Resentment

Pull me up,
by my socks,
She's flipping strong,
for a Goldilocks.

Now, because I'm so naturally charming and gifted I engender peace and love wherever I go. In fact I'm so likable I'm sure that even the people that already like me are hoping I'll stop this self aggrandising rubbish and get back to being British.

Difficult isn't it - especially when you're as good as me.

So what causes resentment? I think it's probably being rubbish - which is a shame because I've never ever ever experienced that feeling so can't possibly associate with you guys who have. Apart from that one time when I got goofed in the knackers by, oh wait, that happened more than once.

But who grades rubbish anyway - and maybe my goolies are just unusually talented at attracting shins - did you ever think of that Year 8 - did you!?!?

Isn't it all about perception - like parking? Oh and by the way, don't accidentally insinuate that your betrothed can't physically drive at all, because I've learnt that's not a good way to conduct a relationship.

I've been told before that you were happy for me to have a blog, because you thought it might be releasing pressure on my psyche, and giving me space to vent my mental - I don't think you'll be proud when we're all big and famous though - not without aggressive use of the DEL button, fo' sho'.

So just finish reading in a second, when you reach the end of what I'm typing and wonder how you're actually involved in all this, how you ended up there, with your eyes effectively on the other end of my fingers drumming rubbish straight into your brain.

It's probably a good thing - right?

Monetise my eyes

I will charge you for looking at me, that is my new plan.

There is a button up there when I write these things that says Monetise. I don't like this button, mostly because it implies I'm not already receiving money from people for reading my things, but also because the button is owned by the evil elgoog, who I've casually disguised.

But I was free associating the word monetise and I went for rhymes - which led me to eyes.

Conversely my eyes lead me to most things, even when I'm short of my fantastic visionorama aids Win XP SP3. To be lead around by the knackers is a corruption of an expression I've similarly just free associated but an interesting theory when talking about the elgoog, who seem to have most people by the hair where their bits should be.

I'm no conspiracy theorist - I leave that to my other personalities - but when someone does something there are consequences and without being more specific in the first part of the sentence I cannot really fully expand in the latter portion.

This is what happens when you frustrate a person, they fume, unless they're not a French smoker in which case they probably have a blog; even I have a blog.

And I mostly don't care.

But back to my plan, to charge you for use of my physical representation, or being a consumer of it. Before I go any further if this is the year 2032 and you are trying to use this blog to set a legal precedent please don't, I'm very tired and really not to be trusted for that kind of thing.

Of course if it's 2045 then go right ahead, I'm aiming to not be in the country then anyway.

Back to my plan.

When you look at me, what do you see? Me, right? Right. So, who owns me? I do. And I've decided I'm not free, so you're going to have to pay to see me. Rich and famous people do this all the time, so I figure I might as well give it a crack. Unless you're someone I like in which case it's free for the first twenty times.

The only problem I can see is if I were to see someone who is equal to or > < my value, in which case we'll have to work on some complex bartering system, or just close our eyes, feel around and pretend we haven't seen each other.

Wasn't the world a much easier place when elgoog weren't inspiring this kind of thing?

I was funny once.

I'd like you to know that this has nothing to do with the fact that I just got engaged a short while ago.

No, this is to do with re re re re reading some of my old bloggings, which I enjoyed and made myself laugh by listening to as I read them outloud.

So where have I been in the gap between now and the last funny which has caused me to lose my voom va va? Well, I've been all over. All over England and Wales and even bits in between and not. I've been doing some of my mind pirating, some of my award winning musical impressions and just generally farting about. But not actually farting, obviously, my mum doesn't like that.

Speaking of people who don't like things, welcome back Herbert! He's been away see and he gets very uppity if I don't 'show him some big love' on his return.

'Don't put me in quote marks, that's not what I actually said, you're making me out to be some kind of idiot or mental person'.

Herbert, you're a wooden giraffe, the patron saint and religious leader of some scandinavian geese and a CD rack. What about you isn't very crazy?

'My horns. They're actually quite lifelike really'.

I've never understood why a giraffe should have horns, it's not like you're going to fight with them.

