Buy Now – Don't Pay Later

Okay, I've learnt my lesson. I should have bought it when I first saw it. 'It' was an old, battered, chipped, charming, wooden, character-laden desk tidy in the local antiques shop. It was only a tenner. I just thought, 'Perhaps I'll buy it next time.'

Today was next time and, of course, it had gone. Sold to someone more decisive than me. I'm not a materialistic person – I've never been beamed aboard the Starship Enterprise, for example – but I think that this particular item could have improved the quality of my desk life by a good 14%.

No more, I tell thee. From now on, I will have a '£10 impulse-buy-rule'. Anything a tenner or under, which takes my fancy will be instantly purchased; unless it's cheese. I'm trying to lose weight. Cheese really doesn't help.

My desk - a reconstruction

Sugar Caned

Someone came round today.
I asked them if they wanted a cuppa.
They replied, 'Yes please, milk and three sugars'.
I said to them, 'Blimey, do you want any tea in your sugar?'
I can be very cutting at times.

The Money Shot

£8 in one pence pieces

£10 in two pence pieces
£15 in five pence pieces
£25 in ten pence pieces
£30 in twenty pence pieces
Yep, it was that time of year again.

Ode To A Friend

I had no money for the pub
A friend called and said,
'Come to the pub'
I said,
'I have no money for the pub'
I ended up in the pub.

Halloween Be Thy Name

There were a few bonfire parties going on tonight but I didn't make it out to any of them. Last night, I was visited by trick-or-treaters; a woman and her three small children. They had taken me completely by surprise – I had nothing in – so other than offer them Oxo cubes or some Fennel tea, I had to plump for 'trick'.

Trust my luck it happened to be David Blaine's wife and kids. I'm just hoping they let me out of whatever I'm trapped in at some stage in the not too distant future.

Miracle In The Rucksack

We've all been there. You've a night out planned but you're as skint as a dodo. Foraging tactics are required: an almighty search throughout the house for discarded or forgotten about money: pockets, drawers, cupboards, couch crevices, plant pots, the cafetiere (you just never know). I searched all of these but to no avail. 

Desperate, I vaguely remembered putting some cash in my rucksack during the summer festivals. I feverishly dragged it out of the wardrobe and reached down into its inner pockets. Alas, I felt no coinage; just a lump of paper; but no ordinary lump of paper. What I took from those inner pockets rocked me back on to my haunches: fifty quid in notes. Fifty quid! I had no idea I'd left so much mazola in there. It felt like a miracle. And what a story! Not only did I have fifty quid but I imagine the film rights money I'll receive, once Paramount hear about this, will be astronomical.

Icke (page) Turner

An hour to kill in Oxford: that'll be a trip to Waterstones then and a good, long browse through David Icke's books. I've recently got into David in a kind of 'intrigued observer' way. I'm not for or against his views but we do both support Leicester City, so I suppose that makes us kindred spirits of sorts. 

I have to say though, 'David, sort your book cover designs out'. Naive typography, cliched iconography and Day-Glo New Age graphics. You're not going to appeal to the ignorant masses with these visual monstrosities.

Moving on to a lighter read, I stumbled across a book called The Little Book of Thunks. Basically, a compendium of beguiling questions that have no real answer. It tempted me but the £8.99 price was 99 pence out of my weekly book budget. Instead, I decided to make my own Thunks up:
Q: Why isn't egg a type of meat?
Q: If a polar bear, Zorro and The Holy Ghost had a fight who would win?
Q: Are brushes really daft?
Q: If David Icke is right, do we get a refund?

David, sort it out, David, David, sort it out

All I Knew About Hangovers And How I Dealt With Them

The hangover. Not the film, although 'film' is to feature over these next few paragraphs of prose. When one has a day of leisure to accompany a hangover, the only question one needs to pose is, 'How do I deal with the hangover?' I decided to deal with today's with couch, film and fire (not to be confused with the 50s reggae band 'Earth, Wind and Fire').

The film I plumped for, off of iplayer, was pretty atrocious; I may as well had watched The Hangover. It was a sci-fi comedy called, something like, All I Knew About Time Travel And How I Knew It. It was lame as hell, but I suppose in the hungover site you don't really want to watch a sub-titled Russian art house film about a feta cheese fetishist's painfully slow voyage of discovery with a bisexual biochemist. And in any case, I'd watched that one last Tuesday: good in parts but let down by the ending when the biochemist remembers he owes a retired psychopathic basketball player 20,000 Euros and chokes on his omelette.

