become something of a lunchtime routine watching it get tangled up in things. If it did die I'd really miss it's massive head lolling about, and it's huge dopey eyes looking up at me like that clone of Ripley in Alien: Resurrection; y'know, the one that goes "kiiiiiiillll meeeeee" and then real Ripley torches it to put it out of its misery. What I haven't noticed, though, is whether the other dog has a massive body and a small head; I'm pretty sure I'd've noticed if it did. But it would be cool to think that the woman is going all Frankenstein on her pets. Maybe next week she'll unleash budgie-cat?

Let me tell you about my day

I was a tad late to work today; some bright spark has, you see, decided to put the most ludicrous set of temporary traffic lights up in Chiswick, and it's grinding traffic to an absolute halt. Put it this way, a distance that usually takes me about five minutes to drive is currently taking about 30 minutes.

Bah.

On the plus side, I made myself an awesome new CD for the car featuring a load of songs I'd downloaded off iTunes. So I sat and rocked out to some new Maximo Park, acoustic Panic! At the Disco, and some new Justin Timberlake, which I came into possession of by 'borrowing' the lovely Jo's CD last weekend. Yes, I don't mind the odd bit of JT, as I believe the kids call him. And the bass on SexyBack makes my car vibrate. Or was that just me jigging…?

Anyway, after parking up I began my short walk round to the office. On the way, I pass a school. And that's when I realised that today is Comic Relief day. How did I guess that? Well all the kids were red. Literally red. Completely red. Red wigs. Red hair. Red noses. Red faces. Red clothes. It was like Attack of the Killer Tomatoes. If they were little squealing plum tomatoes. There were also a load of red teachers rattling collecting tins. Fortunately that's the brilliance of an iPod - you can ignore charity muggers with relative ease.

The office was eerily quite for ages today. But that was OK, because I had Planky for company.


Aaah… Isn't he a cheery looking fellow. Does bugger all work though, lazy git.

Anyway, work was a tad dull because… well, I was having to do some dull stuff. It was, as you might've guessed, dull. So I decided to treat myself to a movie at the end of the day.

I haven't been to the cinema since before Christmas, which is a hell of a long time for me to go without having seen a movie. That last film before Christmas was 'Black Christmas,' which was shite, and probably soured me on the whole 'paying-to-see-a-movie-experience.' I decided today that I would go and see Sleeping Dogs Lie.

Inexplicably, over her in Britland the film's title has been truncated to just Sleeping Dogs. (With a full stop at the end, mind. We might not be able to deal with more than two words in a title, but by god we like our proper punctuation on this side of the ocean). But what drew me to this film was that it was written and directed by Bobcat Goldthwaite.

Who?

Bobcat Goldthwaite! Y'know, Zed off Police Academy!


I used to quite like the Police Academy films, until they got a bit stupid and went to Russia and things like that. But I especially liked Zed. In fact, I spent a significant part of the late eighties practising a pronounced facial tick and doing my best to talk like him. It drove Sparky Ma a tad insane.

Anyway, I was unfamiliar with the fact that Bobcat had gone on to writing and directing, and I was intrigued by the premise of the film (a young woman admits a dark sexual secret from her past to her fiance); the fact that it's got a couple of awards and the reviews have been good only helped my decision to give it a whirl.

First off, I doubt very much that Sleeping Dogs(.) will set the box office alight; there were only five of us in the cinema, and one of those had wandered in about 25 minutes into the film, presumably after the film he had been watching had finished and he couldn't be bothered to go home.

So, onto the film: I'll be brutally honest, it sorta fell between two stools for me. It kind of wanted to be a gross-out comedy at times (in fact, the main story point is waaaaaaay grosser than anything from, say, 'There's Something About Mary' or 'American Pie,' but I won't spoil it by revealing what it is here. Suffice to say, the title gives a sizable hint), while in other parts it took quite a serious point of view focusing on family relationships. Some of the acting was a bit crappy too. And it had weird music that reminded me of an independent French film. It was all harpsichord-y and bizarrely out of place. Most unsettling, however, was the fact that the lead actress looked like a cross between Renee Zellwegger and a dude.