'Actually we totally do. There's a complex mating ritual, very complex. For little giraffes it involves ladders and puppets.'

I didn't dare to ask why little giraffes should be doing mating things, but for all I know he didn't actually mean young'uns.

Losing your funny isn't necessarily a disease that you contract for a lifetime, but certainly for the length of a blog post.

Difficult, isn't it? The rambly nature of this post is due to it being started in a different year to that in which it was finished.

Special

I got inspired by the word Special which was on a friends b-log, that makes two readers now Woody!

I like the word special, it has a strong taste, but is warm, like brandy infused cheese, not that I'd know 'cause I'm mostly off the sauce these days.

Off the sauce, you cry, but aren't you a pirate? I thought they were synonyms, sauce and pirate - interchangeable word friends that hold each others hands when they're trapped by Whales and their friends are being eaten by the Welsh.

Well no, not exactly, as I don't even have a parrot which keeps my shoulder warm. I have a giraffe, which takes up less space than you might think and also doesn't do nasty things to epaulettes.

I've had more ideas about writing things, I wish I made the time to finish them, some of them are really good ideas. I love having ideas, it's one of my favourite things to do and it's especially good when people give you the time and space to have a few good ones, but not good if they don't back you up to finish them. Finishing is where the real stuff happens, I've decided, so there.

I think I might try writing a serialised story based post again, called The Death of S.S. Washington, but I'm not sure, it's an idea I had for a novel but I'll never get the time to write it, so basically I'll knock together a dodgy version so that google can own it on this blog. Yep.

What's a job that starts at Christmastime where I can get paid to write my nonsense? Find it and bring it back to me.

Would you like to sniff my gazebo?

It's a particularly dull time at the moment, and I'll tell you for why.

A lot of the people we work for and with are in Europe and slack off over the August time, leaving us to twiddle our thumbs and try not to get caught twiddling other people's thumbs. Or blogging, as it's known.

My co-conspirator and life barometer - The Wiblinator - is in deepest darkest (not in a racist way) Africa, slaying Hippos and tenting and stuff. With Gorillas.

The people I share my Parent's house with (my family including parents and siblings, but not including pets) are off on holiday, while I stay and work a while. I still have Herbert, and the endless need to create personalities to attach to CD racks, but you never know, I might grow out of that, like a frog jumping to a bigger pond, I may well create personalities for desks and other bits of furniture.

Have you heard of my bin, George?

Doesn't quite work, does it. What about a table named Mikey who is actually a cutting edge physicist? I'll find one that works, eventually.

So the real reason I'm back doing this, other than my boredom, is that I read a friends blog and remembered how little I'd done on here in any time frame. Still, success they say, is not measured by the quart but by the quince, which was great for medieval fruit pie makers.

I once met a medieval pie maker who had no nose!

How did he smell?

Dead.

And as anyone knows, quince are small fruit that grow on small trees and the tree and the fruit have the same name. Mental!

Not as mental as this sheep I saw doing river dance the other day though, that was properly mental! And tasty, after we'd cooked him.

There you go, that's your lot of unfinished segues and falsities, have a good 'un.

Spazzing Doom Biscuits!

It's a hard life.

It's been a while since I've entered the blogosphere so here I am, back with gay abandon as I search for something to tell you all, something boggling and bending and furiously funicular. (Of course I know what that means you silly billy, but imagine if it actually pertained to fun, wouldn't that be great!)


The other day I saw a naked woman wearing a horse's head and almost fell asleep. That was pretty much the highlight too, which is to say that it didn't get much better, but it would have if I had fallen asleep and dreamt of something better.

So, a woman with a horse's head caused narcolepsy in me, due to her unfathomable dullness. I'm not normally one to watch naked ladies, so that was a bit of a culture shock for me, being all proper and dignified and used to clothed women and that, so I closed my eyes and turned her into a radio program. Which made it worse. A lot worse, which didn't help my impending boredom catastrophe.

Naturally, this isn't a real catastrophe, in that I work in a boring job and sometimes get bored, but I've over-played and over-stated it for dramatic effect, which is also enhanced by italics.

