Merry Christmas!

Merry!

Christmas!

Hurrah!

Torn To Ribbons

I nearly got myself killed buying ribbon today.

It wouldn't be fair to blame the ribbon, of course, or even the stall that sold it. I was quite happily stood there, looking at the various different colours and widths of ribbon on offer, not a care in the world. But about eight yards away, things weren't quite so pleasant. I don't know quite what the raging argument about, though I think there may have been some shoplifting involved at some point, and I'm certain that one of the girls involved didn't fucking give a shit about a quite remarkable range of things.

Anyway, these people were having a pleasant screaming match in the middle of the market, with a rather healthy crowd gathered around, when all of a sudden some burly blokes in really quite ugly leather jackets tackled the guy who was on the receiving end of most of the shouting (and probably on the giving end of most of the shoplifting.) Their plan, apparently, was to get him on the ground. I think it's fair to say that the apathetic girl was confident that, in fact, they would not get him on the fucking ground. Luckily, the burly men in the ugly jackets assured the assembled crowd that they were the police.

I am not sure that I believe them.

Anyway, as the various burly men fought - or at least, had an excessively boisterous group hug - stumbled their way across the market, stepping on wares (to the delight of the suddenly interested girl) all over the place, until they paused just next to a needlework and haberdashery supplies stall. Or, rather, pinned the bloke against a needlework and haberdashery supplies stall.

No, that's not quite right either.

In fact, they pinned him against a customer at the needlework and haberdashery supplies stall.

That is to say, me.

At this point, I decided it might be a good idea to move away from the incident rather speedily, and doubtless I'd have dones so if I hadn't been pineed to a needlework and haberdashery supplies stall. Instead, I stood there in significant discomfort for a little while until whoever was being pinned got the upper hand again briefly and the little ball, accompanied by its great big crowd, made its way up towards the newsagent.

I walked off, the ribbon being blocked somewhat by the spectators, and had a look round. I found some other, cheaper ribbon, but it was a bit manky. I mused for a little while. On the one hand, the other ribbon was much nicer, but then it was also currently impossible to get to - and even if I could have got to it, the owners of the stall were probably busy rubbernecking. I had just about resigned myself to the cheap ribbon when the police turned up and calmed the situation down with really quite impressive speed.

So I bought the nice ribbon instead.

The Bumper Hamper Of Love

Pandora is really very very cool. It combines a scrap of starting information you supply, continuous assessment of the songs it plays you, and its vast database of the musical qualities of all manner of tunes to play you music that it reckons you might rather like.

Ooh, it's funky. Funky funky funky.

I'd try to make this post entertaining, but I reckon Pandora has the entertainment side of things covered.

Simply Having A Wonderful All The Time

As seeing that post at the top all the time is starting to upset my girlfriend, I feel I should mention that I have a really awesome life and am very, very happy pretty much all of the time.

Are you allowed to say that on a blog?

A Rare Window Into My Mind

Sometimes, when I have this blog open and I glance at the tab, I misread it as "The World Is Lonely".

It makes me sad.

You've Got To Laugh

I have invented a game. Again.

I promise this one does not involve getting stabbed in the eye.

It is very simple. You need one copy of the Metro newspaper and a pen or pencil, as well as some people to play with. Once you have assembled all of these things, you open the Metro to the page with the comics on. Here, you will find two comics, one called Nemi (or something like that) and another one that's far less distinctive. The latter is your playing field.

The players take it in terms to annotate this cartoon, pointing out things about it which are funny (this is, of course, a challenge, because the cartoon is bloody awful and it is frequently impossible to be sure quite what about it is supposed to be funny in the first place.) If your turn comes around and you can't find anything funny that has not already been pointed out, you are out. The winner is the last player still in.

Identifying which things are funny is much simpler than it may sound, but for a guide, see here. Funny things in today's cartoon included green hair, pink hair and large noses.

Getting Shirty

The t-shirt I am currently wearing has been driving me up the wall.

This, I appreciate, is not the most promising beginning to a blog entry. I only ask that you give it time. Do that, and you will see that the tedium promised by the opening is borne out in the explanation, and while that won't be entertaining you'll at least know that I'm honest.

Whoever designed this t-shirt decided that, for one reason or another, what would really make it a fashion classic would be to stitch in, on the inside of the shoulder seams, a thin strip of plastic. Not just any old plastic, though. Oh, no. They have developed a new plastic, sharper and scratchier than any plastic previously known. I suspect you could fashion a decent razor-blade out of this stuff, and it would never, ever go blunt.

This has been plaguing me for some time now. I could have stopped wearing the shirt. I should have done, and it's entirely my own fault that I have not. I'm going to carry on whining anyway.

Instead of pursuing that elegantly simple solution, I continued to wear the shirt and, when I got annoyed, began to bite out the plastic. Now, if you are very, very careful, you can just about pull the stuff out and leave the seam intact (a fact which I present as evidence for the plastic being totally, completely unnecessary.) Unfortunately, this degree of precision is very hard to maintain, and so I of course end up ripping holes in the shoulders of my shirt.

There is no grand, satisfying conclusion here. This post, like the garment it describes, simply unravels to an unsatisfying end.

An Important Clarification

My mum would like it to be noted that she gave blood perfectly several times before having three sons buggered up her blood pressure.

We Always Were Awkward Bleeders

The Taylors, it seems, are not good at giving blood. I would say we don't have it in us, but that would be a far worse situation than we are really in.

Yes, that's right, I've continued the fine family tradition of failing to give a full unit of blood without going funny. No doubt this trend will end with us all, frustrated at our inability to save lives indirectly, taking to the streets in Lycra outfits and fighting crime wherever it appears.

Let's hope that doesn't happen. I do not want to see my family in Lycra outfits.

My Maths Teacher Is Not At All Stuck In Morocco

On a scale of one to ten, where one is not stuck in Morocco and ten is totally, totally stuck in Morocco, she is certainly no more than zero stuck in Morocco.

My Maths Teacher Is Totally Stuck In Morocco

On a scale of one to ten, where one is not stuck in Morocco and ten is totally, totally stuck in Morocco, she is at least eleven stuck in Morocco.

Mark Taylor Wins National Award For Website

The 150th Post Spectacular

I just signed in to Blogger and I cannot for the life of me remember why. To be honest, I'm not even sure that there was a reason.

Possibly I am cracking up.

Only Two More Shopping Months

I just saw my first Christmas advert of the year! That's surely a sign that autumn is upon us.