That's not to say that I didn't like the film - because I did. It had some nice moments. I wouldn't say it was the best film I've seen this year, because- Oh, hang on. It's the only film I've seen this year… So that DOES make it the best film I've seen this year.

Hmmm…

Well, there's some other interesting films coming out soon that have caught my attention; '300' (though I'm not convinced I actually want to see sweaty ancient Greek men whacking each other with swords), 'TMNT' (erm, when did we stop calling them 'Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles'? Or even 'Hero Turtles,' seeing as the BBC wouldn't let us hear the word 'ninja' for years… Geez, the sheer fact that they're back makes me feel oooooooold), and 'Sunshine.'

Oh, the choice - I'm practically rubbing my hands together at the cinematic expectation!

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I rounded the day off as I started: caught in Chiswick traffic (this time going the other way), and home to find Comic-bloody-Relief on the telly. Seriously, what the hell is Kate Thornton doing on? She gets sacked from X-Factor and somehow she wangles her way onto the BBC? And if it wasn't enough that she looks like a gurning alien, why the hell was she dressed like a big purple sweet from a tin of Quality Street?!

365

"Happy birthday to me,
Happy birthday to meeeeee,
Happy birthday dear Spaaaaaarky,
Happy birthday to meeeeeeeee!"

Of course, we all know it's not my real birthday (because as YOU ALL KNOW that is NOVEMBER 10th*); but it is my bloggie birthday! Yes, that's right: it was one year - 365 days ago - today that I got a bit bored waiting for Smallville to come on the telly, and decided that I'd unleash myself upon you, the delightful and somewhat unsuspecting public.

Oh, what merry hell has ensued since then.

Together we've faced miniature horses, a spoon crisis, getting blinged up for running, and hunky me sporting a beard. I for one (and I might be alone in this), would like to officially remember these as "good times." You might like to remember them as a decidedly-average looking special writing nonsense, occasionally more than once a day. But bless you, some of you have stayed the course with me, and for that I salute you, because you could've gone off and done something more interesting, like scrub hippies, or dress your cat in suave and sophisticated attire; hell, sod the salute - I might even be persuaded to air kiss you on both cheeks. Or tongue, if you're so inclined and I'm feeling particularly slutty.

Mwuh.

And to top it all off, this is also post number 365. That's right - I've mouthed off enough to fill a post each and every day of the last year. Do I have NOTHING better to do?

Quite frankly, no.

(I will say that out of those 365 posts, at least five of them are really good and maybe even worth reading. But I'm not going to tell you which ones; you'll have to find them for yourself. Muwahaha. And when you do, maybe print them off and read them when you're on the toilet or something? They might just help you pass your daily bread, and they'll certainly give you something to wipe with if you're a bit cheap and bought a lower-grade of paper.)

So yes, doesn't time fly when you're having fun; well, I have been - I don't know about you. Have you? I hope so. Tempus has fugited, ain't it? Whoosh! It's just gone. Like that. I was thinking about buying a cake to celebrate, but then I realised there's no way I can share it with you, and a huge cake would just go to waste. So I microwaved a small syrup pudding instead, which was nice (and three for the price of two in Sainsbury's - BARGAIN). Anyway, I expect I'll be writing something similar to this around the same time next year, which gives us all something to look forward to, hmmm…?

Hold on Sparky fans - it's going to be a wild rollercoaster ride!

(I think this is the bit where vacuous me begs you to post comments lavishing me with praise for my wit, male-model looks, and Batman-esque crime-fighting skills. And then, like a ninja, I vanish into the night leaving a trail of women wanting to love me, and crowds of men wanting to be me!)

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Finally, after one year of blogging, let me share a secret with you: if you want to boost the number of readers to your blog, just copy and paste the text below into a new post.

Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff
Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff
Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff
Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff
Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff
Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff
Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff
Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff
Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff
Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff NIPPLES Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff
Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff
Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff
Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff
Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff
Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff
Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff
Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff
Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff Katee Sachoff

You would not believe the amount of deviants that have found Sparky Malarkey by Googling 'Katee Sachoff's nipples.' Seriously, just sit back and watch the perverts swarm like flies to a turd!**


*And if you didn't know, pop it in your diary now, lest you forget.

**Not that I'm calling anyone's blog a turd. That would just be rude and untrue.

It's the shoes!