The impending boredom catastrophe may be averted by some of the things I'm trying to take on, some of which are called hobbies and being more active, others of which aren't, but I'm too bored to tell you about all of them, so you'll get the edited highlights.

I'm writing a novel.

I've started a new blog about running and exercising.

There you go, that was pretty quick, wasn't it?

A novel! Yes. What's it about? Not telling. Will it be good? Hope so. Oh.

Running and exercising, do you do them? Yes, a bit. Why? I like it, and I found a movement which causes a massive double chin, so that has to go. Also, I read a book (yay for you, thanks) which was good and inspiring and stuff.

Ah well, I'm off for a poo.

Sometimes, in the morning...

Sometimes, in the morning, when the sun is just creeping up and beginning to spill it's light all over the land...
Sometimes, when you people are going to bed and old people are getting up from theirs, again...
Sometimes.

Sometimes, at elevenses, when the tea wasn't made right by your co-worker's less than dainty hands...
Sometimes, at elevenses, as the farmer is ploughing his furrows fondly, straight as a broadbean...
Sometimes.

Sometimes at lunch time, when the TV's on standby, the bacon's on the bap and the tray upon the lap...
Sometimes at lunch time, when the car is sat in nuetral and your brain no more engaged...
Sometimes.


But sometimes I get distracted.

A kick and a splutter and a rattle and a cough

This is poem:

A kick and a splutter and a rattle and a cough,
I fell down the stairs and landed on a toff,
His wig was all bent and broken in the middle,
He and I couldn't help but have a giggle.

So we went to the shop with the fake hair on top,
To try and mend his barnet with a fosbury flop,
Tilting to the left with the squint of a loner,
He looked in the mirror and left to get a doner.

Tripping on the pavement led to claims against the council,
Presented with a plaque which was held by Nigel Mansell,
He got tuberculosis so ran away to another hospital,
Leaving all the nurses to reveal that they were SAUSAGE DOGS!


Today I have been mostly bored, so I have done this to relieve my boredom. Soon I will not be able to post during the daytime, which may or may not have an affect on my bloggery.

I shall leave you with this deeply philosophical thought from Herbert:

'Fish know only that the water is good - so they continue.'


Yes.

Long ago, in times past...

Long ago, in times past, a man with silly hair and soulfoul eyebrows stared into a Charlie Chaplin mirror and reflected.
The yawns that came next weren't silent movie star induced, they were simply a symptom of boredom.

'Boredom is as boredom does' is the mantra of my cat, but then, he licks his own testicles, so is not to be trusted. Anyway, anyone taking advice on boredom from something with a tail needs checking, I mean really checking. In fact, most times that humans have taken advice from tailed species has resulted in carnage.
Let us take, for example, the fictional example soon to arrive i.e. the one that my sleep deprived brain has yet to come up with. You know, that time when the Japanese were conviced to bomb Pearl Harbour on the say so of an erudite gibbon.
Well why else would they have done it?

Anyway, to topic!

Herbert and I recently went on a small journey to one of the most troubled areas of liverpool - an ill persons bathroom - but it is not this picture I wish to grace you with, it is that of me rescuing Herbert from certain doom.
DOOM, I tell you.

With the return of the wee highlands lass there was an attempt on Herbert's very existence! I couldn't believe that someone who saves lives for a living could think of sacrificing someone so wooden, so giraffey and so inanimate.
Hastily, but not without skill, I removed our poor unfortunate from the front room where he had for so long held counsel, and unleashed upon my room.