Not Writing The Entry As A MasterCard Ad Parody: Priceless

In Waterstones today, I picked up David Copperfield and Alice's Adventures in Wonderland for £1.50 each, and a boxed set of twelve Shakespeare plays for £9.50 (sadly, unlike good DVD box-sets, this didn't come with any deleted scenes, interviews, or even a trailer for Cardenio, but at that price I'm not about to complain.)

If there's one sure-fire way to improve literature, it's to get it cheap.

Now Available In The Comfort Of Your Own Home

I was just having a glance on eBay to see if anybody was selling Monopoly counters (no, I can't think of a sensible reason why they would be either, but that's never stopped anyone on eBay before) and I found the PC version of Monopoly being sold in an auction with the following title:

"MONOPOLY- The Game -Brand New PC CD-ROM"

Quite what the seller believes the original version to be I'm not quite certain.

Hey Diddle Diddle

Last night, or possibly this morning, I had a dream in which I stole some grated cheese from the feeding trough of some cows on the Moon in order to give it away in a competition on this very blog.

I am very, very sorry not to be able to say that this dream has come true.

Perhaps I will hold a competition in which you can win grated cheese anyway. But then again, perhaps not.

He Played A Blinder

A new card game has been invented. A far better, tenser, more exciting card game than you have ever played, ever seen played, ever believed could be played. It is so simple a child could do it, though that is strongly, strongly discouraged.

It is a legend in the making.

It is "The Seven Of Diamonds Gets You Stabbed In The Eye".

The rules are simple. The deck is shuffled, and a single card dealt to each player. In turn, the players turn over their cards. If anyone has the seven of diamonds, they are stabbed in the eye, and the game is over. If not, the deck is reshuffled, and each player is dealt two cards. In turn, the players play their cards, and if anyone has the seven of diamonds, they are stabbed in the eye, and the game is over. The game continues like this until someone is stabbed in the eye.

If you do not have any friends willing to play with you, you can of course play solitaire The Seven Of Diamonds Gets You Stabbed In The Eye. This is simpler still. Shuffle the deck, deal yourself twelve cards (face down) in a line, and turn them over one by one, from right to left. If one of them is the seven of diamonds, stab yourself in the eye.

It is remarkable just how tense this game is even though it is decidedly obvious that nobody is really going to get stabbed in the eye.

Really, don't stab people in the eye. It's mean.

Simple Things

Honestly, if universities I'm not interested in are going to insist on sending me things about open days about a week before my applications will be going through, they could at least have the decency to put them in proper envelopes so I get the fun and excitement of opening them.

Curse you, Sunderland!

An International Reputation For Quality

Not so very long ago, the worst thing I could tell you about Lancaster University was that its 2006 prospectus has a shiny goldish cover that looks really quite naff, and is a bit ugly and mish-mashy inside. Since those carefree, innocent times, there have been Goings On at Lancaster. You may have read about them.

Their first mistake was to invite a bunch of companies with decidedly dodgy records when it come to human rights to a conference that they might get more involved with university research. Understandably, this riled some of their students and postgraduates who were of the opinion that their education might be better off if it were not driven by and towards companies like Shell, BAE Systems (they make things for killing people) and so on. Which is really fair enough. So, they organised a protest - a peaceful protest, mind - and, reportedly, were assured during it by the police that they were doing nothing wrong and could carry on. Which is really fair enough.

A few months later, they were served with court summonses, accused of "aggravated trespass" and facing a maximum of three months in prison. Which is really not fair enough.

Now, Lancaster seems pretty proud of its history of student activists. They even name colleges after them. And yet here they are, wantonly prosecuting the ones they've got now for an entirely peaceful protest. The only explanation I can think of is that they're trying desparately to make people forget how ugly their prospectus (and, come to think of it, their logo) is, and while that end is easy to sympathise with, their means are simply unacceptable.

There's an online petition yonder, you may very well wish to sign it. Alternatively, you could go and complain in person, but they might have you arrested.

It's Not The Crazy Dance!

The Crazy Dance doesn't live here anymore.

This is because The Crazy Dancer would not otherwise have given me a much-needed lift tonight.

Boo.

And Slowly, The Language Develops

People often invent new words. It's a common thing to do. They are often determined to ensure that these words become widely used. Success, admittedly, is rare. This is largely because the words in question are entirely useless and are foisted upon a population that doesn't want or need them.

Is knunder any different?

That is for everyone to decide.

It's The Loveliest Number Since The Number One

At the daytime Apex Challenge on Saturday, a great big Scout competition which basically involved running around a cold, wet moor up to your armpits in various kinds of moory vegetation and doing foolish things, the team I was in (I'm loath to call it "my team" lest people think I was instrumental in what success we had) scored 555 points... and came 5th.

We might be runners-up, but my, do we run up with style.

We Listen To Our Readers*

Comment received in response to the post "Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring":

Lailah has just suggested that you send that to Innocent. (The photo, not the phone, obviously. Trying to send a banana phone through the post would clearly just be silly, plus you'd lose your funky banana hook. I may be overthinking this.) Fame and honour will be yours! Or something like that.

E-mail sent 2nd September (with attached image, which I'm sure you can work out for yourself):

Dear innocent,

If your current bananaphone is not built from real fruit, I would like
to recommend this approach.

Thankyou for your time.

-- Mark Taylor

Reply received today:

Hello Mark,

Thanks very much for your e-mail. At the moment our bananaphone is only
made from fake bananas, but if we could find bananas which never ripened
and didn't turn to mush, then you could be onto something.

All the best,

Row

The trouble is that it's very difficult to tell whether or not they thought I was serious. Now, any volunteers to draw up a plausible-looking plan for a working real-fruit bananaphone?

*I say "we" because I feel it gives me an air of authority. I have no other team members... yet†.
†Though this might appear to be hinting at the appearance of some in the near future, in fact it isn't. Sorry if anyone saw in it a brief glimmer of hope that I might be diluted a little before long‡.
‡Sorry also for this absurd footnotery. Well, a bit. In all honesty, I rather enjoyed it.

I Would Eat My Words, But My Face Is Still Numb

Well, I got to see a dentist after all, so you can retract the sympathies you haven't given me. In place of the nasty and horrible decay I had, I now have a great big temporary not-quite-a-filling that looks oddly like a great big blob of chewing gum pounded into the hole. Though I'd imagine it has a mite more toughness to it than that. Still, the most important part of this endeavour is that my tooth is no longer painfully knackered.

Yay for dentists!

In Fifteen Minutes This Will Be Highly Appropriate

Ow. Toothache.