OK, so I've just got back from my first run with the new shoes, and I must say - diagnosis: awesome! Actually, make that: AWESOME! They're like slipping a fluffy puppy on each foot and skipping through a flower-filled meadow while a rainbow shines overhead and children giggle in the sunlight. Either that or someone just slipped something in my drink and I'm on some huge trip.

*Ahem*

So yes, they're soooooo comfortable, and I really don't think I was pronating as much as usual. Admittedly, I have still got a little bit of pain in my knee, but it's nowhere near as bad as it was last week, and I'm figuring that it might just be a hold-over from last week's injury. Time will tell.

Marcosy has recommended that I team the new uber-trainers with a pair of X-Socks. He says they're the "X-Wing Fighter of the sock world," which sounds rather exciting, even if the X-Wing Fighters in Star Wars were a bit shabby and prone to exploding at the slightest whiff of an imperial blaster. Unfortunately, I haven't really checked out the X-Sock range because I keep refreshing the intro page to see if the woman who appears there briefly really is butt-nekkid, or if it's just lit all arty-like to make it appear so. Current thinking: she's nekkid, because I'm sure I can see nippleage!

(Also, I'm sure he won't mind me saying, but Marcosy has seen a job for 'Women in Prison' magazine that he's tempted to go for. I told him he should, but he's worried he might end up as some obnoxious Top-Dog's bitch. I disagree; I've seen many prison dramas, all have which have shown that prisons only contain the sexiest lady villains. I think he'll be just fine.)

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Ooo, Graham has posted some more stuff up on our comicspace page. It's the first thing we ever collaborated on together. It's called Six Weeks, and it's all about a superhero who dies, then comes back to life and decides to fix all the world's problems before his body zombifies-up. We did the entire first issue of this bad-boy, and you can find it HERE. I think we did this about … ooo, four years ago now? See what ya think.

He also sent me the latest version of the flashback sequence I posted up the other day. Goddamn it looks AMAAAAAZING; gorgeous washed out sepia tones, watercolour-esque clouds, dialogue overlaid, the whole kit 'n kaboodle. But I'm not going to show you that yet. Ooo, such a tease!

I've been biomechanically assessed

After weeks and weeks of incessant bitching about gammy knees, funny ankles, and manky old trainers, I decided today that SOMETHING needed to be done about it. And so SOMETHING was done.

I went to Sweatshop; no, not a confined wooden hut where I force children to stitch expensive training shoes for 12p a day, but rather one of the best sports shops I have ever found.

You see, in Sweatshop they actually know what they are talking about rather than you picking a pair of trainers and some monkey-boi going and getting them from the stock room, chucking them at you, and leaving you to lace them up yourself.

So I wandered in, and started eye-ing up the running shoes. I'd already decided that I would not be seduced by their gaudy colours and slick appearance; no, I'd decided that I was going to allow the shop assistant to guide me toward the right pair, regardless of flash looks and style-icon status. If they looked like turds but felt like clouds I'd have them. I was soon approached by a young lady.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Why yes," I replied. "I'm looking to buy a pair of running shoes. The pair I'm using at the moment are minging, and they've buggered up my knee. I don't want to be seduced by swish design - would you be able to guide me toward the best pair of trainers evah?"

"Yes. But before we start looking at shoes, what I'd like to do is subject you to a biomechanical assessment that will help me determine the right pair of trainers for you. Is that OK?"

"Um yes," I replied, and despite feeling a little awkward at having such an important assessment in the middle of a shop, I thought that she clearly knew best. I started undoing my trousers.

"You, er, don't have to do that," she said. "Just your shoes and socks. And roll your trousers up."

"Oh."

Seconds later she was looking at my nekkid feet, and making me turn in different directions and bend my knees.

"Are you aware of the term pronator? Do you know you're a pronator?"

"Well, I only talk a lot if I've got something on my mind, or a problem that I need to get off my chest-"

"No, not a procrastinator. Pronator. It means that one of your feet rolls a bit when you walk or run. Your left one rolls, and you probably compensate by putting more weight on your right leg which is why you knee hurts. Have you ever injured your left foot."