'Bit gloomy in here, isn't it?' It seemed he was doing his best 'Compo From Last of The Summer Wine' impression.
'Shut up, it's my room - it's nice.'
'I can already tell that the blanket which doubles for a curtain never gets moved and the only 'nice' bit of the room is where I can make out carpet, or is that dead animal fur?'
'Oi! It's carpet, thats premium beige that is.'
'Otherwise known as 'covers up poo and sick brown.' Frankly, I'd had enough.
'Look Herb, it's in here or it's down and deadly with the crazy kilt! What's it going to be?' I should have known immediately that it wasn't going to go well for me, threatening him.
'What's it going to be? Who are you? John blumming Rambo? Do me a favour!' At this point he adopted a silly cockney accent and unleashed the full heck of his ninja fury.
You'd all forgotten that he was a ninja, hadn't you? I had.
I sprung for my rubber dart guns - all 3 or them, knowing that one would be spare and that only 3 rubber dart guns could save me from a maniacal ninja girraffe. [Maniacal, really? That seems a bit harsh. - Herbert]
I unleashed the full fury of my attack, firing both my double-barreled surnames at him, closely followed by my pump action cliche launcher.
'Harris-Smith and Pembroke-Wallasby, you fiend! You're not the man I married.' Ka-chunk, I pumped that action! 'You're under my roof, you'll live by my rules!' Ka-chunk, more action pumpery. 'Never in month of blue moons!' I was getting flustered and then, BAM, my pump action cliche launcher jammed! 'Now look here...'

Defenceless I threw myself onto the floor to surrender. Luckily the pile of clothes that I had strategically (shush you lot) placed there cushioned my fall enough so that I was completely pain free.
Until Herbert stabbed me in the face with his euphemism.


Thankfully we've made up now.

There is, as there always has been, more than one way to flog an insolent subordinate. Overarm, underarm, right or left handed, the possibilities are just beginning.

Now then, take a good look at the word possibilities, that has an awful lot of "I"s in it. I'll tell you what else has a lot of those in; a crowd.

Crowds are a baffling entity, an organism made entirely of unique parts which comes together in such a homologous way. Baffled face. Why should a lot of things that are different come together and form something that agrees, that follows the median? Why do we expect that? Personally I blame the cornetto ice cream.

Why, well I'll chuffing tell you why!

The cornetto is a brilliant snack, make no mistake, but it is - in and of itself - unfulfilling and you couldn't, you really couldn't, live of them.

[As a non fascinating side not the internet has no record of the word unfulfilling, how dissaspointing is that? Very that's how.]

In my search to find out what happened to the word unfulfilling on the internet I completely lost my bus of thought. No matter. I shall now have a go at the internet.

There, that's better. Maybe next time I'll type out my rants and we can all have a good read, eh?

Mazeltov!

Staring into the gateway of your mind - from behind

This is entitled 'Staring into the gateway of your mind - from behind'.

On your shoulders rests your neck, on that your head. Your head, its said, contains the mind - wherein we find, a thought that bustles, blinking madly.
Or such is as it seems from here.
What we'll find, as mind joins spine, or even brain as doctors say, is the medulla oblongata. If you can't see it; look harder.
To wit, time does not permit this twit, to journey farther and muchly further with ascending climactic fervour... into your mind.
From behind it seems that the range from dreams to blinking, plinking, bonking, dunking - swimming nit-wits or their biscuits, drunkening and farcical wordifying must pass, at least but not last, through this pass(ageway).

Still with me?

Good.

Climbing, dancing, romancing, prancing, philanthropisting, misting over, all must travel, at some level from the A to the B via our 'watch and see' oblongaty.

If I left me to my devices, some would say its not the nicest, holding back the primal vices from the final prices, desperate to score - what's more the store is almost closed, and I've not finished my list - I'd be a timeshared terror-less tenor. More of a lazy baritone, but don't bring your hazy parrot over here and stick your mazy carrot-chomping-verbiage-spitting-stomp-watching-neck supported passive-action supports-my-faction NONSENSE over here.

Thanks.

And he just looked at me and said:

'So thats a no to giving £2 a week to cure unhappiness in Sardinia?

What a wally, eh?

Or would you rather be a pig?

As if this guy wasn't nutty enough, he now expected me to psychically pull his name from the ether. I was running out of all sorts of things, but mostly names to call this guy in my head. This went beyond 'needs a good slapping' right into 'needs a good strong jacket and a padded room'.

'Come on, you're a smart guy Jacob, I would have thought you'd have it figured out by now.'

Nobody's called me Jacob since I was 5 years old and a while back I legally changed my name. He'd just gone from 'nutty' to dangerous.