I have nasty, nasty toothache and I probably won't be able to see a denstist for a while. Cry cry cry cry cry.

I can't think of anything interesting to add to this. I just wanted to vent.

(The worst part is, it's not even a mystery toothache - my tooth really is quite clearly knackered. I do not like having a knackered tooth. Cry!)

I've finished whining now.

Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring

Star-tling

Until now, I've always thought the horoscopes in the TV Times were nothing special - just everyday horoscopes that are entertaining only for their fine brand of silliness. Today, however, Sally Kirkman far surpassed my expectations by offering the best horoscope I have ever read and, I suspect, ever will.

"Taurus: Continue to bang your head against a brick wall and it'll cave in."

I'm only grateful I'm not struggling with anything just now. I don't know what I'd do.

At Least They Pack Efficiently

On the way back from pricing up items for the car boot sale we're going to to raise money for my jaunt to Peru next year, my mum and I stopped off at the Red Brick Mill so she could buy a fancy birthday card. (For those of you not in the know, the Red Brick Mill is a converted mill which is now home to lots of places selling highly fancy and even more highly expensive kitchenware, furniture and other such things.) That task achieved we milled about (ha!) for a while, admiring all the nice things. You can buy special devices for cutting the foil off wine bottles from these people. You can buy pasta hats. But among all this entirely sensible, albeit unnecessary, stuff, there was one item that was not only extremely crazy but also mildly terrifying.

Hidden among the fancy, modern, desirable bathroom fittings was a device that should never have been inflicted upon this world.

A toilet.

A white, porcelain toilet.

A white, porcelain toilet with a £899 price tag.

A toilet... which was square.

I have never before sat upon a display toilet in a furniture and fittings shop, but by God I sat on that one. Looking back, I can only wish that I hadn't. It was deeply, deeply unsettling, and I fear I may be carrying the scars with me for a long time to come.

Just For The Record (And Those Of You Who Don't Read The Comments)

Chrissy thrashed me at boules. 13-3. She was great, and I was rubbish.

Because I Won't Get Away With Not Mentioning It

OK, I do have another story from my last jaunt to Birmingham that I should share. I geniunely forgot to last time, but as if I leave it any longer those who already know it will think I'm trying to get out of it, I'm going to put it up now so you can all laugh at me.

So, on Tuesday, the day I was coming back, I packed up all my stuff, we had a nice barbecue, played boules, and finally set off to Digbeth Coach Station (which has, incidentally, been spruced up, although only in the places where it didn't need sprucing).

We arrived early, so we killed time reading through the menu in the window of Chris's Café of Digbeth (it actually has "of Digbeth" on the sign, in fancy script, in the hope that it will make it look classy) and then sat in the waiting room of the station for twenty minutes. By then it was about time to hang around the coach and see how long it was possible to put off getting on, so we wandered over.

The coach wasn't there. This puzzled us.

There was a coach travelling on the same route, in the opposite direction. There were coaches going to all manner of other places. There was even a double-decker coach, of all things, headed for London. But not mine. So we turned and looked at the monitors.

The coach wasn't there, either. This puzzled us yet more.

After a moment's hard thought and a look at the information point (closed, as always), we decided we'd wait for the delayed coach and see if I could get on that. And, as is my habit when waiting around a station, especially when puzzled, I looked at my ticket again.

There was a good reason why my coach wasn't there, or on the monitors, or anywhere else. And it would have had to be very delayed indeed for me to catch it now.

This was because I had booked it for the day before.

We turned around and went home.

(In other news, I got As in all my AS levels today.)

The Usbourne Guide To Laziness

Well, while I was down at Chrissy's this week, we were sorting out her drawers of junk before she goes off to university, and among many things which I rather suspect you wouldn't enjoy as much as I did (well, I suppose you'd enjoy the stale praline rather more than I did, but that's another matter) we found a wonderful book-and-cassette comination, Welsh For Beginners. Now, this, in itself, is obviously a fine book and one which deserves to be used. But this wasn't a one-off. I used to have another book in the series, French For Beginners, and very nice it was too. It was filled with lovely drawings of French people saying their French things.

Or was it?

Welsh For Beginners, you see, is filled with similarly lovely drawings of people saying their things. In fact, they're so similar they're identical. The only change is the language of the speechbubbles. Now, I don't know how far this extends, but if it's the same throughout the book as it was on the cover it's a scandal indeed. Although on the plus side, it means a lot of people know how to order a croissant from a pleasant little boulangerie in Llanidloes.

(Incidentally, I should mention that this wasn't the most interesting thing we did all week, just the one I chose to write about. I know what you're like. Yes, this means you, unless it doesn't.)

I Had A Dream Where I Was Eating Large, Foot-Shaped Marshmallows

When I woke up, all my socks were gone.

No, really. I came downstairs and the first thing my brother said to me was "All your socks are gone."

This was not a satisfactory explanation.

After a moment's pressing, he explained that my socks, which had been hung on the washing line overnight, had all been mysteriously snatched away, leaving only a garden littered with clothespegs and one lucky sock that had escaped. He also explained that he had taken the liberty of attaching a ransom note to the pole holding the line up, telling us to leave £72550 in a sports bag near the motorway bridge.

The sock is now sitting in a sealed freezer-bag, labelled "Evidence". We are currently nowhere near solving this mystery. More details as they come.

What A Lot Of Pretty Things

I would write some extensive things about my week in the Lake District with Chrissy, but I rather suspect I'd be indulging myself somewhat. Well, except perhaps for the bits about the Pencil Museum, but then I'd hate to ruin that in case you ever go. So, I won't bore you with a detailed account of the trip, unless of course I run into you face to face. Going on and on in person is much easier because nobody can prove it, and much more fun too.

I Am The Spider

I'm not going to explain Su Doku. I would feel silly. If you don't know what it is, read up on it somewhere else. Pick up a newspaper, perhaps. The possibilities are endless. Just don't bother carrying on until you know what it is. Lovely.

Anyway, the point is that I feel duty-bound to offer up a speedy link to the Su DoKube, a classy 3D version of said number-placing puzzle which allows you not only to view and solve it in a shiny computery manner, but also to print it out and do some fun cutting and sticking so as to solve it on paper. Or on funky card, if you're a rich bugger.

Speaking of rich buggers, it's shareware, so don't expect anything overly awesome without forking over your hard-earned to the mysterious creator, who naturally I have no personal acquaintance with whatsoever. Honest.

(You're quite welcome, Andrew.)