"Yes," I eagerly replied, and then went on to tell her about how my left foot had slipped off the front of the sled when I'd been tobogganing down Box Hill about 20 years ago and how I'd been sure I'd broken it, but the hospital x-ray department had been shut at the weekend so they just put a strappy tube-thing on it and sent me on my way and it'd clicked ever since.

"Hmmm."

Anyway, after my biomechanical assessment the lady went off to select some trainers.

"Are you OK with those socks?" She asked, pointing at my socks.

"Um, yeeeeeah…" I said, wondering if she was a) offering to swap them for a newer pair, or b) dissing my socks and suggesting that they might contaminate the shoes.

I tried some Nikes, some Asics, and some Brooks that were too big. With each pair she made me run down the little jogging track they have in the shop; admittedly this made me feel like a bit of a special, but it was for my own good so I just shut up and run.

Eventually it came to making a decision. The Nikes or the Asics. Hmmm…

"Why don't you put a Nike on one foot and an Asic on the other and hop on the treadmill," said the assistant.

"How exciting," I replied. So I popped odd shoes on, and got on the treadmill. It was then that I realised that not only was I wearing odd shoes, but I also still had my jeans rolled up to the knee. And the treadmill was positioned in the shop window. So I looked like a special who'd invaded a window display. A hot special, admittedly. Anyway, that aside, I eventually plumped for the Asics. They're very comfortable and rather light, and I'm looking forward to trying them out. With these new uber-trainers I'll be back pounding the streets, fighting crime, and breaking hearts before you know it!

Book update

OK, so I might not have written much of my book over the last couple of weeks, but work continues on it apace! In fact, Graham has been busy working on illustrating a flashback sequence I sent him, and I thought y'all might like a looksy.

I think you'll agree that, even at this early stage, it's kinda awesome…

Stalked by the fuzz

I've always done my utmost to be a good boy. I never egged old ladies in the street, never stole sweeties from the corner shop, and was certainly never caught under-age drinking on Terminal Four Hill.

That said, an incident this week served to remind me how those entrusted with serving and protecting us can be freakin' weirdos.

Let's back up a bit, shall we?

Back in 2001, soon after I'd bought my first Mini Cooper, Sparky Pa turned to me one day and said "Son, you're a young lad in a fast car - don't be surprised if the Police haul you over on suspicion of nicking it." So I made sure I was always carrying the correct documentation and a cheeky smile.

Several years later, when I'd upgraded to my Mini Cooper S, I finally had that run in with the Police. It was around Christmas time, and Mr Chunt and I had arranged to meet up for a pre-Christmas drink. So I drove over to pick Chunty up, parked up alongside his house, and turned the engine off in anticipation of going and banging on his front door. As I turned the headlights off though, a Police van (not a car, a VAN) drove across the top of the road. I thought nothing of it.

Seconds later said Police van is parked at an angle across the front of my car, and the eight uniformed occupants are all staring at me. The driver wound down his window, instructed me to do likewise, and asked me why I'd turned my headlamps off. Because, of course, we all know that's incredibly suspicious behaviour when a car parks at the side of the road.

Numerous amusing responses pounded through my brain at warp speed, ranging from "you'll never catch me, fnar, fnar!" to an Ali G style "is it because I is black?" But the thought of spending the night in the cells meant that I told the truth.

"I'm waiting for my mate," I said, pointing. Handily, Mr Chunt had heard my car pull up and had come outside at that exact moment. He looked a tad startled by the fact that a massive Police van was looming over my little Mini, and when the collective group of officers turned to face him he smiled and waved.

Slightly pissed that he wasn't going to be able to arrest me and charge me with turning off my headlamps, the Police driver "harumphed" and drove off. Of course, Chunty lived in a dead end at that time, and I was quite amused to see the massive van having to do a three-point turn. It was like that bit in Austin Powers where he has to turn that little golf cart thingy around.

Anyway, off I drove, laughing like a maniacal supervillain. And by 'laughing like a maniacal supervillain' I actually mean 'grumbling about Police harrassment and wanting my Mummy.'

Fast forward to this week!