Guest Spot

William. Just updating my blog, as 4 months behind. I have no notes for what I did on Friday Oct 4. Would you like it as a guest spot? Can be anything you want. From a sentence to a few paragraphs. In fact, I might just stick in whatever you say in reply to this text.

Love to - just need time! Will get something done.

Cock-a-google-do

Today, Google was celebrating its 15th year. Of course, as is Google's demeanour, this meant that the Google masthead today was bastardised – a Google doodle – to recognise this.

As way of celebrating myself (any excuse – it's a Friday) I decided to come up with a few Google doodles of my own. Predictions for Google doodles of the future. Enjoy.

Ramseygate

Nothing to report on Gordon Ramsey this week.

Heaven's Kitchen?

Compton Verney: a renowned art gallery in the sticks. I was expecting perhaps the odd well-known painting but I never for one moment imagined I would be coming face-to-face with The Last Supper!

I was amazed there wasn't a compote of art lovers swarming around it like wasps to a beer garden pint. Not only that but there wasn't even a supervisor in the room, making sure I didn't sneeze on it or open a shaken-up can of Vimto all over it. Also, the painting was a lot smaller than I had imagined, perhaps being only A3 size in width. I'd always thought that Leonardo DiCaprio had been the painter of this masterpiece but the artist's name was actually somebody I'd never heard of.

I have to say, all these factors lead me to suspect that this wasn't the actual Last Supper but perhaps some kind of copy. When I returned home I looked the painting up on the internet and was surprised to discover there are indeed many versions of the painting, including one with Gordon Ramsey as Jesus. Could it be true? Ramsey is the second coming? I suppose he did once say, 'I'd like to think I'm a great teacher', but there again he also once said, 'You Fucking Donkey'. It's a hard one to call.

Lasagne Layer Know-How

The Big question in life is this: when preparing a lasagne, which layer should go into the dish first: the pasta, the bolo or the béchamel sauce?

All the recipes I'd hunted down differed in their recommendation. My instinct was to go with the bolo. I reasoned that the pasta would be too dry to use as a base; and the béchamel too wet.

During some post-cooking research I was delighted to discover that Gordon Ramsey also goes for the bolo first. And shit me sideways, of all the fuckers in the fucking world, he should fucking know.

Corporate Dining Gag

What did one hungry horse say to the other hungry horse?

Fancy Harvesters tonight?

Still LIfe With Glass And Surf

The Tate gallery in St Ives is a unique place. Set just back from the beach, the floor inside is home to many a grain of sand. You don't have to get out of your wetsuit to come inside. You can surf a wave, pop in to see some Vincent Van Billabong and then jump back into the sea, suitably inspired to ride another wave.

To be honest, today's exhibitions were a tad disappointing – no Vincent Van Billabong for starters – but the best exhibit here is actually a permanent fixture. On the second floor there is a huge glass-fronted curved facade with a sublime view of the beach and the ocean beyond. However, there's no sign to say what the piece is called or who the artist is. God? E.T.? Evolution? Damien Hirst? Or possibly a collaboration by all four. When I asked a member of staff who it was by she pulled a hamster out of her bra and pirouetted to an internal telephone where she puked up orange paint all over the handset.

It's coming to something when gallery staff's responses to public's questions are art in themselves. Shit art at that.

Top 11 (see what I did there?) Places I've Never Been To

Where haven't you been? People often ask 'where have you been?' But, 'where haven't you been' is just as intriguing and often surprising.

I decided to compile my own 'Top 11 (see what I did there?) Places I've Never Been To' list. I am contemplating selling this idea to Observer magazine, so for now please keep the concept to yourselves.

Top 11 (see what I did there?) Places I've Never Been To:

1. Ireland
2. South America
3. Madame Tussauds
4. Barcelona
5. The Isles Of Scilly
6. Lidl
7. White Hart Lane
8. Scandinavia
9. Dave Oates's house
10. Cardiff
11. Prison

A £37 Glass Of Prosecco

Wilderness Festival. I paid an extra £30 to use the outdoor spa area. The hot tubs were already full; the sauna was impossible to get in; if I wanted a drink I had to pay £7 for a small glass of Prosecco; I swam in the lake but I could have done this anywhere in the festival for free (well, I say free: obviously I paid for a festival ticket, but you get my drift).