Poetry In Arrest

Let's lay aside, for now, the value of getting a class of A-level English literature to write their own rough facsimille of First World War poetry. For all I know, it may have been shown to be of definite value and to allow us to better the techniques and works of the poets we're studying, though I can't say I'm too confident of it. Anyway, whether or not we actually gained anything from today's hour, I have one little question that I'm hoping someone can answer for me. Well, I say that, in truth I just want to moan and an exasperated question seemed the best way.

What on Earth put the idea in my normally very good literature teacher's head that the best way to write poetry in a small group?

Now, anyone who has ever tried to produce a piece of writing in a group knows how much of a trial it is. Every sentence, if not every word, must be passed individually, everyone is loath to put something forward lest it get shot down in flames, and nobody is every wholly satisfied with the end result. The whole thing just ends up taking longer and producing a poorer result than if it's written by an individual - and that's just with any old knockabout cereal-competition tie-breaker. Try something as complex and niggly as poetry and you've got a recipe for half an hour of awkward silence until a couple of people desperately hammer out a few rubbish lines and roughly stitch them together just so the group has something to show for their time.

In the end, we spent half an hour in awkward silence, at which point a couple of us desperately hammered out a few rubbish lines and roughly stitched them together just so the group had something to show for our time.

Sounds Like An Exciting New Album

Not only does the strange information sheet thing about Christina Aguilera ask its readers "Wanna get the juice facts about Christina?", it also features, by way of telling illustration, a Coke logo, a bowl of soup, a slice of pie, a hot dog, and salt and pepper grinders.

I'm sure there must be some kind of in-joke here, but I can't for the life of me think what it might be.

The Chemistry Of Bruce

In my chemisty textbook today: a small sqaure of what apeared to be low-grade recycled paper, folded neatly into quarters with parallel creases running down it, headed with, in a very neat hand, "Bruce Springsteen".

As if that is't perplexing enough, this doesn't seem like the writing of anyone I know, so presumably this has been here all year and I've never before noticed.

Scary.

The Complete Guide To The Bottle Inversion Game

1. On a player's turn, he or she must invert the bottle.
2. It will become apparent who is the winner.

No, Really, They're Not Trying To Scare You Off

A sign in a Cambridge University college, under a stone arch:

"Visitors are warned that there is a deep pool in the Fellows' Garden and the children must, therefore, be accompanied by a responsible adult at all times."

Apparently this wasn't scary enough, so they'd stuck an extra bit on the bottom:

"Also there are beehives and flying bees."

Last Man Not Standing

I have created a wonderful thing.

Everyone knows that it's tremendous fun to stage an impromptu race, say, to the end of the road, or to the chip shop, or to anywhere that happens to be in the direction that you and your companions are walking in. But sometimes, of course, that isn't possible. Perhaps you're stood still, or you're in a small room, or you have shoes on that would make running dangerous. In these situations, there is one phrase which can be your saviour.

"Race you horizontal!"

The rules, of course, are simple. Once the race is agreed upon, the first person to become horizontal is the winner.

You're quite welcome.

They've Got Timbo Fever

I think that, should Tim Henman ever win Wimbledon, everyone who has ever knocked him out should be awarded a commemorative medal inscribed with the phrase "Maybe next year".

I don't know quite why I think this or how the idea ever entered my head, but it's there now, so merely leaving it there would be something of a waste, really.

Seasonal Variation

It's a beautiful bit of organisation that, just as the time of year for good hearty stews and crumbles gently slips away, the time of year for strawberries rides over the hills on a magnificent steed of loveliness.

I think that people who think the world is wired up to annoy because of things like it always raining unless they carry their umbrella just aren't paying enough attention.

And This One Doubles Up As A USB Flash Memory Drive!

Well, I was in my headmaster's office today for a short meeting which turned into a long meeting thanks to his ongoing habit of quickly converting all such discussions into a forum dedicated to the improvement of the school, and, of course, a small amount of revelling in how much better it's got since he showed up. Anyway, all was well for the first fifteen minutes or so, but then I completely lost the ability to concentrate on what was being discussed. My mind was occupied, you see, by a far more important matter. Specifically, that of why on Earth he has a book on his shelf entitled "Novel Diarrhoea Viruses".

Not for him the old, trodden paths of those staid, traditional diarrhoea viruses. No, he is as some bold frontiersman, casting aside any virus he deems too dull and taking note only of the particularly odd ones. No, I just don't see it.

Of course, in truth I'm not too sure what makes such a virus "novel". Possibly they're pink and spotted, or do somersaults, or play the fiddle. Now that would be a virus worth studying.

Crossed Lines

Well, I opened the page for that last post just before replying to an e-mail, and inadvertently typed a small chunk of my reply into Blogger, which was rather silly of me. I feel that I should mention this because if I do this again and don't notice for some reason, it will probably be rather less confusing for you all if you have enough prior knowledge of my foolishness to guess that what you're reading is meant to be an e-mail to my girlfriend and not a blog entry. Let's face it, that could lead to significant befuddlement for all concerned.

I can multitask, honestly. I just can't do anything else while I'm doing it.

Who Gives You Extra?

Not so long ago, I finally decided to get off my arse and apply for a 16-18 bank account, with debit card and so forth for convenience's sake. I then decided that, what with the Internet being so very helpful, I would instead stay on my arse and apply for a 16-18 bank account, because frankly there was no good reason to walk to Morley when I could have a glass of water and a Big Bowl of Fruit and Yoghurt and do it online.

Once I'd worked my merry way through the forms, which were all very simple except for the one on which you had to come up with a security question (a task which I'm certain is actually more difficult than fraudulently accessing someone else's account), I was informed that my application had been accepted and I would now just have to mosey on down to my local branch and provide them with some proof of identity. So, having already got all this to hand, I did.

The more observant among you, and indeed the less observant, will no doubt have noticed that at this point in the proceedings I have had to get on my arse anyway. I should therefore note that in between those last two sentences, a day or so passed. Super.

So, very shortly I had my identity confirmed, my balance transferred and my old account closed, and just had to wait for my card and PIN to arrive. Not long afterwards, I got an envelope from the bank, which I assumed was one of those things, simply because when I registered for online banking I also requested the paper-free banking service, which would get all my statements sent by e-mail. In the envelope was a statement from my old account, containing one withdrawal, my interest, and my balance transfer. So I waited.

After a couple of days, I received a further envelope from the Halifax which, lo and behold, contained my card. I was told to ensure I memorised my PIN and advised on how to change it, which was valuable advice but would have been rather more use in a mailing containing my PIN. So I waited.

