If anyone's having repeated difficulties using the commenting feature on this blog, please contact the Management using the sidebar link. I've noticed a distinct propensity for new comments to fail to appear immediately after posting, or for existing comments to fail to load in the popup window. I've spotted this trend on a few other sites as well, and unfortunately the common factor seems to be Enetation. It appears to be somewhat fucked. As I've commented elsewhere, fuckedness is becoming a regular part of my Enetation experience. I would consider going elsewhere, except that I don't want to lose any of your lovely feedback. What to do...?

I would very much like to know how, in the name of Satan's balls, these phrases ended up pointing to my innocent, fun-loving little blog via reputable search engines:

• hygiene in kindergarten bathroom
• bowler hat contest
• shall I bend over
• I pissed in my wife's arse

There are some very, very sick people out there.

Has anyone else tried a drink called "Norfolk Punch"? I picked up a bottle of the stuff in the farm shop at Hatton Country World this afternoon, on the basis that it looked really weird (which is how I make most of my best gastronomic discoveries). A steaming mug of it is now gracing my insides, and it is having the most astonishing effects. Imagine the best mulled wine you've ever tasted, with an intoxicating aroma of honey, blackcurrant and just a touch of ginger. I feel like someone's run a 500-watt heating coil right through every bone in my skeleton and turned the dial up to maximum. This doesn't even begin to describe how good this stuff is, particularly on a grim, cold evening like this. Here is a full list of the herbs, spices and other funky ingredients which go to make up this veritable ambrosia: alder cones, alehoof, angelica root, bay leaf, blackcurrant leaf, camomile, caraway seed, daisy flower, dandelion root, elderberry, elderflowers, fennel seed, feverfew, ginger root, honey, hops, limeflowers, liquorice root, meadowsweet, melissa, muscovado sugar, peppermint, poppy seed, rosemary, samphire, thyme, vervain, and yellow dock root. No alcohol is involved at all. Apparently a bunch of monks in Norfolk (non-Brits, read "very flat, very wet, very cold") used to make this in the Middle Ages in order to stop themselves getting frostbite in the winter (roughly August-May, in Norfolk). I would hazard a guess, from the current state of glowing happiness of my toes, that it worked.

Have just been watching the irrepressibly brilliant The Matrix on TV. This is despite the fact that I own the DVD, have watched aforesaid DVD at least ten times, and can watch it an eleventh at my convenience. It is somehow more cool and exciting to watch a movie on TV, even when you can watch it any time you like. Why is this the case? I don't get it.

Whilst clearing my inbox of its regular freight of spam, I came across this particularly choice title:

"Open this email or you will get warts"

I am rendered speechless.

No, I'm not talking about the Wee Person, apt though the description may be (sorry, kiddo); I've been reading over at Gimmy's place about her sojourn in France, with a not-insignificant dollop of envy. It sounds wonderful. Apparently, though, the French are not the most diligent when it comes to picking up the pavement-offerings of their canine companions. This triggered an odd little memory for me - the most advanced piece of dog-poo management I've ever seen, or at least the most impressively mechanised, was in Biarritz in southwest France about ten years ago.

I was walking along the main street by the beach, admiring the morning sunshine and smiling faintly at the aftertaste of the enormous and gastronomically orgasmic croque madame I had just consumed in the little seaside café, when I almost tripped over this ridiculous contraption set to one side of the pavement. There was a little strip of mobile rubber belt, with a pillarbox arrangement and a set of brushes at the front, and a small recess at the back. The idea, as I gathered from a lengthy period of utterly speechless observation, is this: you stick a few francs into the coin slot in the pillarbox, at which point the belt rumbles into action; you then persuade your doggy friend to balance, legs akimbo, above the moving conveyor, relieving itself of any available faecal matter as it does so. The turd then drops neatly into the recess at the back of the machine and disappears from human ken, presumably until some poor sod comes along at 5:00am to empty the cavity beneath, or possibly the pillarbox (it was rather roomy, after all). I must have watched this fantastic thing for twenty minutes, cheerfully disposing of the waste products of at least seven dogs of varying size, and can safely say that poo has not held my attention for so long since I was three. The most unbelievable fact was that the bloody thing actually worked.