I leave work at around 16:30 - I think it was Thursday - and I'm walking round to the company who graciously allow me to park my car outside their office for the miniscule sum of £10 per week. So there I am, trudging along, bag slung over my shoulder, listening to my iPod, hands in pockets, a regular everyday hunk. Then in front of me I notice three of those community Police officers - y'know, the ones that aren't actually real Police; it's more of a hobby that lets you dress up as a Police officer - kind of like when I dress up as Batman and try to rid the streets of crime. Bless them, they looked like three middle-aged mums who'd been inspired by watching too many repeats of Cagney and Lacey and decided they wanted a bit of the action. And by action, I mean standing around looking at a phone box with a smashed window. I could tell their motherly instincts were kicking in, and they just wanted to sweep up the broken glass and smack someone's botty.

So there I am walking toward them. Then one of them looks at me at the precise instant that I turn to walk into the trading estate where my car is parked. She clearly thought "a hot lead!" and the next thing I know I'm being tailed into the trading estate by three tubby mums playing dress-up in an unmarked R-reg Ford Fiesta.

You'd think that one of the first things they'd teach you at fake Police academy is that when tailing a sexy suspect you should follow from a distance, not drive along at four miles per hour about six metres behind said suspect. Maybe Cagney, Lacey, and Plus-one had a bake sale that day and missed class?

Anyway, they tail me down the driveway of the trading estate, into the estate itself, and when I get to my car and start putting stuff in the boot they drive by really slowly and give me the evil eye. I may have winked cheekily by way of response. Obviously wanting to maintain their low-profile, they drive to the end of the trading estate, park up, and get out their notebooks. To be honest, I don't think they were writing down my vital statistics; it's more likely they were planning their shopping lists.

As exciting as this all was, budding supervillains like myself can't hang around all day seducing fake Police officers with our sexy good looks and cunning plots. So I hopped in my car and drove off. I think they might've intended to follow me, but Cagney clearly got a bit caught up in the moment, bunny-hopped the Fiesta forward, and stalled.

Shame. I was quite looking forward to a hard and fast pursuit through the back streets of Hammersmith at an average seven miles per hour.

Oops, I did it again

I haven't seen Sweatband in ages, then all of a sudden she sends me this email with a link to the 2007 Dysart Dash, which is the illustrious-sounding 10k run I did last year. "Sigh up!" she wrote.

And like THE FOOL THAT I AM, moments later I'd signed up.

I mean, really, am I a glutton for punishment or what? Really? I'm sitting here with a semi-healed gammy knee and manky old trainers and I've just whored myself to another 10k run. Now would probably be a good time to swear like an old lady with piles or slap myself. And if by 'swear like an old lady with piles or slap myself' I actually mean 'go and buy some expensive new running shoes' at the weekend that's exactly what I'm going to do.

Any opportunity to shop; I'm such a modern man.

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Do you ever have one of those days when you wake up and you seriously think someone's slipped something into you tea? Within the space of about two minutes during the drive into work this morning I saw a sweet, neatly-dressed old lady sitting at a bus stop swigging out of a can of special brew, followed moments later by three children on their way to school, two boys in uniform and a girl dressed in some sort of weird pilgrim outfit.

It was just bizarre.

And don't get me started on the lime green bear waiting at the traffic lights to cross the road.

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Someone made a bit of a boo-boo on the Virgin Media homepage today methinks, and I was there to grab it for posterity!

Now I know Hollywood has a tendency to make changes when they adapt books into movies, but have they really changed Frank Miller's brutal tale of the ancient battle of Thermopylae into a heartwarming story of a mother's love for her two adorable daughters? I can't wait for the stunning CGI recreations of the epic afternoon spent baking cookies. What fun!

Sadly they changed the picture to the real one about an hour later. Bastards.

A present from above

I took lunch a little bit earlier today because I needed to go to the bank before meeting Yaz for our usual coffee+rant. The reason for my bank-jaunt was to deposit the cheque that Actimel sent me for trying their probiotic monkey-spunk drink for a week; little do they know that I'm a regular drinker, and I simply lulled them into believing that I was sampling its delights! Ha! £8.12p up - quids in.

Going to the bank meant that I walked a different route down to Hammersmith, one that took me beneath the underground bridges, which may sound like an oxymoron, but seeing as a significant part of the underground is actually overground, it's not. Trust me on this.