A little after this, I got not one, but two envelopes from the bank. The first contained another statement, entirely identical to the last but with the addition of "Account Closed" to the end. The second contained a pleasant letter explaining that they had found me in their records thanks to my previous account and there was no longer any need for me to take my proof of identification in. I was, of course, already aware that there was no longer any need for me to do that because I had already done it. I'd also, by way of the transfer, deposited more than the £10 required to activate my account, so its reminding me of that was also rather unhepul, particularly as they had apparently made a mistake concerning what kind of account I was opening and told me to deposit £50. So I waited.

Today, my PIN arrived. Now, these things used to come in a little paper envelope-within-an-envelope, covered with a mess of numbers so you couldn't read it by holding it up to the light and could tell if it had been tampered with, which was sensible. That's changed somewhat. Now, you get the same classic scrambled mess, but it's covered by a single paper tab, beneath which is a piece of cloudy see-through plastic with your PIN printed through it. You are advised to turn the letter over and put it on a piece of white paper to get your PIN.

This is not necessary.

In fact, you can read your PIN perfectly well without paper. In fact, if you're capable of reading mirrored numbers, which is hardly the most challenging of tasks, you can read it without turning the letter over. In fact, the only thing that this change achieves is to make it so that, once you remove the tab, anyone nearby can not only read your PIN through the conveniently transparent plastic, but, thanks to the fact that it's reversed when viewed from the side with the tab on, can actually do so more easily than you can. Now that's secure.

Since signing up for paper-free banking about a week ago, I have received approximately three times as much paper from my bank as I did in the whole of last year. In fact, their only concession to actually reducing paper was in replacing that tiny scrap of the letter containing my PIN with plastic, that it might be easier for people to steal from me. I should have never strayed from my children's account. At least with that one they sent me birthday cards.

Join My Dairy Band

There can be few better impromptu percussion instruments in this world than the foil-topped yoghurt

Trick Photography

Up until now, I thought that my passport photo was relatively sensible. There wasn't really anything all that offensive about it. However, having just got it out so I can go and prove to the bank who I am, I've realised that I really look very short on it. Now, I know some of you might be thinking that you can't really look short on a photograph that takes in only your head and shoulders, but rest assured, you can. (And look how tiny my head seems, it is barely an inch across.)

Whenever I have hold of my passport I am struck by the sudden desire to leave the country. Is that odd? I suspect that it may be. I guess I just like to use things. That or I'm supposed to be fleeing the authorities and I just forgot.

You Could Have Someone's Eye Out With That

I have just peeled the pointiest banana in the world. Lord above. I opened this page in the hope that something to mention would come to me, as I generally do when I haven't updated in a while, because I promised not so long ago that I'd try not to let this thing stagnate too much (this, of course, explains the quality of many of my posts). It's almost as though the banana knew what was going through my head and remoulded itself just for my sake.

My. I'm looking at it, and it's not getting any less pointy (I considered "blunter" there, but I think this way's for the best.) It really does look quite lethal. You could knock it through a particularly soft vampire if you wanted rid of him. I'm half-tempted to attempt to impale other foods on it and make some kind of extremely fruity kebab. I really am quite startled.

For a little while, I considered photographing this frankly amazing banana and posting it for your delectation. Then I saw sense, so I'm eating it instead.

It's A Sort Of Red Sort Of Colour

My never-ending research into trivia has just revealed to me that the theme tune to Mr Bean, as sung by a very serious-sounding church choir, translates into English as "Behold the man who is a bean."

As if that wasn't good enough, the closing theme translates as "Farewell, man who is a bean."

Against this wonderous background, somehow the fact that the advert breaks allowed us to hear a very serious-sounding church choir singing "End of part one" in Latin manages to be disappointing.

And The Prophet Spake: "A Ding Ding Ding"

I think this is a religion we can all get behind.

Is Your One Brain Better Than His None?

"Sport is an abomination. It's a total waste of time, effort and money." Those were the words - well, actually, they might not have been quite the exact ones, I can't quite remember, but I'm writing it as a quote anyway because it's much, much easier - of a gentleman named Chris Thingy. Well, actually, his surname isn't "Thingy", though I'm sure like anyone else he would love it to be. And I'm not positive he's called Chris. But anyway, there's this bloke who's probably called Chris, and he has a surname of some description - well, I assume he does, but let's not get picky - and he said something to the effect of "Sport is an abomination. It's a total waste of time, effort and money."

Right. Now. The point. The Chris in question - if he is indeed a Chris - is the International Mastermind Champion. Because of that, he's also one of the Eggheads on the popular - well, it might not be popular - quiz show called, er, Eggheads. For those of you not familiar with the show, this essentially means that he's on it every weekday, answering questions in an attempt to foil the contestants. This man appears on an early-evening quiz show five days a week! It takes a certain arrogant bloody-mindedness to spend that much time sitting in a box answering trivia questions and still have the nerve to say that sport - just, you know, in general - is an abomination and a waste of time, energy and money.

Although come to think of it, CJ could probably manage it too.

Human Nature

If people had time machines they would be used primarily to go back to their childhood and watch children's television programmes.

And Now For The Next Installation Of Our Mini-Serial, Dead Ringer

With a Krypton Factor immeasurable with our rudimentary number system, it's the BBC.

Well, that's if this actually gets off the ground. But let's hope so. Then we can get back to the golden times of rubbish observation-round acting, hilariously squiggly flight approaches, and people who break their ankles at the start of the assault course and not only finish anyway but don't even come last.

(I was enormously disappointed when that woman didn't win her heat, or semi-final, or whatever it was.)

Some Condemned Men Don't Fall For That One

This week, the Scouts were knotting. Knotting's a good, wholesome activity for a Scout troop. The older ones can teach the younger ones and everyone comes away having gained something from the experience. Trouble is, when you're dealing with the Scout troop who can endanger lives washing up, what they tend to come away with is rope burns, a tinge of blue in the extremities from the cutting-off of circulation, and at least one choking-based near death experience.

I reckon that as long as I still have the patience to step in and prevent them from killing themselves, I'm doing as well as can be expected.