This is not a complaint. It was my choice to pay an extra £30 to get into this privileged area. Didn't have to. And I'm sure many people enjoyed it and got their money's worth.

The point I'm making here, if there is one, is at least I could afford to have the choice and, despite my disappointment, I should be grateful for that. However, I've learnt my lesson and won't make the same £30 mistake next year.

People who whinge about feeling like they have 'wasted' money on disappointing luxury experiences in life should remember what Gandhi once said, 'He who feeds the tiger will walk in the light, he who dresses the tiger in a paisley blouse from Kensington market shall forever stumble about in darkness.'

What I Got Up To This Friday

Forgotten.

The Rise of The British Umpire

The ashes is currently hot stuff in the sporting world, and talk of cricket gave me an idea: introducing cricket umpiring signals as replacements for social greetings and communications. This would be specifically useful if applied world-wide.

The side-to-side sweep signal for four runs could be used for 'hello'; the raised finger out signal for 'goodbye'; the leg-bye signal for 'I'm going to the toilet'; the wide signal for 'I don't want any pudding thanks'.

I'm still thinking about what the six signal could be for? If you have any ideas, usual channels please.

Introducing Dylan Hyperspace To The World Wide Web

Not sure how long YouTube has been going now, but I've finally succumbed and put something up on it. I've no idea how to get clips to 'go viral' but thought I'd make a start by posting it on this blog. There again, I have never looked into how to make this blog 'go viral' either, so there's probably little point posting it here.

Anyway, just to let you know, Dylan is available at competitive rates for support slots, festivals, bar mitzvahs, tree surgeon get-togethers etc ...

Asparager's Syndrome

My plan today was to visit the bank in Witney and pay in a cheque, but I chickened out. The bank has had a refit and is now extremely open plan. The barriers are gone. Surely this has increased the likelihood of bank robbery? I didn't like the idea of being used as a human shield in some gone-wrong heist, with Bruce Willis trying to shoot his head instead of mine. 

Of course, posting the cheque has dangers too, such as Simon Milkover from down the road having one of his arson fits and setting alight the post box, with my cheque in it. But I value my life more than my cheques, so I opted for the posting option.

Instead of visiting the bank, I wrote a letter to the author Ian McEwan. I'd found out that over thirty years ago he'd set a challenge for poets to tackle the subject of the other worldly aroma of asparagus piss. I felt I had unwittingly achieved this with my poem Methyl Mercaptan, in the recently published collection A Funny Way With Words. I sent Ian a copy of said book with a letter enquiring whether I had risen successfully to his challenge and, indeed,  if there was a prize. Times are hard; and if it's not cash I could flog whatever I've won on Ebay.

I will publish the nature of his response, in this blog, as soon as it comes in. Meanwhile, enjoy the poem:

Sunset In A Pub Beer Garden

Cold beer gently turning warm
Under an amber sky
The sun sets on ashtrays
As conversations light up
Gammon and chips* come out
Vinegar;**
And a splash of the red stuff
It's dusk for dessert
Laughter has no roof this evening
Even dog turd complaints can't soil the mood
And as we move into the night
More layers are added

* £6.50
** Pretentious use of the semi-colon after 'vinegar' kindly sponsored by Stow-on-the-wold Bowls club

Hilarious Glastonbury Text Message Fails To Be Hilarious

My friends are at Glastonbury. As every year, I pretend for a few days I'm not bothered not to be there with them, before bombarding them with text messages; trying to somehow experience it all through their sparse responses. 

To feel even more connected, I thought I'd work as an informant this year, supplying them with a breaking news service; keeping my eye close to the Internet coverage.

Glastonbury is always a rumour mill: The Four Living Criminals are playing with Driller Killers on the Aled Jones Stage NOW; Sid Vicious has returned from the grave and is playing with John Lydon in a tribute of their own band, called 'The Ex-Pistols'.

I thought I'd have a bit of fun with this and text them some hilarious bogus rumours. Unfortunately though, I wasn't really on form today and the best I could come up with was:

The Boo Radleys are backing Paul Hardcastle on the Heinz Has Beens Stage.