I've been very remiss in reading and commenting on other people's blogs recently. This omission must be rectified. Sorry, all. [flicks through list of victims regular reads to see who to terrorise talk to]

My chunky beige work monitor with the nice big screen, which I've been plugging into the video port of my laptop in order to postpone the inevitable and persistent decrease in the viewing power of my eyeballs, has just given off a sudden frangrance of ozone, twitched a few times and then expired gently, breathing its electronic last in a susurration of fused circuits, fading to an evanescent whisper of white noise. It is no more, it has ceased to be. It is an ex-monitor. On Monday, the nice gentlemen from the Inventory will load the dearly departed lump onto a gurney and wheel it away to the great Recycle Bin in the sky. Alas! It was so young.

Well, okay, it wasn't, it was clearly built in the early 1970's by a member of the Functional Yet Nevertheless Ugly As A Hatful Of Arseholes school of design, but still I mourn its passing. I mean, now I have to use the laptop screen, for God's sake - how inconvenient is that? My eyes will be unable to take the strain! I might as well be writing with quill and ink on parchment by candlelight! Shit. Next week will find me in Specsavers with a couple of fishbowls strapped to my head.

...it may just work after all!

Some schmuck from the Stevenage office, who's been visiting the Pointy-Haired Ones for some high-level nasal-anal interfacing, has just waltzed out shouting to all and sundry "See you Jimmy" in an appallingly inaccurate pseudo-Glaswegian accent, by way of a fond farewell. I imagine that he believes such a valediction marks him out as one of the lads, a cool customer, a diamond geezer, a little bit WOOAARRR, a little bit WAAAYYYY.

Twat.

Does anyone who is genuinely from Scotland ever actually say that? "See you Jimmy"? Confirmations/denials gratefully accepted.

Would the winner of the competition please contact the Head Waiter (via the sidebar link), to arrange prize distribution. Shelley to Gate Twelve. Shelley to Gate Twelve. Thankyou.

Attempted to post something here from the fancy-arse new mobile phone today. Failed miserably. Suspect the level of security involved in such an activity is next to bugger all. Further suspect that to persist in this arena would be taking mobile-technophilia to unnecessary levels of obsession. Am off to dunk my head in a bowl of cold water.

After many long hours of consideration, consultation and argument (including frequent breaks for cud-chewing from the goats), we have come up with a winner for the competition. It was a close call, and spirited efforts from the rather talented runners-up made it a tricky decision, but in the end the top spot goes to Shelley, for her inspired piece, "An Angel At My Shoulder". Congratulations to our worthy champion!

(P.S. Okay, so it was a really big hangover, alright? Gimme a break here.)

The competition is officially CLOSED. The entries are being reviewed by myself, The Missus, and a select panel of highly-educated mountain goats specially flown in from the University of Mombasa in Kenya. The name of the winner will be posted tomorrow, or on Monday if I haven't recovered from the hangover by tomorrow.

Tick tock... tick tock...

Vive La Revolution. Á Bas Les Aristos. (link via coffdrop)

As some of you have pointed out, it's hardly fair of me only to make photos of baby Sarah available to the family, so here are a couple taken in the last week or so. She's recently started eating solids (puréed, of course) and has a real thing for carrots. Unfortunately, since she now has a good grasp, hah, of how to hold things (including, although not exclusively, daddy's hair, daddy's glasses, daddy's nostrils and of course daddy's eyeballs), she decided on this occasion that she was perfectly capable of holding the spoon and feeding herself, thankyou very much, which goes some way toward explaining this:



Here we can see the Master of the Remote Control in action - most likely in front of The Simpsons, which she watches avidly and cries when the end-credits roll (yes, really):



This one was taken just before we got her into her bedclothes this evening; she's feeling a bit hungry but has just been shown the empty bottle, which is our signal for "the milk will be ready in a minute, so there's no point crying just yet kiddo". The expression on her face is obviously intended to be one of sorely-tried but indefatigable patience. This particular expression is well-known to us, and the subtext of it runs along the lines of "the milk had better damn well be ready in a minute, otherwise I am going to make a noise so loud that your ears will spontaneously detach themselves from your head and emigrate to Peru in order to avoid a repeat performance":

The latest oddities dredged out of the murky soup of search engine queries to this blog:

• how speedboat damage to lakes district UK
• does it rain in Barbados in July
• jacket potato pictures
• deer cocaine recipe

I assume that the last of these refers to the desire of some deviant person to make a cocaine variant for the purposes of subduing deer, rather than to make cocaine out of the body parts of deer, which would be (a) unlikely to succeed and (b) noticeably less enjoyable for the deer. If the former, I suggest the rather excellent "Crazy Kimmi's Extra-Strong Lappish Ruminant Cough Drops", available from most reputable hallucinogen dealers.