Anyway, it was as I was walking beneath the first of said bridges that a train rumbled over, a couple of amorous pidgeons were dislodged from their nooky nook, and I felt what I believed was something decidely liquidous slam into my head.

Lets back up a few years.

When I was a kid, I experienced a rather unfortunate spate of incidents in which various birds began crapping on my head. This occurred with alarming regularity. The first incident took place while we were on holiday in Cornwall once. There I was sitting on a harbour wall in a delightful little fishing village when the next thing I know a seagull's shat on my head (and let me tell you, those monsters don't do things by halves). Thus began a rather, well, crap period in my life; it didn't matter where we were or what we were doing - I'd end up with crap in my hair. I could quite happily be standing there, then next thing I know my head felt damp, and Mum would be tutting and reaching into her bag for a pocket-sized packet of tissues. I distinctly remember on one occasion standing in the square in the middle of Ealing Broadway with a packet of crisps in one hand and runny shite in the other. Those pidgeons had clearly been watching 'The Damn Busters' through Dixons' front window, and by god their aim was good. It wasn't just the bigger birds either - the sparrows were obviously watching all their larger friends having a go and decided it'd be fun to join in too; on the plus side, sparrow crap has a slightly runnier consistency than pidgeon poo, and is much easier to dab off with a tissue.

Regardless of the size of the winged assailant, however, if you've never been crapped on by a bird let me tell you that there's something incredibly unsettling by the whole thing. It's like being mugged by Teddy Ruxpin - you simply can't believe it's happened, and you don't want to acknowledge it. You just stand there, with shat in your hair, as shock begins to set in. Every single thought leaves your brain aside from the base instinct to GET IT OFF!

Even today I cannot let a bird fly over my head without either a) trying to move out of its targetting zone, or b) running a hand over my head to check for shit. Which is probably a bad move because if you have been hit you've then got shit on your hand and in you hair, and the only thing to do then is stand there and cry until a random stranger takes you into Boots the Chemist to help wash it out.

On the plus side, there is the old wives tale that a bird shatting on your head brings you seven years good luck. By that reckoning I'm still good for another 37 years or so.

Anyway, I digress - back to today. So yes, the tube went overhead, the humping pidgeons flew off, and I was sure I felt something land in my hair. Good grief, I thought (in the style of Charlie Brown), what do I do now? Run back to the office and shower it off, or slick it back 'Something about Mary'-stylee, deposit my cheque and go on to coffee as if nothing has happened? I decided that my plan of action would be determined by the amount of shat/lusty-pidgeon jam that had been deposited, and I quickly set about rubbing my hand over my head like a special.

Surprise, surprise, though… there was nothing there! Hurrah! I almost punched the air in celebration. It was nothing but a phantom shat - phew!

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I bought The Last Kiss on DVD the other day. As regular readers might recall, I thoroughly enjoyed this film when I saw it at the cinema last year, although it stirred up quite a debate when Jo and I engaged in a post-screening analysis and she referred to me as "perfect husband material" when in fact I wanted to be seen as "lovable bad boy."

To be honest, I thought of this movie as more of a guys film; yes, it deals with romantic themes, but at its core it's all about blokes treatin' 'em mean, not so much to keep their ladies keen, but rather to dump them and shrug off any and all adult responsibilities (raar!). I do believe, however, that the promotional push for the DVD release does not agree with my point of view, as a leaflet within offered me the chance to indulge in some rather stunning new nail products.

Which presents something of a choice: do I go for the cuticle repair treatment, or a sassy french manicure?

Weirdos

Do you ever step out the door and feel like you're in The Truman Show or something? I had that today, although fortunately I wasn't stopping every passerby to say "Good morning - and if I don't see you later, good afternoon, good evening, and goodnight!"

God, sometimes I could punch Jim Carrey. And by 'sometimes' I actually mean 'all the time.'

Anyway, I walked out of the office at lunchtime, and decided to take a detour to a) enjoy the nice weather, and b) avoid our overly-chatty postman (who seems to think he's my new best friend and stays in the office for about 20 minutes each day despite my repeated attempts to at least look like I'm working). Straight away, however, I was confronted by what looked to be Patty the daytime hooker - the aged prostitute from My Name is Earl.


