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.