Before Going Into Politics, He Had Been A Pro Wrestler

Last night, I had a dream in which Gordon Brown body-slammed a macaroon.

Needless to say, my support for the Labour party has dropped enormously since I awoke.

At Least This Time It Wasn't My Fault

There are lots of things you don't want when you're halfway through an essay. The discovery that all your library books are overdue, for example, or the crushing realisation that the one key assumption on which all your arguments rest is fundamentally flawed. I think I would happily have taken any of the essay-woes I've been treated to in the past, though, over the point yesterday - round about the seven hundred word mark - where Windows decided that actually, on the whole, I probably didn't want any of the data on my hard disk and it would save everyone a lot of hassle if it just wiped the whole lot. After all, a little modification to the casing and I could easily turn my freshly-bricked laptop into a fully-functional garlic press, and that would save an awful lot of fiddly chopping when making stir-fry.

It's possible that it just thought it would be appropriate, while I was writing about Ovid, to transform my laptop into an attractive doorstop. Thoughtful though that was, I do already have a very nice doorstop with a little wooden duck named Trinculo perched on top of it, and as I currently only have one door that's really all I need.

On the plus side, I managed to get a lot of reading done while Linux was installing.

Chavs Do Not Think Things Through

When my hair is quite long, they shout "Get a haircut!". But we both know that if I did, they'd just shout "Ginner!" instead.

It pains me to see breath wasted like that.

If You Want Something Done Properly, You've Got To Do It Yourself

Really, Mark, if you don't want me to clandestinely muck about with your blogger account, you shouldn't let me know your password and then not update for four months. Despite both these things I still feel rather guilty (I'm sorry, I am bored, largely because I have lost one of my procrastination tools due to the fact that YOU NEVER BLOG ANY MORE)... so feel free to delete this post once you've read it. Really, the main thing that's compelled me to post despite feeling rather guilty is the curiosity to know how long it will take you to actually notice this exists...

I've sat here for a little while pondering whether to make a vague effort to be anonymous and mysterious. I've decided that I will, futile as it may be, mainly because I can't think of a way to sign off after this little paragraph without looking silly.

For Your Delectation, Three Games We Invented Last Night

1. "Rough Guide to Copenhagen" or "How To Survive A Robot Uprising"?, in which players must identify from which of those two fine books a (very) short extract is taken. Not as easy as it sounds.
2. Read The Headlines Backwards, in which you do exactly what it says on the hypothetical tin. Every bit as dull as it sounds almost all of the time.
3. Greek or Roman?, in which Paul is presented with a classical figure and asked to identify whether they are Greek or Roman.

Warning: This Post Contains Vowels

Warning from the trailer for An Inconvenient Truth:

"Contains images of ecological disaster."

Look out, parents!

Soul

My brother just won my other brother's soul in a game of poker.

I just thought that was worthy of recording.

Blowing Off The Cobwebs

Well, looks like since I last updated I've been to Peru (photo-based shenanigans doubtless coming soon), got my A-level results and stewarded the Secret Garden Party music festival, among other things I can't think of just now, so I should probably start doing some posting and things sometime.

So, you know, maybe I'll do that.

I Honestly Thought Of It Long Before The Weetabix Week

I owe congratulations to Kellogg's. I never really appreciated how solidly honey-tasting Honey Nut Loops were until I tried Weetabix drizzled with honey.

If You Don't Want To Know The Results Of Last Night's Insomnia Cure Challenge, Look Away Now

Boots Sleepeaze Herbal 0 - 1 A mug of cocoa and a Winnie-the-Pooh story

I think we could probably have predicted the winner, really.

110001001011001000000001000000000 Kinds Of People

When I went up to the school library today to use one of the computers (from which you can probably get hold of far more books than you can from the shelves), the person using the machine next to me was using an Excel spreadsheet. There were only two columns to this spreadsheet. In the one on the left were good old-fashioned decimal integers, beloved of so many counting people. And to its right were the same numbers, only in binary. This is the column he was filling in, one by one, and at quite a rate. I don't know how high the numbers went, but by the time I got there, he was rapidly aproaching 500, and from the look of things he was nowhere near finished.

It seems to me that there's very likely an entirely sensible reason for this, but I cannot for the life of me think what it might be. It just goes to show how very odd our activities can seem out of context.

Or that he's a rather odd bloke.

The Card Game Of The Century

It is not often that a new card game rises from utter obscurity to a place in the card-game canon. And, indeed, this is not yet one of those times. But if there is any justice in this world, one is not far away.

I give you What's In Mr Johnson's Wheelie Bin?.

Choose Your Allegiance

There are some battles that are worth fighting.

And there are some battles that cannot but be fought.

The Uncontested Highlight Of Our Trip To Stratford

For more of the important stuff from our holiday, see Chrissy's blog.

Let The Memory Live Again

I am sorry to tell you that my mobile disk died this morning. It had a good innings - my dad had it for a good few years before he passed it onto me (as attested to by its general massiveness), and it survived being put through the washing machine at least once in that time. But all good things, and most rubbish things, must come to an end, and today the plastic casing finally came apart completely and the circuitry within slid clean out, leaving the rather useless little shell you see to the left.