'If Sandringham sent you to kill me then you can get it over with. Here is as good a place as any.' If that was true I wouldn't get the choice anyway.

'Do I look like a killer?' He carried on, already knowing the answer. 'I don't, because I'm not. I'm an old friend, a very old friend that you've forgotten about. I've been forgotten for a long time, haven't I Jacob?'

I searched back through my early memories, trying to find where this guy fit into being raised by just my mum and then in foster homes. I couldn't find any glimmer of recognition, it just wasn't a face I knew.

'I don't know you. Not unless you've pulled some kind of 'Doctor Who' malarkey and changed your face.'

'Be careful Jacob, you only get three chances.'

'What?' He was back to being his old confusing self and it just wasn't fair. 'Look, if you've got all the answers why don't you just share some with me? For God's sake, I'm not freaking superman, or the memory man, I'm just a man, like you.'

There was a collision of expressions on his face and he shook his head. 'Please don't blaspheme, its really not worth it.'

'Worth what?'

'Your soul.'

I sighed and made a series of exasperated sounds, then had an idea.

'You're not my mum's priest, are you?'

'No, but you might say I was a friend of his and your mother.'

'I don't know you.' I was adamant this time and he looked crestfallen.

'Please, thats twice now, be careful.' I was tempted to shout it again at him a million times, just to rile him, to make him tell me, to make it stop. I screamed it in my head and let it echo around. I waited impatiently for him to advance us again.

'Do you remember the song that your mother was always singing? You'd both sing it, together. You used to sing it... to me.' He'd gotten quiet at the end and I wasn't sure I'd even heard him right.

It took me only a moment to remember the song that had stayed with me throughout my entire life, one of the few true memories of my mother I'd ever had. A song she would sing on and on, over and over. It wasn't really a song, it was some kind of composition, she had loved that refrain. It had been written by some guy called Gavin Briars and haunted me my entire life.

All of a sudden I knew, I realised who he was. I swore out loud and he looked up.

'Hello Jacob.' I couldn't look at him, couldn't stand it. I tried to start a sentence a few times then gave up. Finally I managed to croak something out.

'Don't look at me.'

'I missed you Jacob.'

'No.'

I heard one guy say that the world will end by toppling on its axis, by spinning right around. That was how I felt now, my natural centre tumbled and I clung to the ground for support - somehow I'd arrived at my knees. 'Please let this be a dream.'

'You know it isn't.'

I cried then. A single tear fell from my eye straight to the earth and he moved towards me. I scrambled back. 'Don't touch me! Don't touch me. Don't... You're dead, you can't touch me.'

He held out his hands and looked like a thousand posters, a million drawings, but I couldn't take the hug. I wasn't good enough. I turned, I needed to escape.

'Would you stay, we've a lot to talk about.'

'No, I can't stay with you, here. I have to go, I have to.' One step became two and he called after me. I slowed but didn't turn or stop.

'Do you remember what your mother used to say to you every morning when you woke?' I stumbled to a halt and it came flooding back. I roared in pain and took off down the hill, unprepared for the memories this 'get away from it all' trip had wrought from me. In the background his voice carried effortlessly with what she'd said every morning I'd seen her.

'God's swiftest blessings to you, dear heart.'

I chased myself away, finally reaching the sanctuary of my car and wept like a small child. It could have been 3 minutes or 53, I didn't count. I was sure I would never see him again and a small part of me was weeping for that.

As I collected myself, I wiped my face and set about the car, getting ready to leave. Then the thought hit me; I still had my last chance.

I turned off the ignition and got out of the car, I could just see the tree from here, but I couldn't quite make him out. I drew a deep breath and set off up the hill.

It was a favourite hill, a favourite hill with a favourite tree and I still had my last chance.