Not my best work, it must be said.

The Longest Friday

I read somewhere or other that it was the longest day today. But how can one day be any longer than any other? Surely all days are twenty-four hours long?

I concurred that this 'longest day' malarkey is nothing but a myth; possibly dreamt up by those in power, as a way of fooling us into thinking we have more time, and thus, giving the bosses license to make us work for longer today and get more out of us.

My advice, therefore, would be to always take this 'supposed' longest day of the year off as holiday. Probably be a scorcher too; and if you happen to be a pagan you'll have the added bonus of getting into Alton Towers for half price, under their discount scheme for religious people celebrating notable days in the calendar. 

Atheists have been complaining and lobbying the government about this scheme but, as yet, all Cameron has said on the matter is, 'The discount policies of amusement parks are under government review.' This is exactly what John Major was saying in the early nineties. I think the atheists are in for a long wait with this one.

Three Inner Gag Gum Gums

I can't actually remember when I stopped being terrified of the dentist. It was probably in my late twenties, when I realised you can't actually die in there.

I still feel uncomfortable with it all, so have invented a game I play called 'Three Inner Gag Gum Gums.' It's basically a distraction technique: before entering the building I imagine three scenarios that are likely to arise; and then, when these scenarios do arise, I have a humorous response lined up for each of them, to play out in my head.    

For example, today's three scenarios and imagined reactions were thus:

1. When the receptionist said, 'Please take a seat', I imagined heaving myself up onto the reception desk to sit cross-legged, facing her.
2. When the dentist said, 'Open wide', I imagined stretching my legs out as far as they could go
3. When the dentist started dictating dental references and numbers to his assistant, I imagined saying 'Are you two playing Battleships?'

If you are particularly brave you could even act them out, rather than keeping them as inner thoughts; in which case you would be playing 'Three Gag Gum Gums'. 

Bye Bye Bad Throat

Strepsils. I was desperate for Strepsils. It was 3am. I'd woken, mid-dream, to an awful feeling in the throat. Dry as hell; sore as purgatory. I fervently searched in cupboards and drawers, but there's only so much searching you can do at 3am: too much and you are suddenly wide awake and unable to wrestle back into sleep. 

I settled for Night Nurse; the added bonus being it's drowsy effects would alleviate some of my worries of regaining sleep. It took me a while for my throat to settle but I slowly regained unconsciousness.

In the morning I woke with no pain. Thankfully, as I was off to see the Stone Roses play at Finsbury Park; a clean bill of health a requirement for such an undertaking. Okay, Ian may not be the best singer in the world but nothing he sang during the gig reminded me of that horrific moment the previous night. It just goes to prove what a damn fine band they truly are.

It's Sunbathe O'Clock!

I've discovered something fabulous about the top room in our house. At this time of year, between three and four o'clock in the afternoon, one can lie down on the carpet and sunbathe completely nude with the windows wide open. There is no one overlooking so this can be done in complete privacy. Also the time is perfect as lunch will be fully digested by three, reducing any fears of contracting cramp.

Unfortunately I gave up sunbathing eleven months when I realised sun cream had gone up 70% since I first used it in the 70s, but at least I can use it as a unique selling point when we move:

THREE BEDROOM COTTAGE WITH ORIGINAL FEATURES AND SECLUDED FULL BODY LENGTH INDOOR SUNBATHING SPOT, BETWEEN 3PM AND 4PM IN LATE MAY/EARLY JUNE. 

Why Did The Chicken Cross The Road?

Because 'the road' was the correct answer in the chicken's multiple choice quiz question: 'What specific type of surface have humans forever been curious of chickens travelling over?' 

The Suntrap

My good friends Martin and Jessica Formaldehyde mentioned to me the other day that they had a real suntrap in their back garden. Being the curious type I went over to visit them today to check it out. I have to say I was most horrified to discover a huge iron cage in their back garden imprisoning the sun.
'But why have you caught the sun?' I asked.
'It's vermin,' Martin replied 'kills our chickens if it gets too hot.'
'You haven't got any chickens' I countered.
'Hypothetical chickens we have.'
'But think of all the good the sun does – growing vegetables, suntans, ice cream sales?'
Jessica turned to Martin, 'I suppose we have only got hypothetical chickens. Shall we let it go Martin?'
'Maybe he's right – go and get the key Jessica. Anyway, have we ever told you about the moonshine we keep in the cellar?'