The competition ends on Friday, and there's very little in it! It's a neck-and-neck race, although the bookies have their favourite... but it's not too late! New entries will be accepted right up until the deadline... so there's no time to lose! Three writers to beat, and only three days to go! Step right up and test your literary prowess against our brave contenders! [brushes down red-and-white stripy blazer, taps brim of straw hat, and twirls handlebar moustache]

The utterly mad Buzzcocks supremo and aspirant Klingon-lookalike Bill Bailey now has a blog. As yet, only one entry, but great things are hoped for. The man is a twisted genius. Watch Black Books if you don't believe me.

I have a new phone! Whee!



It's SO PRETTY. It has a camera and can take wee movies and play funky music and do email and lots of cool stuff. Ooh ooh ooh!!! I'm in GADGET HEAVEN!!! [pops off to change trousers]

I watched yesterday evening's news a bit slack-jawed, as the Conservative Party soon-not-to-be-leader Iain Duncan-Smith, a man with all the natural verve and charisma of mouldy broccoli, indulged in some uncharacteristically aggressive voice-raising, fist-pumping and finger-wagging in the direction of his party faithful during their annual conference. I'm here to stay, he barked, frothy flecks of saliva coating his lips, his bloodshot eyes rolling madly. It was unnerving. It was like watching a really pissed-off duck attacking a crowd of surprised Rottweilers. But you just know that, at some point, the Rottweilers will stop being amused by the duck, and will eat it.

They're coming in thick and fast! Shelley has pitched in with this little gem of a scene, which I confess had me in coughing fits for several minutes. Read and enjoy.

An Angel At My Shoulder

[Interior: Luxurious looking office. GOD sits behind the desk, the ARCHANGEL GABRIEL stands by his shoulder. DONALD sits opposite them.]

[ARCHANGEL GABRIEL] Okay, let’s do this one more time. You’re God. The almighty, the supreme being, the divine ruler of the infinite universe. God. Got it?

[GOD] I’m God? Really?

[ARCHANGEL GABRIEL] Yes, really.

[GOD] So I can - you know, do anything I want?

[DONALD] Sir -

[ARCHANGEL GABRIEL] Yep. What with being the ultimate lord of all creation, and all that.

[GOD] Wow. So I could, um, make things appear out of thin air?

[ARCHANGEL GABRIEL] Absolutely. A burning bush, a stone tablet, a dove, a - [Pauses] Okay, yeah, a salami. That’s probably more fitting for a multicultural society than loaves and fishes anyway. We can make that work.

[GOD] And I can do anything at all that I want?

[ARCHANGEL GABRIEL] Sure. Anything. Cure cancer, end poverty, create world peace. Anything.

[GOD] Uh huh. And blow stuff up?

[ARCHANGEL GABRIEL] What?

[GOD]You know. Blow stuff up. With guns and tanks and great big shiny rockets?

[DONALD] Sir -

[ARCHANGEL GABRIEL] Well - yeah, I guess so. If that’s really what you want to do.

[GOD] Are you kidding? Of course it’s what I want to do. What are you, nuts? I’m God. I’m the king of the world, and everyone will bow down before my concupiscence.

[ARCHANGEL GABRIEL] I think you mean omniscience.

[GOD] Whatever.

[DONALD] Sir -

[ARCHANGEL GABRIEL] Concupiscence was more of a Clinton thing.

[DONALD] SIR!

[GOD] What, Donald? What? Can’t you see I’m busy? I’m talking to the Archangel Gabriel, here.

[DONALD] Your pills, sir.

[GOD] Oh. Right. Time for my pills. [Pauses. Continues, in very small voice] Donald?

[DONALD] Sir?

[GOD] I’m not really God, am I?

[DONALD] No, sir.

[GOD] That’s not really a salami, is it?

[DONALD] No, sir.

[Sound of zipper being done up]

[GOD] I think I’ll go and have a bit of a lie down now.

[DONALD] Good plan, Mr Bush. Good plan.

[ -- END -- ]

Congrats on being the first to manage a speaking character who avoids the Forbidden Letters, and for an unusual (and certainly unexpected) use of the salami feature. Ooh, look, everyone! It's a gauntlet.

