Living in the then

So, while I've been away, things have been happening.

I hate it when I go away and something happens, it makes me feel like things just happen out there without my input, and that is a sad, sad thought.

Lets take a quick recap of whats happened since my last post.

Time briefly ceased to exist, a microcosm was invented and quashed and Sunny Delight, sadly, is still with us.

'There's nothing delightful about Sunny D,' intoned Herbert. 'It tastes like having your throat amputated and the only thing they've found to anaesthetise it is stale Walrus urine.'

'Oooh, get her,' I said camply. 'Whats put you in such a bad mood?'

'Well, I was going to see that new movie 'The curious case of Zebedee Zipper*' but its so long I might die before its actually finished playing.'

'Ah, its getting a taste of your own mortality then?' I tried to look reassuring and comforting at the same time, which is hard when you're eating garlic chillies.

'No, I thought it would be a good film. But then I thought how the only people who will come out of the cinema at the end of the showing - which is when Prad Bitt* dies - will be people who were conceived during the showing. You see, the film is revolutionary in its use of time. It simply films Prad Bitt continually for the rest of his life. Its very curious. This footage is then broadcast to your cinema where you will sit for the rest of Prad Bitt's interminably chirpy, happy life, wanting him to die so you can go for a pee. But, because he has been genetically and surgically enhanced he'll probably live until he's a thousand and twelve hundred and sixty-seven and one half and you'll end up weeing yourself. And dead. You'll end up dead stinking of urine.'

'Bummer.'

I shuddered briefly at the incredibly harsh picture of the future he was painting. There's nothing like a morose giraffe to bring you to your senses.

Re-evaluation is an intense process that is best to get right the first time, which is why I'm very glad to have been lent a convertible car for the week. Nothing says 'crisis' quite like a man driving round in a roofless car, in the middle of the day.

Still, it could be worse, I could have an alternate life online, perhaps pretending to be a pirate whose best friend is a wooden giraffe...


*Names changed to avoid getting myself sued to poverty and back

Spewing forth

Recently I've been basking in my Frenchie-ness. I've been speaking it where possible and even watching some French films, which is a good way to keep up with their foreign vernacular.

So, I'm going to take this chance to tell you all how I became French, or at least partly French.

I was young, reckless, living wild and free in the untameable outback of Hull when I was in a tragic car crash. It was horrific, even to think of it now brings a tear to my keyboard and a sniffle to my mouse. Come to think of it though, that may just be my tea burning.

Anyway, I had to be cut out of the wreckage of the tractor I was in at the time and eventually when I got to hospital the only way to save me was to amputate everything below the chest hair.

Fortunately for me, a donor 'below the chest hair' was found and shipped across from France - post haste.

I, of course, had been in a state of unconsciousness since the accident and came to feeling quite groggy and desperate for a croissant. Then I looked down.

'Zut alors, wat 'as 'append to ma bodee?'

A nurse came quickly to explain everything to me and I discovered I was quite fluent in all of the French swear words. The surgeon who had operated on me with this radical procedure was summoned to give me a full explanation and to talk me through some of the rehabilitation procedures I would need to use.

'Hello, I am Dr. Marcus Stanislav Quebec,' said Dr. Marcus Stanislav Quebec, 'and I performed this revolutionary procedure. I am quite proud of my work here, and rightfully so, look at how cleanly the pasty white English chest joins with the nondescript yet slightly tanned French gut.'

'Doctor, wat es 'appening to me? I ham totallee confuzed. End why iz zere no wine in zis 'opital? Where iz my wine?'

'Ahh,' said Dr. Marcus Stanislav Quebec 'I think I see where I may have over done it a little. Just a little tweak here, nurse' he turned and gestured for her to come and help 'I think it needs bringing in a little around the nipples, just tighten it up. Thanks.'

As they 'tweaked' the areas in question my cries went from 'Crikey Jemima, would you please stop that!' to 'Mais, ca alors, ca va pas, non?' then back to 'Wat are yu doing to mi?'

Finally they got to the correct mix of French and English and nailed everything back together and into place.

I'll let you into a little secret though; sometimes I do get an immense craving for Nutella and my belly button is only held on by that nurse's hair clip.

Au revior.

Thunder hunger

I do apologise for the slackness and infrequency of my postings of late, I've been doing that work malarkey.

But, today looks as if there will be less of that nonsense, so more of this nonsense!

I may even put up the second part of my serial post, which attracted at least 1 reader! Needless exclamation mark!

So, yes, working.

Yesterday I was going to post all about the weekend I had - oh yes, I had one - but then I got distracted by work and the task of making a rubber band ball. This is a tough thing to do whilst still appearing to work hard, but somehow, somehow I managed it. I got halfway through a really decent sized ball and then took it home with me to bring back this morning, but I forgot it. Drat and double bums!

Instead of all that tosh though, I shall instead regale you with tales of bi-linguality and the interest that arises therein.

I am bi-lingual, which is to say that I like many types of pasta. Linguine, fettuccine, marscapone, Tosca, Verdi, you get the idea.