FIRED EARTH SALE ON NOW(ISH)!

Fired Earth have a sale on. The next two weeks. 75% on some lines (I didn't realise they sold cocaine). I am willing to advertise this today on my mass-read blog. The fact that I'm usually about four months behind with my blog, and will probably actually post this in October is by the by.

If someone from Fired Earth wishes to get in touch we could discuss the possibility of sponsorship of this site, and perhaps a supermarket style sweep of your shop in return for this free advertising. Usual channels please.

Sale on!

Doesn't May Fly Past?

A mayfly is born in May. It flies about for a day and dies. Within that day it has relations with another mayfly. The impregnated mayfly then lives for exactly 12 months and dies when it gives birth, exactly 12 months later, to another mayfly, which either impregnates and dies or is impregnated and lives for another 12 months.

The lesson of this, if you are to come back as a Mayfly, is to try and resist the almighty urge to impregnate another mayfly and, instead, get up the duff yourself as quickly as you can. You won't be able to drink, smoke or eat soft cheese and prawns for your entire life but at least you'll experience a Pancake Day and, if you're lucky, a Royal wedding.

The Perception Of Being Earnest

I sometimes wish I didn't work on Mondays and wrote a blog about Mondays instead. Reason being, I could write about putting the bins out. I suppose I could put them out on Fridays but that would mean a whole weekend of inconvenience, having to relentlessly shuffle, back and forth, through the back alleys with weekend rubbish. 

Recently I was putting the bins out and a lady walking down the street chuckled to herself as she walked past. Obviously, some would say this could have been a mere coincidence and she was just laughing about a clip she saw on YouTube of a sausage dog eating a sausage, but I reckon it was because I was putting the bins out.

It is funny. I don't know why. Perhaps it's the earnestness in which it is done. It's the epitome of 'dull'. The grey and black plastic. The sound of the wheels scrapping. The ridiculous amount of waste we create. The non-emotive expressions we adopt. The heavy handed lining up of bins against walls as if they are about to be shot by a firing squad. 

Or, thinking more about it, perhaps it was that sausage dog clip. She looked the YouTube type and it is one hell of a hilarious clip.

The sausage dog from off the YouTube clip,
when it was a new born.

It's Bacon Hot Out There

If there's one thing I love doing the morning after a good camp fire it's getting it alight again, without the aid of matches/chemicals/prayers, and then cooking breakfast on it. This morning's fire was no longer smouldering but the heat coming off the ashes gave me hope Joanna, gave me hope Joanna (Yes, Joanna was there).

I ferreted around for twigs and sticks and once assembled into a airy pile spent a good fifteen minutes poking, prodding and blowing. And then I tried to get the fire started. 

Nothing beats the feeling when that spark ignites and the flames rise. Apart from when you put on your overcoat for the first time in winter and find you'd left a tenner in the pocket from last winter. Or, perhaps, the feeling you get when you think a pub is closed only to discover it is actually open.

I showboated the bacon into the pan and placed it triumphantly on top of my fledgling morning fire. It simmered gently taking quite a while to turn from translucent pink to off-brown. In fact it took an age to cook through. We could have motored into Cirencester, had a full English and driven back in the time it took to cook.

Of course, that's the point. Camping takes the rush out of everything. Especially cooking bacon. With time to spare I idly read the cooking instructions on the bacon's packaging. It had instructions for grilling and frying but nothing for slow cooking on last nights fire whilst listening to bird song.

If I one day become President that's the first thing I'll do. Make it law to put 'camping cooking' instructions on food labels. That and a complete rebrand for bacon itself. I'd change its name from 'bacon' to 'Simon'. I realise this may cause confusion if you happen to be camping with a Simon but, let's face it, most people aren't called Simon so on most occasions cooking Simon would not be an issue.

Of Pipes and Pipe Dreams

Paid someone today to come and move a waste pipe 4 centimetres back into a wall so we can fit in a dishwasher. This cost £120 and that's before all the tea and milk costs (he didn't take sugar thank the Lord Sugar). 

That means we payed £30 per centimetre. If I charged that rate, per centimetre, for my graphic design I'd be so well off I'd be able to have all the pipes in my house moved a few centimetres just for the hell of it. I would also have enough to pay for therapy to try and curb my needless spending on pipe alterations and I would give £150 a month to a hypothetical bird charity set up in the event of birds losing flight and requiring treatment for the extra strain put upon their thin and spindly legs.