Bloggery

Bloggery, dockery, mock,
My shoe mated with my sock.
A frock was born,
My sheep need shorn(ing)
I'm a radical born(ing/boring/boing boing)

Welcome back to yet another episode of Abnormality Farm, where the animals ask the questions and we ask the question; can animals improve their diction before being shot?
Over to you Mavis:
Thank you Melvis. Now, Donald, can you please oink the alphabet for us?
Oink, Oink, Oink, Oink,
Oink, Oink, Oink, Oink,
Oink, Oink, Oink, Oink,
Oink, Oink, Oink, Oink,
Oink, Oink, Oink, Oink,
Oink, Oink, Oink, Oink,
Poink, Zoinks!

I'm sorry Donald, you almost had it at F and G, but you went downhill from there.

[Off camera a shot is heard]

Ahh, well, that answers that question. Thank you for all your support Mavis, we'll see her later in the show.


And in other news the RSPCA have been convicted of animal cruelty when their 'Supreme President' was found to have ordered the 'plucking of all feathered turtles' for his 'invisible conquering brush of doom 300[tm]'. The turtles have been taken into protective custody as they were being mocked by their more plumed comrades.

If I were to give a name to what I do, it would be controlled and spasmodic wordy buffuonory. All of these (with the possible exception of 'and') are real and non made up words and only add to my power in the field. That field is the use and abuse of the things know as words to bring pleasure and/or alleviate drudgery of the masses. Now, the masses hate words as they are not the most wordy of wordifying peoples. In fact the more words you word word at them the more worded and wordinginst they word.


Feel free to go over that last paragraph and check it out, I'm not sure all of it made nonsense.
This next section is entitled 'Dadaism is like my pants'.

Dadaism is like my pants

Dadaism is like my pants; its easy to put you're leg in the wrong hole and they're both often found clinging to the start of the 20th century with alarming alacrity. Dadaism is also like my pants in other ways; like when I accidentally went without it and got some juice spilt on my trousers! Oh the fun times we've both had.

[{At this point the author read over what he had written and laughed heartily. He then saw that what he had made was very good and he said so. Then he turned to the penguin which was with him and said; 'This all sounds vaguely like some big book I've read somewhere. The penguin said 'Was it 'The Lord of the Rings: The Return Of The King?' The author then said, 'Ah, I think you could be wrong, but we'll go with that because this bit isn't funny.' The Penguin noddedly sagely.}]

Also, for a differently similar style of bloggery, traverse yourself, through the medium of mouse clickery and keyboard tappery to;

http://crapaudio.blogspot.com

which is the home of our good friend S. Royally - which may or may not be a nom-de-plume.

This next section is entitled 'fin'.



Fin

And be better off than you are...

I turned with more than displeasure on my features. 'Who are you to stop me, to question me?'

'Who are you to raise your voice to me?' He countered swiftly.

'Don't you ever give a straight answer to a question?'

'Yes. What would you like me to answer?' I was thrown again. He had a habit of saying precisely the wrong thing.

'Well, look...' I trailed off. Just what was going on? I felt as if I'd been set up. 'What are you doing here? Do you really own this field?' He smiled and answered my questions in reverse order.

'Yes, I own the field, and a few other things. I'm here doing what you're doing; waiting, thinking relaxing, questioning.' Once again he described me too well and I flushed with anger. I expected a camera crew any second and I convinced myself it was a setup, some weird prank.

Nobody materialised and I examined him again with a sigh. 'You have questions?' He cocked his head at the strangeness of it all.

'Yes. Doesn't everyone? I'm pretty sure most people have a lot of questions. Look at children: they have a thousand questions a second, they crave information.' Another thought came to his mind and he added it quickly. 'And love, they crave love too.'

'Listen, Captain monologue, if you're gonna get all 'pop psychology' on me then you can do one!' I hooked my thumb over my shoulder and fixed him with my best 'don't mess' stare. He smiled plainly in response, the most dull and terrifying thing he could have done.

Suddenly, mercifully, it was quiet and I used the time to look around. It was the same as ever, which comforted me. The two trees side by side, mine and its partner and on this side a stump, which never grew.

I don't know whether he cut it or treated it, but it never grew. I shivered suddenly and sat on the stump. I was tired and my anger no longer reined in my curiosity. I let it run free and the words jumped from my mouth, almost as if on there own.

'You never told me any of your questions.'