Hot on the heels of Pogo's triumphant début comes a searing tale of greed, ambition, violence, death and concupiscence from the twisted pen of River Selkie. Feast your fevered brains on the thrilling saga that is...

OPERATION: SALAMI
based on a true story

by river selkie

SETTING: Below the flooring of a master bathroom about ready to breach the surface of the tile via a crack where the tile is peeling, the ANT CAPTAIN is speaking with his ANT LIEUTENANT and behind them, at attention, stands an ant army.

ANT LIEUTENANT: Sir, intelligence reports that the enemy has no weapons of mass destruction. My scouts report that this is the best way through their security. With their focus on protecting the kitchen, we can breach their defenses virtually undetected.

[The ANT CAPTAIN frowns in thought]

ANT LIEUTENANT: Sir, my scouts also reported a trash can about a foot from the tunnel exit point. Your concupiscence for salami will be satisfied yet, sir.

ANT CAPTAIN: Excellent work, Lieutenant. Give the order to move out.

ANT LIEUTENANT: Sir, yessir.

[The ANT LIEUTENANT yells orders and the ants begin marching through the opening in the tile. The army separates into three squads. One squad secures the shower, only finding soap. The second faction braves the tile desert in search of salami. The third squad raids the trash can where they encounter heaps of used feminine products. Upon this discovery, several ants go AWOL. Even more jump off the top of the trash can, attempting suicide. A few ants from the third squad lose their tenuous grip on reality. The remaining ants persevere through the raid and return to the ANT CAPTAIN where he commands from the tile desert.]

ANT LIEUTENANT: Sir, barely anything remains of squad three. Squad two reports that there is no salami in the shower. What are your orders, sir?

ANT CAPTAIN: Regroup. We shall advance across this desert. Send scouts to see if there are any ways to avoid the carpet forest. We must find that salami by oh-six hundred hours.

ANT LIEUTENANT: Sir, yessir.

[Enter SELKIE]

SELKIE: What the..?! Why are there all these ants in the bathroom? Where did they come from? And what the f*ck did I throw away in that trash can!? Shit. I wonder if we have any bug spray.

[SELKIE looks in the cabinet to see if she has any bug killing spray, but the search proves fruitless. But then she sees Windex multi-surface kitchen and glass cleaner.]

SELKIE: This will have to do!

[SELKIE grabs the container and stares down the ant army. She sprays the ants with the Windex.]

SELKIE: Die suckers!

ANT LIEUTENANT: Captain! AAHHHHHHHH!! [choking] Nerve gas...

ANT CAPTAIN: Sa..la...mi...

[The ants die.]

*FIN*

Short and sweet, and also earns craftiness kudos for putting at least half of the content outside the dialogue. I may have to report the author to the relevant authorities, however, for excessive cruelty to insects.

As if extracting the very words from my very mouth, Pogo has produced a rather fetching competition entry in something approaching record time; I can only assume that that stint with the laptop down the pub was more productive than anticipated. Here is the glorious tale in full:

THE CONCUPISCENT SALAMI

A Triumphant Play

By

Pogo The Monkey


SETTING:

McDonalds, Bath. It is 11:45am. LEE is standing behind the counter. His next customer is DONALD. Behind DONALD is HELMUT.

LEE
(Brightly)

Good morning, sir! May I take your order, please?

DONALD
(With a world-weary sigh)

Indeed, young feller-me-lad. I would like to partake of your new Salami Surprise, if you would be so kind.

LEE

Certainly sir! Would sir like fries with that?

DONALD
(affronted)

Indeed not, young whippersnapper. I find the concept of deep-fried reconstituted, shambolically-shaped and barbarically frozen potato revolting in the extreme. Have you not eyes? Can you not see that I am a man of good taste?

LEE
(eyeing cravat, warily)

My apologies, sir. I am naturally cognisant of your impeccable dress sense, and would hazard an extrapolation to your culinary tastes too. However, I am contractually obliged to offer you the aforementioned accompaniment. Indeed, I should also forewarn you of the imminent offer of a beverage. To whit, would sir like a Coke with that?

DONALD
(spluttering)

By Gad sir! I merely wish to partake of the Salami Surprise, as advertised on television in the most tempting manner. I am positively concupiscent.

HELMUT
(coughs)

LEE
(apologetic)

I most humbly apologise, sir. (retrieves pink styrofoam carton from "the bin"). No more Salamis, Dave! (hands carton to DONALD) I'm afraid I shall have to charge you one pound and ninety-nine pence, sir. Money most assuredly well spent though.