Legs Before Thickets

Doing a spot of ad hoc birdwatching today got me thinking. Our feathered friends have such thin and spindly legs it's a bloody good job they can fly. Otherwise they would be constantly knackered and their legs in need of regular treatment. I suppose birds in Egypt would have access to Cairopractors and ones in Australia, Ozteopaths but it's not just their legs that would suffer. Imagine the state of their feet and Chirpropodists don't come cheep.

Summer Assault

British Summertime officially begins ion the 31st of this month – two days time. But what about elsewhere?

When does it start in Spain for instance (I'd imagine Juan month earlier)? Or how about in Germany, Greenland and Ghana? And why does Summertime start in Spring? And who decided on the date? The Christians? Or some other bland 80s band?

At least it means the Summer Sales will be on. On Sunday HMV are offering the entire back catalogue of Donna Summers on CD for £31, the film 'I Know What You Did Last Summer' on DVD for 31pence and in Yorkshire branches – Summert else for nowt.

How To Combat Stage Fright

I'm on stage. All eyes are on me. And ears. And possibly the odd nose, picking up the odour of sweat defeating Sure for Men in the battlefield arenas that are my armpits. I decide I need a focal point - something to focus upon and steady myself as I address the audience (which in itself is a tough task seeing as there's about 50 people in tonight and I'm not exactly sure where all of them live).

Idiotically I choose a fly as my focal point. It happened to be reasonably still at the time, resting up to on Will Ord's shoulder to do that rubbing hands thing they sometimes do. Within seconds, however, it is flitting about the room like Speedy Gonzales on Speed. 

I thought of a different tact to calm the nerves. My old favourite - to imagine the audience as mere skeletons, devoid of thought or opinion, until I finish when they will magically grow back organs, veins and skin and go wild in appreciation of my prose. Unfortunately, I remembered I'd watched Jason and the Argonauts the other day and the skeletons in it had really freaked me out so tonight it could actually make things worse.

Another technique is to just say 'Sorry' and leave the stage but everyone has paid a fiver for tonight and I'd feel compelled to offer refunds which would mean not having enough money to enrol on that course about calming stage nerves I've had my eye on.

It is only after the show that I realise I should have pretended nerves was just all part of the act. Fiendish. "Here's a poem called 'I Wandered Around The Stage Lonely As A Bag Of Nerves'. Here's a poem called 'All The World's Watching Me Die On Stage'. Here's a poem called 'I'm So F F F F F F Fucking Nervous' etc ...

Dream Advice For The 15th Of March

Had an awful dream last night. I was eating a Caesar Salad in an Italian restaurant when suddenly everyone else eating there got their arses out and waved them in my face. I ignored it and carried on with my salad. Then when the waiter came to take my plate away he took my knife in his hand and plundered it into me eight times. As I lay dying in a pool of my own blood I realised the arses were trying to warn me. 

If you ever have this dream, on this particular day, my advice would be to just get the hell out of the restaurant as soon as you see those arses. In other words – 'Beware the Hides of March'.

Stephen's Funniest Imposter

For an upcoming 'Funny Way With Words' live show I needed a prop. In particular, a cardboard cut out of Stephen Fry's face. However, instead of googling Stephen I thought it would be much funnier to use someone else's face and pretend it's Stephens. But whose face would be best?

Only one contender ...

Poem Postponement Annoucement

I decided I'd write a poem today to celebrate the beginning of March. March, as it so often does, has taken me by complete surprise and I wanted this to be the central theme of my poem. However, all I have managed to date is:

Jan and Harry loved January

I mean, it's a great line, but it lacks 'Marchness' and, indeed, focuses on a completely different month. Not only that it is about love rather than surprise. Thing is, I like it so much I'm going to wait ten months for it to be topical and carry on with it then.

The Society In Favour Of Liberating Saturday Mornings

Tomorrow will be Saturday, and Saturday morning is 'Busy Parent Morning'. Little Tarquin or Jennifer being ferried around to swimming, brownie cubs, 'bunched up/every child chasing the ball' football and duller-than-dishwater cup cake parties.