Smoke-Filled Rooms

For a little while now, I've been on the campsite management sub-committee for Bradley Wood, a delightful little campsite in Brighouse that, if you're reading this, you probably know a little of that's chock-full of groovy things and nice people (we also have a great many bluebells.) I can't say with any degree of precision how long I've been on this committee because I never really agreed to be on it, but I wouldn't want to mislead you with such information anyway, as committee meetings have no regard for the usual laws of time. Anyway, I was rather hoping to get away from this meeting in good time so I could get to bed in preparation for an exam today, but that wasn't to be. I don't intend to bore you with the details - not even those of the particularly fascinating discussion of the various applications of JCBs that took place shortly after we'd decided unanimously that it was too late in the year to start digging things up with one - but I feel I ought to mention one particularly signinficant episode by way of a warning to anyone else who might get dragged onto one of these things over the course of their lives.

Last night, the Bradley Wood Campsite Management Sub-Committee spent fully ten minutes, if not more, discussing, analysing and generally mulling over a proposal that we continue to do things precisely as we always have. Quite what would have happened if we had rejected this particular proposal I'm not sure, but I like to imagine that it would have left us free to actually get something done down there without all this vein-bulgingly dull mucking about with committees.

Join The Debate

Thank goodness The Times hasn't dumbed down since moving to its new tabloid layout.

('Pologies for the rubbish blurry photo, I am exceptionally lazy sometimes, and besides, it gets the message across.)

Born To Be Wild

I am planning on spending almost all of this weekend writing essays in preparation for my English exams. Mostly for the literature one, simply because I have a bigger pile of practice questions. It's looking like a long, hard slog of making many a point and explaining many a quote and doing a fair deal of thinking, over and over and over again. My question to you is this: quite how sad is it that I am actually quite looking forward to it?

Speaking Of Omelettes

Gosh.

Interactive Television

Apparently ITV's Celebrity Wrestling, which goes up against Doctor Who every Saturday night, is being pulled due to a lack of viewers (the result, of course, of it clearly being utter rubbish and yet still trying to compete with Doctor Who). I'm mentioning this here really only because it feels good to be able to. With luck, nobody will watch Celebrity Love Island either.

Come to think of it, I suspect that Celebrity Love Island may be the result of the same process as Domino's Pizza's new Cheese Steak Pizza - that is, making a big list of words and sticking three pins in it. If that is the case, I think the lists really should be combined. Then perhaps we could tuck into a nice Celebrity Spice Waffle while watching Hidden Omelette Beach. Now that's what I call civilisation.

A Troubling Development

The world, it seems, has stopped turning. The illusion of day and night is now maintained only by Clever Trickery. This may cause problems.

(See, now, if you were Doctor Who you wouldn't need me to let you know about this.)

Grounds For Complaint

Though I am rather more fond of tea, I thoroughly enjoy the odd cup of coffee, and to be honest it always rather frustrates me to see the stuff lauded solely for its caffiene content. Now, I know that attitude is by no means universal, and that even so it really shouldn't bother me, but I suspect that if you did a quick Family Fortunes-esque survey on "A Reason For Drinking Coffee", the answers "To wake you up in the morning" and "To keep you up at night" would come out somewhat higher than "Because it really tastes rather lovely and goes beautifully with a good chunk of parkin", and that seems a bit of a shame. Possibly I should blame largely rubbish-tasting instant coffee. Or possibly, and this is more likely, I should not concern myself with it.

I'm not really sure where I'm going with this, and frankly I'm rather shaky on the value of where I've been already, so I'm going to stop now. Though I should really plug CaféDirect's fancy Peruvian stuff, because it's really really tasty, fairly traded, and has a very nice picture of Machu Picchu on the front. Though I should mention that their instructions for making coffee require you to put your feet up, so if that's a problem you might want to look elsewhere. We wouldn't want you to strain yourself.

The Ancient Dilemma

On the one hand, my hair really, really needs cutting, on the grounds that is looks ridiculous and will only look more ridiculous as time goes on. On the other, I have just discovered how satisfying it is to comb one's hair with a fork, and I rather suspect shorter hair might ruin this effect.

The Least Reassuring Page On The Internet

Don't you feel better for knowing?

A Very Seedy Gentleman

It has come to my attention that there is no better snack for extended periods of not-terribly-exciting work than the little bags of pumpkin and sunflower seeds (or, as it says on the bag "Delicious Pumpkin & Sunflower Seeds") they sell at Boots. I suspect they may also be ideal for films, journeys and long, boring speeches. So thank you, Boots, and thank you, More Than One Country.

Some Rats Don't Fall For That One

There's a lot of fine stuff in the Scout Law. A Scout is to be trusted, for example. That's a good all-round rule to live by. A Scout has courage in all difficulties - it never hurts, does it? Nonetheless, I feel that there's one crucial point that's missing, and that ought to be tagged on the end as soon as is possible. Something along the lines of "A Scout has something other than lukewarm porridge between the ears." Now, brace yourself, you may have to read the following sentence twice.

Last night, one of my Scouts tried to wash the dishes with rat poison.

Now, just put yourself in his shoes. You're stood in a building which has had a rat problem. You are washing up, a task for which you have all the relevant equipment, some of it in a clearly labelled bottle. In a drawer, in the unit through which the rats had been scrambling, you find two trays of tiny, mysterious blueish-green pellets. These trays have the word "Rentokil" set into the side. By what possible feat of reasoning do you conclude that it would be a good idea to add them to the bowl?

Last night, one of my Scouts tried to wash the dishes with rat poison.

(Told you you might have to read it twice.)

Pull It Back And Watch It Go (Forever)

The pressure is building. Time is running out. The heat is on. Whatever cliché I choose to use, the fact remains that if I don't get updating this thing soon, I may very shortly be on the receiving end of a menacing look. I know. I was terrified, too.

There's only one problem: after a big gap, it's hard to know where to start. I could just summarise all the stuff that's happened recently that I've failed entirely to mention, but then I have to decide what to put in and what not to and remember things and all sorts. Alternatively, I could just talk about some big stuff in a bit more detail and let the rest be, but I've never written about anything significant here before and I'm damned if I'm going to start now.

So, instead, I'm going to tell a story from a long time ago. Now, the chances are that if you're reading this you've heard this story anyway, not because I tell it to many people but because I'm reasonably confident I know my rather paltry readership, particularly my even paltrier post-gap readership. Anyway, here we go.

When I was little (I don't know how little) I had a little pull-back Postman Pat van. It was tremendous fun, pulling that little thing back and watching it speed back to deliver letters to the good people of Greendale. Or at least, the good people of the kitchen floor, which was the only surface I could easily get to that it would run on. I loved that little thing. But one day, something terrible happened: I was playing quietly with my little van and, thanks to a moment of uncontrolled driving madness, it trundled away into the dreaded darkness Underneath The Fridge. I was distraught, as I'm sure you can imagine. Over the years, the wound healed, but I never forgot that toy. It sat in the back of my mind, telling me to be patient, assuring me that it would return one day. And then, finally, the promised day came. Our fridge packed in and had to be replaced. That, of course, meant taking the old one out, and that meant that I could get my beloved Postman Pat pull-back van back! Oh, what a happy day it should have been.