DONALD
(beaming with pleasure)

A mere bagatelle, my boy. I am unutterably happy.

HELMUT

Wanker.

DONALD
(ignoring HELMUT)

Good day to you.

LEE

And a very good day to you too, sir. Indeed, may it be your most enjoyable yet! (to HELMUT) Yeah?

HELMUT

Big Mac and fries, mate.

LEE

Right. Wanna drink with that?

HELMUT

Nah.

LEE

Two eighty five. Ta. (to MORTIMER, behind HELMUT). Next!

Exeunt omnes

-o- FINIS -o-

Superb. Currently debating whether the inclusion of the character Mortimer at the very end violates the three-person rule, or possibly merits bonus points on the basis that he omits to speak any words containing the letters "t" or "e", albeit by omitting to speak at all.

UPDATE - JUDGES' RULING: As I specified "three speaking characters", and Mortimer remains resolutely silent, the entry remains valid. Well done old boy.

In the wake of the stunningly predictable victory of Big Arnie in yesterday's California gubernatorial scrummage election, Jazz has decided in a fit of sudden political genius to nominate Mr. Bean, the legendary tea-drinking, teddy bear-hugging, Reliant Robin-driving buffoon, for the position of Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. I would just like to throw in my wholehearted support for such an inspiring idea, and pledge my allegiance to this unsung hero of all that is quintessentially British. I urge each and every one of you to embrace this noble and worthy cause! The fat, sherry-swilling, money-bloated politicos in Whitehall don't give a stuff about our welfare. Well, citizens, we have had enough! It's time to elect someone who represents the man in the street. It's time to take back our country from the cynical political elite. It's time to make a stand. Liberté! Égalité! Fraternité! If The Governator can do it, anyone can.

VOTE FOR BEAN.

Since I really have made it fiendishly challenging, this competition of mine, I've decided to extend the deadline for a further week, until 10pm GMT on Friday 17th October. I feel I should also clarify that the only actual restrictions are

1. the format (one scene of a play/screenplay);
2. the number of characters (three);
3. the word limit (400 words of actual dialogue);
4. the inclusion of at least one salami; and
5. at least one plot twist.

The other specifications are just opportunities to earn bonus points; the reason I put these in is to see what combinations people would use, but you're free to use all or indeed none of them - a really funny piece with no extras will score more highly than a dull one featuring fifteen concupiscent salamis.

I am reliably informed that three of you already have entries in the pipeline, so anyone who hasn't, and wants a crack at the UNBELIEVABLE PRIZE on offer, needs to get their skates on. I await your entries with barely-restrained glee.

So where are the competition entries, chaps and chappesses? Come on, only four days to go...

Had a few days off last week, as a bit of much-needed breathing space. My parents stayed over to look after the nipper, so's I could take The Missus away to a swanky hotel for the night - jacuzzi and four-poster bed, no less - just what the doctor ordered. I feel positively refreshed, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and ready to roll. I can't usually achieve that effect without the aid of a caffeine jolt hefty enough to power a small African country for a week. Wow.

In response to Pogo's understandable worries about a dinner party invitation, The Daily Linguini is proud to present...

Pastamasta's Top Tips for Surviving Dinner Parties

1. Tell the hostess she looks radiant, and flash her your most charming smile, and at the very most kiss her hand. Do not say "Phwoar, you look well fit" and slap her arse appreciatively.
2. Do not eat the canapés if they have any kind of seafood or fish on them. They were prepared twelve hours ago and have since sat on the kitchen table, where they've been populated generously with fly eggs and then licked by the cat.
3. Avoid making pre-dinner chitchat with anyone whose teeth are longer than those of a fully-grown horse, as they will inevitably turn out to be related to the Duke of Buckingham or descended from bloody Charlemagne or something, and their braying, nasal chatter on the subject of polo, winters on the Cote d'Azur, and Daddy's yacht will eventually cause your brain to start dribbling out of your quivering ears and onto the expensive Axminster. If accosted by such a person, excuse yourself by claiming that you have severe diarrhoea, and disappear at speed.
4. Sip the champagne; it's stronger than you think.
5. Sip the fucking champagne, I said. Otherwise you'll be dancing on the table wearing your underpants as a hat before the main course starts.
6. The correct spoon to use for the soup is the one which is blatantly too wide to fit into your mouth, unless you happen to be either a pelican or Julia Roberts. Instead, place th