Being currently childless I don't have such concerns but this does seem to me a generation thing. Why do parents of my generation do it? Don't do it! Be free and let them be free.

When I was a child I was left to fester in bed all Saturday morning. It was a treat. I loved my parents for leaving me be. I would eventually get up just before Grandstand, make a slide out of my mattress and the staircase and make a one-way trip down to the kitchen to rustle up a Sandwich Spread sandwich before running out to play, unsupervised, in disused air raid shelters with Mark Foxall.

And I grew up alright didn't I? (Rhetorical if you know me – if you don't, read back over the previous 128 blogs and make your own mind up).

Cupid v Moira Stewart

Had a novel idea today. I've recently submitted my tax return for 2011/2012. To avoid the usual panic a few days before the deadline next year I thought I should start organising 2012/2013's tax return now. But there again yesterday was Valentines Day and I had a helluva lot of cards to file away...

Post Lunch Fatigue Syndrome - A Remedy!

I have a great tip for when you've just finished a pub Sunday lunch and the friend you're with says 'Oooh, I wish they had beds in here. I could just do with a lie down now'.

Hurry them into a car and drive them down the Botley Road to Dreams Superstore. Once there lead them to a really comfy bed and tell them to lie down on it and have a doze. YOU ARE ALLOWED TO THIS. It is acceptable. Even if you do drop off the staff will leave you to it. And there will be no charge afterwards. It's a free lie down. Your friend will forever be thankful.

A Short and Curly Tale

I have curly hair. Sometimes I forget that. It's part of my identity. How people distinguish me.
'Do you know Adrian?'
'Is that the curly haired one?'
'Aye.'
'Yes, I know him. He owes me a goldfish.'
'Me too!'
'Son of a bitch.'
But that's another story. The barman at The Bell this evening really took a shine to my hair.
'It's amazing. Can I touch it?' he asked
If anyone ever asks to touch my hair I always say 'yes'. It's a rule I have. Like only walking on the cracks in pavement or always kicking over ladders.
'Wow. It feels great. It looks great. I wish I had hair like yours.'
'Thank you kindly. I wish you had hair like mine too. Now tell me, have you got a couple of goldfish I can borrow?'

An Ode to Renting

I wake abnormally early
And check my diary for the day
'Phone electrician'
We've just bought a house
And so it begins.

Beep Rant

I'd stick beeps in Room 101. The beeps that punctuate our everyday existence. The beep which deafens you if you don't put your seat belt on, alarm beeps, text beeps, announcement beeps, washing machine beeps, computer beeps, roadrunner beeps, beeps and tatties, Uriah Beep, beep years, Beep Out signs, Beep-bop-a-lula she's my baby etc…

The Death of Eavesdropping

On the 15.28 to Banbury (stopping at nowhere but Banbury) I become self-conscious that people are listening in to the conversation I'm having with an old work colleague across the aisle. A quick look round however reveals I have nothing to worry about.

Sylvia Fox, next to me, is listening to One Dimension on her iNano Invader; Abdul Shar, next to the old work colleague, is engrossed by an episode of Friends Reunited on his stolen laptop (he didn't steal it - his mate Jimmy Sideways did - though he told Abdul he got it off ebay for a hundred and fifty sheets); Mike Scott and his wife Sandra, a seat ahead of us are reminiscing about seeing Frank Skinner in Oxford Street H&M the day before; and Bill Bridlestone behind us is asleep and dreaming of taking a cruise on a boat made out of sick.

How Deep Is Your Heat?

Waking up with a bad back is an occupational hazard for quadragenarians. They say life begins at forty but 'they' actually mean 'backache' not 'life'. An uncomfortable trip to the chemist was in order this morning. 

'They' recommended Deep Heat. I laughed. Deep Heat! An erotic horror movie of the 80s. Deep Heat! Right Guard for invalids. Deep Heat! Conjuring up the aroma of football changing rooms pre half-time oranges. 

Indeed, I hadn't used Deep Heat since 1984 when Mr Baker ordered me to put some on my metatarsal before a 1-1 draw with St.Chads. A disgraceful result seeing we had beaten them 12 - 0 the year before.

Anyhow, after my initial derision, I ended up buying it and, blow me down sideways, it worked! It smelt like vampire mouthwash but it worked. Can't wait now until I'm 50 and it's time to get the Ralgex out.