She looked virtually identical; a short off-white furry coat (I'm assuming it was once pure white), a VERY short skirt, holey tights, and cheap-looking, faux-PVC hooker shoes. The one exception was her hair, which was piled up on top of her head in a pineapple stylee, rather like the lead singer of M People in the mid-90s. And she was standing there, outside someone's house, chatting to her equally rough looking mate while tugging her tights up and almost flashing her lady parts in the process. Opposite a freakin' primary school, I should add in an outraged fashion!

What was incredibly disturbing, however, was that while she was chatting to her protégée and hoisting up her sagging fishnets, she was staring at me. Constantly. And that made me a bit nervous. Did I have some chocolate smeared on my face? Or, more worryingly, was she looking at me as a likely candidate? Ugh… in the words of Stewie from Family Guy, I bet it'd be like throwing a cocktail weiner down a corridor.

Anyway, I evaded Patty the daytime hooker and continued on my way to Hammersmith. Minutes later I passed some dude about my age who was wearing a massive winter coat fully done up and with his hood up. And this is where I expand upon my earlier comment that today was a lovely day, with glorious sunshine and a mild breeze. I know Hammersmith is renowned for it's more than fair share of crazies, but today took the biscuit and smeared chocolate over its face. About the only nutter I didn't see was the alarmed looking crazy afro lady who always asks me for cigarettes and looks like she's about to cry when I say no.

Anyone else encounter any notable crazies in the course of their day?

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In other news, Channel 4 have revealed that they're going to make a 'rubbish reality TV show.' Funny, I thought they already did…

Limp

Well I felt just super last night; despite adverse weather conditions (and by 'adverse' I specifically mean 'rain and gale-force winds') I managed to run my usual route in an almost record-breaking 33 minutes. Hurrah, I shouted to no one in particular, and went to bed a happy man.

Fast forward to this morning. I woke up to find (and I'm almost feeling vomit-tastic as I write this) that Take That's new song was inexplicably playing in my head. AND NOTHING WOULD SHIFT IT. *Shudder* Hurry up and get ready, I thought, because once I got to the car I could listen to some decent music of my own choosing. I swung my legs out of bed, pushed myself up, and instantly fell back down again. Bugger, I thought. I've buggered my knee.

Annoying…

I've been getting a bit of knee pain recently after running, but this was an altogether more exciting level of pain. I really think it's time to replace my manky old trainers with something a little more athlete-specific. In the meantime, though, I'm left with a buggered knee. I felt really stupid hobbling from my car to the office, then hobbling from my desk to the kitchen to make a cuppa. I know I should probably have gotten Theoretical Secretary to make my tea, but she's theoretical which doesn't particularly help matters, especially when I want to delegate work to her.

At lunchtime I had to make allowance for extra time as I hobbled down to Hammersmith to meet Yaz, rather than manfully striding. And she was still late. I was not amused. I feel like Herr Flick of the Gestapo.

Now, who wants to rub neurofen gel into my knee? It makes my hands feel greasy.

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Now look here: I always say if a joke is worth repeating once, it's worth repeating twice. And clearly someone in HMV in Hammersmith agrees with me, and has had a little too much fun placing the price stickers on the sale goods.

The post in which I will attempt to use copious amounts of smutty humour to amuse you, the delightful reader

I went for lunch with Yaz today, and on the way to Secret Starbucks we talked music, as we occasionally do, but mainly because Yaz had made use of crappy old myspace to listen to Willy Mason's new album in its entirity. And she liked it, which is a good thing because we have tickets to see him in May.

Anyway, there we were, strolling down a busy street, and I thought I'd just pop right out and ask the question.

"So… you liked Willy, then?"

"Like?" she replied, quite possibly having already worked out where this conversation was going. "I *love* Willy."

Now, in my experience if an obvious smutty joke is worth telling once, it's worth telling a second time. And anyway, there are always new passersby to startle with a shocking outburst.

"You love Willy?"

Yaz smiled a devious smile. "I can't get enough of Willy."

Epilogue:
On the way back to the office I thought I'd swing by HMV and make a swift purchase. Yes, I too am now enjoying Willy. I highly recommend it – you can get your fill of Willy right here.