Now, most people think that pasta was invented in Italy, but I can exclusively reveal that they are totally and completely wrong of wrongsville and they should book themselves a flight home aboard Ryanair, as that is intrinsically wrong.

Pasta, all forms of it, was and were in fact invented by the Ancient Greeks, as is much of our modern day society and most things worth mentioning.

The Ancient Greeks lived a long time ago during the Ancient period of history, which encompasses time and people over 36 years old.

'You're 38, oh my gosh, you're ancient!' said the small child.

While rolling sausage rolls into smaller and smaller cylinders they discovered that you could make pasta, which is why authentic pasta has that original slightly sausagey taste.

As the Ancient Greeks moved into 1973 (the rest of the world was still stuck in the mid 50s - they were very ahead of their time the Ancient Greeks) they found they could do all sorts of things with their pasta, including rolling up into small cylinders, curving the tops, filling it with gunpowder and using it as a form of non lethal bullet.

The rest of the world copied this idea, but not having pasta they had to use rubber and thus, rubber bullets were born, once again an Ancient Greek invention.

The other Ancient Greek invention worth a mention is without doubt the original digestive biscuit. I once met a Greek man (not ancient unfortunately) who was convinced that a glass of water swiftly followed by a digestive chewed in a clockwise fashion would cure most symptoms of a cold, flu, angina and cancer of the knee.

Science has since proved this to be totally true.

Maths and R.E.

And you'll notice its R.E. not R.S.! Education is a much nicer word. Longer too.

So, this time we're talking about me and how I became the European Champion of Europe at a game called Squares.

It was about the time I had just discovered I was the proud possessor of double jointed eyebrows, so I must have been in years 7-9 at school. Those were some eyebrows. Unfortunately I lost them in a side bet on a game of squares and all I got back in return was a set of prepubescent testicles, not at all a fair trade. Mind you, I just said it was a bet, so we'll ignore the redundant use of the word trade.

So, now seems a good time to distract you with another one of my (fictional) award winning musical jokes!

To the tune of Elton John's 'Are you ready?'

'Are you ready...

No.'


Its a corker that one. I got back in the mood after hearing that Jack Johnson song where he goes on and on about he's got no idea about what to write to some 'well fit bird' on 'the back of a postcard'. Stop doing autographs for minger grannies mate, nobody is fooled!

But it gave me opportunity to think about what I would write if I were J. J. and had to fill a postcard.

My love, for you, is like
A googolplex,
Please come on Tuesday,
To watch me flex.
I'm particularly proud
Of the pecs.
I have been known to
'Spin the decks'.
If you can't come
Please send a text.

From Long Gone Silver.

So, now that we've forgotten why I distracted you (yes! It worked!) we can carry on with the story.

Actually let me just interrupt, with the thought that just signing my name on the postcard has disproved the rumour that I use this pseudonym because I'm a silver backed mountain gorilla that has learned to touch-type and take dictation.

The other part of rumour - that the dictation was being given by a conglomeration of the most senior women in the W.I. from the northern continent, so that they could gain a small public voice and be slightly liked again - is also entirely false.

And back to topic.

I used to play squares with my good childhood friend Michael Haworth. If you're reading this Michael; 'flipping heck, thats a cool coincidence, I bet you don't even remember me!'

Instead of learning all about R.E. (I got a special dispensation in R.E. lessons because my dad is the Pope, or something like that) and Maths (perhaps why I only really understand algebra to this day and no other form of mathematics) we played huge games of squares. On massive grids we played sets like snooker, best of 27 games etc.

It was epic, it was truly wonderful, it was enough to make you misspell the two schools of Muslim thought in excitement at getting the last free line without giving a square.

I distinctly remember once having to defend my reasoning behind 3x+6y=Yes! The elusive drop-square! in maths class. Now that was a diatribe worth publishing.

We were incredible, we commentated so brilliantly, making up names for all the possible moves (47 open and an infinite amount of closed moves), chatting in hushed tones at the back of class, loving every second of it.

Then we got serious, deciding we should see who the best was. First the best in Europe (me) and then the best in the world (him). We ran this format a few times and once or twice even lifted our heads up to scan the neighbouring desks and see if anyone else wanted to play, but they were busy learning. The big hard-working, lesson learning geeks.

No matter what I did, no matter how many times I turned the elongated T-square into a reverse J-square with the cunning application of a drop-square, I could never beat him in the World Championships. Pressure, I guess. But then, come the European tournament, I was on home soil, unbeatable in 9 straight tournaments.

A little while into our mammoth undertaking of beating the rest of the world before they had shown up, we received a communique from Mars that they were sending a competitor. He was just waiting for the taxi we'd sent to successfully land and transfer him back to earth down the satellite link.

We eagerly began to build up the hype of the intergalactic Championships, knowing that Mars was in the same galaxy, but also knowing that intergalactic is so much grander than interplanetary, and we needed to sell out our entire allocation of earths tickets.

And then, just as we were beginning to think he wasn't coming (I'm still not sure it was a 'he', you know)...

...

..

.

I moved schools.