One-Sentence Wonder

There's something about the sight of two 11-year-olds sharing a cigarette and a long, lingering kiss that's quite disturbing during the walk home from a hard day's schooling.

And Don't Criticise What You Can't Understand...

Under normal circumstances, if I mentioned someone or something here that had a website, I would link to it at the same time. Today, however, I won't, because I'm going to mention CommentThis!, whose commenting service seemed very nice right up until it stopped working and took the whole accursed blog down with it. I am, therefore, hoping that HaloScan performs a little better. It certainly seems, er, nicer.

Oh, and I was in something of a green mood. See, I do have a tiny scraping of individuality peeking over the laziness.

Going Up In The World

Spam is a strange beast (the junk e-mail, that is — I'm not trying to suggest they actually put meat in Spam). Not for any deep or clever reason that I intend to use to show of my wit and intelligence. Just because it can be, well, odd. Particularly when people start sending spam like this out:

"I am creating a web directory, The-Insight.com, and would like to include your website Grudge-match.com under the "health/massage therapy and bodywork" category."

Now, anyone who has visited Grudge Match should know that it doesn't fit particularly comfortably into the "health/massage therapy and bodywork" category. It should also be reasonably clear that I am in no way responsible for it. In all honesty, I don't know whether to hope that a person could be so strangely stupid as to make both mistakes or that a program that terrible could get made, tested and implemented without somebody noticing that it served no useful function.

The worst part, of course, is that both are probably true.

See, This Is Why It's Channel Four

It worries me a little, Andrew, that while you pointed out that I didn't bother to use proper dashes a fortnight ago, you failed to notice the impossibility of a programme being on "noon on Sundays at five. " The fact that you very often aren't conscious at noon on Sundays is no justification.

I, of course, am excused, because I was justifiably knackered at the time. The lesson here is that there is no mistake for which none of the blame can be offloaded.