Now, as I looked at my inadvertently-dismantled disk, a few options presented themselves. I could wrap the whole thing up in a cocoon of tape, and, in fact, I nearly did. If we had any proper bodge-job looking duct tape, this post would have ended here. But thankfully, we only had parcel tape, Sellotape and insulation tape, none of which would really have given it the right aesthetic.

While searching for some decent tape, however, I did find an unused box of plasters and some bandages. That had to look good, surely? A broken mobile disk, held together with medical supplies like a real boy? But it seemed a bit silly and wasteful, and besides, plasters are rubbish and don't stick to anything.

Andrew, helpful as ever, suggested wrapping it up in Sellotape and leaving it at that. It would have looked interesting, certainly, but considering that it has all my important work on it I thought I could use something more substantial. So we decided to do the sensible thing and install it in another object.

But what?

A matchbox? Too easy. A thimble? Too small. A miniature box of Celebrations? Too bloody stupid.

And then I saw the light. Because, nestled away in the summerhouse, we had a big cardboard box of old videogame paraphenalia, and among it was a long-knackered NES controller. It was small. It was mostly hollow. It had a little hole to run a USB cable out of.

It was perfect.

And so, I assembled an Elite Crack Super Team.


Sort of.

Now, as I'm sure you're aware, the first thing to do when you embark on a project like this is to take everything apart into as many pieces of possible and generally make a great big mess.

Here, you'll observe the dismantled controller, the dismantled mobile disk, the screwdriver we took the pad, the USB extension cable (kindly donated/sold by Paul), the little knife we used to cut off some bits of plastic that got in the way, and some little bits of plastic that got in the way. You'll also observe, though they are rather less important, a placemat, a table, a chair, another chair, part of yesterday's paper, the set that we took the screwdriver from, and a refill pad (which we did actually use, as a source of card to brace the buttons, having taken out the printed circuit board that used to hold them in place).

With a bit of fiddling about, we came up with a basic arrangement that we thought ought to work.

It's really rather cunningly organised. I think Paul came up with it, with a little tweaking from the rest of the Elite Crack Super Team. Note how the disk also braces the D-pad so that it can be pressed convincingly.

Now, all that remained was to put it all together so that the back would actually go on. Which was an absolute bastard, because the mobile disk was unnecessarily huge, the end of the USB cable was unnecessarily huge, and the screw-posts had been positioned (in a remarkably forward-thinking move) so that they would obstruct anyone who attempted to convert the pad into a mobile disk. But we battled, and we battled, and we went and fetched a pair of garden secateurs to trim some bits we couldn't get to with the knife, and finally, triumphantly, we screwed the thing back together.



Truly, a thing of beauty.

It Is Soluble In Water

Overheard while going out into the rain from my school's rather excellent show last night:

"It'd better not rain on my head."

At Least Her Team Would Have Won The Spin Off Show, "Pissing Alan Sugar's Money Up The Wall"

What follows is an exchange between one of the people on The Apprentice and a customer at their pizza marquee.

--------------------

CONTESTANT: That's nine pounds change.
CUSTOMER: Er... eleven pounds.
CONTESTANT: What?
CUSTOMER: It should be eleven pounds.
CONTESTANT: Oh, right.

CONTESTANT fiddles in the till for a while.

CONTESTANT: Right, so I gave you six...
CUSTOMER: No, you gave me nine.
CONTESTANT: Oh, right, sorry.

A moment's pause.

CONTESTANT: So that's three pounds change, then.

--------------------

The contestant in question also chose to sell pizza that had cost over four pounds to produce for three pounds.

She also has a degree in economics.

From Cambridge.

It's cute how The Apprentice thinks people watch it for Serious Business Reasons when really we watch it for the same reasons that we watch The Weakest Link.

The Device Extracts Your Dental Soul

The appointments I've had to sort out my knackered tooth have all been just a little strange, principally because the dentist I've been going to (selected on the very sensible basis that he was the only one who would fix my tooth at the time) likes to have the radio on while he works and discuss whatever's on, at length, with his assistant. As a result, I spend my appointments being drilled not only in the teeth, but also in the belief that BBC radio ought to be able to avoid playing rubbish pop music because it's publicly funded so it doesn't need the listeners to keep afloat.

Apparently Lou Reed is touring.

Anyway, as I say, they've all been a little strange. But today's was the oddest yet. Now, I would just like to make perfectly clear that he's an excellent dentist, me tooth is fully fixed up, and there was no pain any time in my treatment. But my God, it wasn't what I was expecting.

First they numbed me up a little, though apparently I didn't really need it because they'd already drilled the nerve out. Now, what I didn't realise is that the stuff they inject into you has adrenaline in it, and sometimes it hits you with, well, an adrenaline rush. I have never, ever had a mysterious adrenaline rush before while lying comfortably in a pleasant chair listening to the radio, and to be honest I can live without it happening again.