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Favourite thing I heard on the radio today: some dude texted into Xfm to say that he took his five year-old nephew swimming, but he hadn't used his Speedo trunks in ages and the 'S' had come off. Needless to say, he had to buy some new ones. I suppose it was either that or be arrested.

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Whoa! Check this out! Someone crashed a Bugatti Veyron - the world's fastest, most expensive production car - just down the road from where I live! I'm totally going scouting for wreckage; I reckon I could make a sweet £20k on the front bumper alone!!

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Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off out into the wind and the rain for my first run in over a week (and maybe some Bugatti hunting). What? You don't think I keep these defined thighs, tight abs, and muscular buttocks just by sitting around playing Xbox, do you?

Stop

Hammertime!


Uh-uh-uh-oo-oo-oo-uh-uh-uh-oo-oo-oo!

Look at those pantaloons flapping around. He seriously could've done himself an injury with those things. Bless the early 90s.

So why the MC Hammer and the "STOP! Hammertime?" Well, it's all to do with how I've been this week, and what I've been upto. Which is to say 'not very much.' Y'see, I've taken a bit of a break from, well, everything. I haven't done any running, and, more importantly, I haven't written any of my book. Whhhhhhhhy? You might ask. Well I'll tell you. I sort of got to a point where I kind of felt a little exhausted, and I didn't want to just write crap. So I decided to have a week off. Blame Josh Pyke for scheduling his gig for last Monday - that's what started me off. So yeah, I've just had a few days of chilling out, Xboxing, reading, sleeping and generally recharging my batteries. Think of it as a brief pause. Because I intend to resume this week!

What… You didn't think I'd give up, did you?

Pfff!

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Ooo, who saw last night's incredible solar event? What was it, you ask? Well, it wasn't invading aliens or our sun going supernova - it was a lunar eclipse! Which basically means that the Earth got in the way between the sun and the moon and the moon turned red in frustration. The skies were surprisingly clear in my part of the world, so I got a damn good view of it. And it was MOST IMPRESSIVE.

There's some amazing pictures on the BBC website, and I also managed to capture this awe-inspiring moment for posterity.

Let me share with any of you who missed it.


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What's with those damned trainers kids are wearing at the moment? You know, the ones with the wheels in the heels? I popped out this afternoon to get something for Sparky Ma for Mother's day, and every single kid under the age of 15 seemed to be zooming around with scant regard for everyone around them! I felt like pushing them over after a while. Either that or hope that they'd roll over some disgarded Hubba Bubba and get gummy wheels.

Tonight, Cat, I'm going to be…

…Awesome!

Well, start as you mean to go on is what I always say.

Anyway, why the Stars in their Eyes influenced title, you ask? Let me tell you! We've had a very Stars in their Eyes-type experience at work this week, because we've had a new doorframe installed. The old one was getting pretty darn manky, and quite rotten; over the last few months I've been concerned that the mere act of pushing my key into the lock in the morning might cause the whole thing to cave in.

So on Monday a couple of guys turn up, and to protect us from the elements (not elephants) they erect this massive plastic sheath around the door. It was awesome - I actually meant to take a photo, but completely forgot. Think of the plastic-wrapped house at the end of ET and you pretty much get the idea. The only thing was that it was a bit difficult to get in and out of, because you only had a little slit to clamber through. Initially it was fun, and that's where all the Stars in their Eyes punnery came from. After a while, though, I began to think of it more like a rebirthing experience, and I'd jump through like I was Stewie from Family Guy leaping free of Lois' wretched womb.

Then yesterday they finished and took it all down. Regular doors are so boring.

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New musical obsession! I've come to the party late again, but I've finally gotten into Maximo Park - hurrah! If you go to my myspace page you'll not only bump up my visitor numbers, but you'll also hear their awesome new single My Velocity because I've set it as my profile song.

Oh, or you could just watch the video here:


Good innit? I sing into my hairbrush in front of the bedroom mirror like that.

I also just picked up their first album, making good use of HMV's bizarre habit of pricing the same CD up at different prices; £13.99, £13.99, oh, hang on, I'll have this copy with an £8 sticker on it. Bonus.

And before anyone suggests it, no I did not peel an £8 sticker off something else. I am many things, but I am NOT a pikey.