But it wasn't.

You see, somehow, in that unforgiving realm twixt fridge and floor, that van had disappeared without a trace. Vapourized by aliens. Stolen by pixies. I don't know what happened to it. I just know it's gone, and it's not coming back.

Churchill, Laurel, Taylor

It gives me great pleasure to announce that I am now a fully qualified member of the People Who Can Tie Bow Ties Properly Club. It is a club that is not currently considered cool among the general public, but I like to think my membership will fix that.

While obtaining my bow tie, I also saw an extremely drunk idiot buying expensive shoes and explaining to the exceptionally polite and patient Middle-Eastern shop assistant precisely why he intends to vote BNP. It pleases me that it's at least possible that, in his inebriated state, he didn't realise quite how much he was paying for his shoes, and will sober up to discover that he has very classy shoes but a very empty wallet and no memory whatsoever of where his receipt might be. With a bit of luck it will even distract him so much that he'll forget to vote.

Songs Tony Christie Should Have Performed On ITV's "Queen Mania"

- Bicycle Race (To Amarillo)
- Don't Stop Me Now (I Haven't Yet Reached Amarillo)
- (Can Anybody Find Me) Amarillo
- Now I'm In Amarillo
- Seven Seas Of Amarillo
- (All We Hear Is) KGNC FM
- Headlong (To Amarillo)
- Amarillo (With Montserrat Caballé)
- Amarillo For Everyone
- Las Palabras De Amarillo
- Princes of Amarillo
- Flash

This list certified 100% hilarity free by the Royal Commission for Funny Things.

Join the Campaign for Real Sports Biscuits

And fight the good-but-ultimately-trivial fight!

Wonderfully Simple Recipe of the Day

"Big Bowl of Fruit And Yoghurt"

For this recipe, you will need:
All your favourite fruit
Your favourite flavour of yoghurt
A big bowl
Chopping apparatus
A spoon

1. Chop all your favourite fruit, discarding any fiddly bits like seeds, stalks, peel and what have you.
2. Put all the bits of fruit in a big bowl and mix them up with a fingers like the chefs do on the telly with this sort of thing.
3. Cover the fruit with your favourite flavour of yoghurt (plain yoghurt can be substituted if it makes you feel clever.) This step may require the use of your spoon.
4. Mix it about until the fruit is all covered in yoghurt.
5. Serve.

It's a bit like a fruit salad, only thicker. And you can get away with less kinds of fruit.

The Core Issue

Should you extract the bog-roll's core,
'Twill not be firm as once before,
But lose all substance and, as such,
Give way beneath the slightest touch.
Now weakened thus, it will prevail
'Gainst reinsertion of the frail
And suddenly purposeless pipe
That generally maintains its type.

See, child, in the great plan for all
Each thing has purpose, however small,
And this is why 'tis all but law
That every bog-roll has a core.


(This post made because if people will insist on distracting me when I'm trying to write an essay to the extent that I write poetry about toilet roll, I'm damn well going to show it to the world one way or another.)

And For My Next Trick

My copy of my English Literature text (the one I was researching when I made the Magic Disappearing Notes) has apparently joined that scrap of paper in The Place.

Maybe there's some concerned religious citizen out there who doesn't think the youth of this country ought to be studying Doctor Faustus.

Just Like That

Fifteen minutes ago, I was sitting here making notes from Wikipedia on a little scrap of paper, leaning on a CD case that I rested on my knee. Just after I finished, I dropped the case and the notes. Somewhere between my knee and the ground, the notes completely disappeared. I have been on my hands and needs with a desk lamp scouring the are for those notes. I have looked under things and behind things and I have checked more pieces of paper than I would ever have thought possible without going crazy. I could have made those notes again about seven times by now if I'd wanted to. The fact is, I just need to know where that sodding bit of paper's gone. I refuse to be outwitted by a sliver of mulched tree.

I'll rip this Goddamn room apart if I have to.

From The Pages Of Which?

"Half of us think Tesco is "too big and powerful" in a survey for Retail Week (although a similar number of people disagree)."

Trust Your Inner Vision, Don't Let Others Change Your Mind

It hasn't stopped snowing all day.

Finally, February is doing it properly.

You've Gotta Speed It Up...

I'm going to be stereotypically English now and talk about the weather. If you don't like it, you can go philosophise about stuff that actually matters until your brain dribbles out, with my blessing. But until the day comes when I go crazy and add someone else to the members list just for the hell of it, it's banalities for supper. Where was I?

The weather. It's misbehaving. It's been snowing for most of the day, but with no respect for regularity of sense or anything. It's like there's some big slider labelled "Snow" and someone's idly fiddling with it with their free hand. Only it wouldn't be labelled "Snow", and there would probably be four or five, because nothing that's operated by a big slider is ever that easy to use.

For the sake of illustration, here is the weather now and here is the weather about two minutes ago (in AVI format). Those of you who can't be bothered downloading them can get the basics of the situation down by looking at the filenames, but you'll never understand fully (you worthless sloths).

It's trying to drive me mad, you know. And it's working. You can tell because I took a video of the snow and then took a video of the lack of snow, and then tried to present them to the world as evidence that the weather is trying to drive me mad.

The Best Of Hubble

I'll let the universe speak for itself.

But I will also add a pointless little paragraph here, because the post looked really, really ugly before.

An Important Message

Big Barry is coming, with fifteen.

Spread the word.

Don't Believe Their Lies

Blogger doesn't seem to have noticed any of my posts since October. My total posts count remains steadfastly at 53, and my profile's Recent Posts section has nothing from later that the 26th of that month.

It says a lot that my first thought upon noticing this was "Well, I suppose it hasn't missed much."

It's Time To Play The Music

Outside NEXT in Leeds today was the grooviest busker ever.

He was busking with a steel drum.

And he played the theme from The Muppet Show.

I also discovered today that if you sit on a bench listening to a busker for an hour in mid-February, you get very cold.

Here Comes The Breakdown Of Society

I can now play Tetris on my mobile phone.

I may never achieve anything worthwhile again.

Expanding The Scope Of My Knowledge

It pleased me immensely to discover that there was a short lived American sitcom set in an emergency room called E/R, one of the cast of which was George Clooney.

The main character was named "Sheinfeld".