After that, everything was sensible for a while. They drilled me with drills, they X-rayed me with X-rays, and they poked me with those little metal things I have to assume are called pokes.

And then something giant got screwed into my tooth.

I don't know for a moment what it was, but I do know that it felt like it wasn't coming out without taking the whole of my lower jaw with it. Quite what it was for I have no idea - it just seemed to sit there throughout the whole affair and then unscrewed and removed.

Anyway, I could cope with the giant tooth-screw. It was weird, certainly, but nothing to concern me. And then I saw a cigarette lighter spark up in my peripheral vision, and within a few seconds there was smoke rising from my mouth. I had hoped to get through my days without anything causing my teeth to smoke, but it seems that it was not to be.

Once my teeth were (I assume) thoroughly branded with the practice's name, they got out The Device. The Device was shaped like a tiny orange hairdryer with a long, thin, angled nozzle, and was pointed at length at my tooth. Sometimes it nudged into it, and made a little buzzing noise. What was it for? I haven't the slightest idea. But it was very impressive.

When all was done, they took one last X-ray. As I tried to remove the little slug of film from next to my teeth, it slipped out of my fingers and I nearly choked myself to death on it.

Lent? What Lent?

I just tried a pancake drizzled in honey.

Life may never be the same again.

If You Can Hear It Over The Hoover

Just advertised on UKTV Gold: Housework Songs, a two-disc compilation of music "to make housework fun!"

I don't think I even need to make a sarcastic comment about this one.

Some Say The Meadowfish, She's Just A Myth

Well, you know how the saying goes. If you've got nothing nice to say, don't say anything at all. And if you've got nothing at all to say, show a picture of a ridiculous sign.

The Woe Of Doors

In my school, there is a room called the Sixth Form Silent Study Area, the purpose of which I won't insult you by explaining. Of course, it's never actually silent, because the common rooms are far too small to fit everyone in so pockets of people use it as an extension, but it's nonetheless the best place to go if you want to get a bit of work done. And it's where I went this morning, wanting to get a bit of work done.

Now, the doors on this room are a bit dogdy. One of them skitters awkwardly along the floor when moved, and neither closes properly with anything apporaching ease. So I wasn't surprised when attempting to close the door I came through left it just slightly ajar. I was surprised, however, to find that every time I tried to shut it properly, it popped back and needed another good, hard shove to get it back into place. After about four attempts, I gave up and went off to one of the desks.

As I did so, a fairly annoyed-looking girl entered the room. She didn't look, in all honesty, like she was quite in a relaxed enough state of mind to work effectively. But I suppose that was fair enough. After all, some arsehole had been holding the door shut on her while she was trying to get in.

Dull Kitchen Equipment Story Of The Day

Well, a few days ago I was toasting a bap to make myself an eggoon, and after about thirty seconds, much to my consternation, the room was momentarily lit up by a bright spark flying out of one of the slots. This worried me a little, so I took my bread out and did it under the grill instead.

Today, I was making an eggoon, and, not thinking for a moment of the spark event, stuck a bap in the toaster and set about frying the egg. For once, it seemed that I had got my timing right, and it was with tremendous satisfaction that I saw the toaster pop up just as my egg was on the final straight to perfection.

It was with rather less satisfaction that I saw that the bap was no warmer, browner or crisper than it was when it went in.

When I noticed the curl of foul-smelling smoke rising from the toaster, I would go so far as to say I took no satisfaction from it all.

I suspect that my toaster may be broken.

Best Used With New Gillette Ebola

According to a 1920s advert reproduced in an A-level English Language exam paper:

"Deadly Anthrax, present in so many foreign Shaving Brushes, can never be found in the all-British "Culmak", - says eminent Bacteriologist."

I worry that, should this paper fall into the wrong hands, we may have a horrific biological terrorist attack on our hands. Or, more accurately, our faces.

Thank Goodness For The Saurus Thesaurus

I spent an hour and a half today racking my brains trying to remember the word "manifold". If it hadn't been for the Collins Thesaurus I would definitely have failed my Maths Exam because of that accursed niggling.

Hurrah for thesauruses!

9.00pm - Richard Dawkins in: Commando

This week, there has been a whale in the Thames, a piece in New Scientist written by Arnold Schwarzenegger, and a comprehensible comic in the Metro's "This Life".

I think I may have broken through into a parallel universe.

They Also Sell Soup

It has been entire weeks since I last visited the Italian Wrap Van.

I fear I may be exhibiting severe withdrawal symptoms before long.

Ah, the Italian Wrap Van.

Variations On A Theme

Announcing the First Official Variation of The Seven Of Diamonds Gets You Stabbed In The Eye.

The variation is known as Tavistock Yard. Its rules are remarkably similar to the common trick-winning game Hearts, only whoever takes the seven of diamonds gets stabbed in the eye.

From all of us here at The World Is Lovely: have fun playing!

And Now, I Will Bring Them Down From The Inside

I got into Cambridge!

The fools!

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.

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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.