Life's Lessons Learned

Today, I made an important discovery. Just because one end of a chili pepper is mild and delicious, with a flavour rather like a normal pepper but more nuanced and interesting, does not mean that the end nearest the stalk will not be a savage mass of pure capsaicin that will set your nose flooding and your hand reaching for every ingestible item to hand that might bring even temporary relief.

But on the other hand, I discovered that eating hot chilies gives you a rather pleasant endorphin rush. Every cloud...

Never Trust A Man With Poor Lip-Sync

I suspect that the team behind the current TRESemmé hair-care product adverts didn't show their spot to enough focus groups. I refuse to believe that, if they had, none of them would have noticed that, just after The Hair-Care Industry Traitor has told us how much he loves to see women looking good and enjoying themselves, his little monologue and the slogan sort of run together to produce:

"Look at you: professional, affordable..."

I would have loved to put a bit more effort and research into this to give those of you who've missed out on this disturbing little campaign a better picture of it, but as it turns out, Forrest Gump is on. You never had a chance, really.

You Can Be A Big Pig Too

I am declaring the First Annual Lion King Party a success. This is based solely on the fact that my house remains intact, and that it lasted over six hours despite being essentially a joke.

There are two basic philosophies behind the concept of the Lion King Party:

1. Unless you are specifically not invited to the Lion King Party, you are invited to the Lion King Party.
2. A Lion King Party is like a swingers' party, only instead of swapping wives, we watch The Lion King.

This year's Lion King Party was a fancy dress Lion King Party - that is, those attending were expected to wear a fancy dress. Pencilled in for future Lion King Parties are the formal, sit-down dinner Lion King Party and (at Kate's insistence) the wet T-shirt Lion King Party (water provided).

Consider yourself invited.

How Not To Make Tea

I made two major errors when making a pot of tea just now. For me, that's a big slip. I pride myself on my teamaking finesse.

My second mistake lay in forgetting to put the tea in in between warming the pot and adding the boiling water. But I like to think that it wouldn't have happened if I hadn't been distracted by my first mistake, which was accidentally overfilling the kettle so that it spurted boiling water out of the spout.

And all over an electrical socket.

Special Introductory Offer

If you live in Beckton, Brighton, Kingston-upon-Thames, West Thurrock, Islington (London), Charing Cross (London), Oxford Street (London), Watford, Bournemouth, Bristol, Cambridge, Swansea, Swindon, Birmingham, Cheshire, Leeds, Leicester, Manchester, Newcastle or Oxford, pop into Borders and pick up a copy of the global issues magazine Bulb and I have it on good authority that at least three people you don't know will love you forever.

Oh, and I guess you may be keeping some people's hard work from having been for nothing, too. Which is always nice.

You Wear A Disguise To Look Like Chicken Guys

I try not to post links because then I would feel like I was doing some almost worthwhile service, but I feel compelled to breach this policy for Subservient Chicken because, although it didn't keep me amused for very long (mainly because unusual things tended to provoke only tenuously related acts rather than just doing nothing, though when it gets it spot on it does so wonderfully), it takes me back to my very early school days and the wonder that was "Podd Can".

At this point, I must apologise to anyone who thought this post might linger for any length of time on chicken-related subjects based on the title, or offer anything vaguely preceptive. It won't. This post is just an excuse for me to bathe in memories of Podd Can (let's face it, I can't talk to people about it), which is much more important. The title only slipped through because Chicken Boo was also brilliant.

Now, if you've followed the link and played around for a little while, you now understand the concept of the Subservient Chicken. Now, replace the living room with a loud green background and the man in the chicken suit with a big red blob (called Podd) with a stupid face that doesn't have the relevant appendages for a chicken suit, and fiddle with the action until it becomes Educational. You now understand the concept of Podd Can.

These are just some of the awesome things about Podd Can:

1. Podd Can is far more interesting than maths lessons.
2. Podd Can prefixed your commands with "Podd Can" even when Podd quite obviously Couldn't.
3. Podd Can jump.
4. Podd Can allowed you to make yourself look clever when you came up with something Podd Can't.
5. Podd Can was easier and more fun than The Crystal Rainforest.
6. Podd Can dance.
7. Podd Can is far more interesting that R.E. lessons.
9. Podd Can count.
10. The internet seems to know surprisingly little about Podd Can when you're convinced it's spelled with only one D.
11. Attempting to convince the internet that it must know something about Podd Can led me to discover that searhing Google for "Pob" will find results including "place of birth" and "post office box".
12. I thought that Podd Can was called Pob Can until just now.
13. Podd Can walk.
14. Podd Can run.
15. Podd Can is far more interesting than English lessons.
16. Podd Can die in a variety of hilarious ways and always comes back.
17. Podd Can was easier and more fun that Around The World In Eighty Days.
18. Podd Can almost certainly do loads of really filthy things that we innocent children never thought to try but amused the developer no end.
19. Podd Can pop.
20. Podd Can was awesome.

How To Make Party Ring Cakes

1. Buy some Party Rings.
2. Remove Party Rings from tray and arrange artfully on side.
3. Leave for a few days.
4. Enjoy.

Day Of The Crow

A jackal is not a kind of raven-like bird. Jackals are, in fact, really rather thoroughly unbirdlike.

A jackal is any of several doglike mammals of the genus Canis of Africa and southern Asia that are mainly foragers feeding on plants, small animals, and occasionally carrion.

This post is not for your benefit. You see, if I can go for however bloody long it's been utterly convinced that a jackal is, in fact, black, feathered and squawky, there's no way to be sure that I won't wake up in the morning having totally forgotten that I was as wrong as I was certain. With a little luck, if that happens, I'll see this at some point.

The real beauty of the internet is its potential for correcting your startling misconceptions without you having to make a fool of yourself in polite company first.

All The Time In The World

I got bored a little while ago.

Five Googlewhacks later, it occurred to me that I could have used the time I wasted on them to revise for my upcoming exams.

This leaves me in a state of uncertainty: on the one hand, I suspect Googlwhacking may be tremendous fun because it seems so hard but is so easy, but on the otherhand I feel it may simply be because Googlewhacking fundamentally isn't whatever important task you really should be doing.

In The Interests Of Completeness

f a r c i c a l / a n o n y m i t i e s
i d i o l e c t a l / p e r e m p t o r y
h o o p l a / t a u t o l o g i s t
g a s t r i c / c r u m h o r n s
f o r s o o t h / o c t a n t s

Happy New Year

That really isn't all. But it's certainly all you're getting.