He smiled. 'No, I didn't, did I. But you see, the question is never as important as the person asking it.'

'What, never?' I was shocked by his assertion and thought hard on it.

'Never.' He seemed so certain, so sure and steadfast that I knew I wanted to topple him.

'I'm sure I've got questions that could prove you wrong.' I smirked.

'In which case you'd probably prove me right, don't you think?'

My head span as he talked us in circles again, I felt like a dancer who didn't know the steps, dancing in a sliding, tilting, dance hall. I felt like a pinball and it tired me. I searched for a question, any question. I wanted to be right - I wanted to win.

'Why is everybody bored, why can't we just be nice? Why is there suffering?'

'Those are good questions. Still, why you ask it is more interesting than what you've asked.'

'Never a straight answer.'

Never a minute to spare, to listen.'

Chastised, I sat and glared at him. He smiled slowly and proceeded to ask me a question.

'Have you ever tried to be nice, to stop the suffering?'

'I wouldn't be able to change a thing.'

'Well, if everybody feels like that, nothing will change.' I smirked and prepared my 'pop psychology' quip again. He beat me to the punch.

'Tell me if I'm wrong.'

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. I thought back through my life and cringed as it played out in its awful technicolour glory. Over stimulated, under activated, incessantly impatient; I was hardly a model of world changing glory.

My introverted reflection brought into the light how little I knew of my own personal inquisitor. I looked him up and down and saw nothing of merit. Just some guy on some hill. Actually, I decided, I wouldn't settle for just that information anymore: it was time to ask some more questions. I stood up and found his eyes.

'You're a conundrum chum, I don't know anything about you and you think you can pull me apart like a lab rat, or a pigs heart. Well, I want to know who you are and what you're really doing here.'

My challenge was borne of equal parts curiosity, annoyance and fear, and as I met his eyes I searched them for any sign of the same. And for an ending to this absurd saga.

'I thought you already knew.'

Raspberry zipple

This blog was too boring and normal, it was almost a real diary entry.

As such it has been removed by the author who apologises. Comedy will shortly resume normal service and soon the third piece of 'two men on a hill' will be submitted for your aproval, not that the author seeks it, he merely uses some of the accepted phraseology of English, sometimes.

amo,

Long gone Silver.

Rip van Tinkle stole my Winkle.

If I were to ask you a question, could you do me the immense personal favour of keeping it to yourself?
Like, I mean, not tell anyone about it, or that I asked you, or even mention it again?

That got your attention didn't it!

I've got a lot of questions, in fact I'd go as far as to say that questioning is one of the things I do most, and its perhaps one of the most useful. But then again, its not that useful. Often times I'll come away from a conversation with more questions than I had when I started, which is nice, but mostly they are inane like; why was that midget on a horse? Where had they managed to get an original copy of Charlie Sheen from?

Some people have gone as far as to say that it is questions that define us, but I think that really is dictionaries that define us and questions, not so much.

You see, most questions need answers and most people are now geared to answer them. But what happens when you ask a question that you don't want answering? What if you just fancied a chat? What if, is a question.

So, just to bring us, back off track, why are some people left handed?

Why are other not?

Why are knots over?

Which county is notts, under?

If over is as under does, do knots not knot on my cot of countless counties?

Because, you see, a question is nowhere near as important as who asks it, which is why questions are easier to think of, than characters in a novel, or even, novels which have novel characters.

I once did,
what they said I shouldn't.
Wouldn't, couldn't, didn't stop me.

Climbed down low
and stroked the grass.

Now, I'm old
My hips are solid
pallid, turgid, it all stops me.

Fall on over
and kiss my shoes.

There is, it seems, an inexplicable reasoning behind my posts, as if I actually do know what I am doing. Ok, so maybe all the bits don't connect in a fashion that you recognise, but separately, all the bits make individual sense, and the combination of bits makes a whole, much like the combination of bits inside a ******* ******* ** ********* (example deleted due to copyright - Ed.)

Oi, Ed, get off my blog you freaking infringement goon! Just because you protect the good readers of Bloggos-landios with your over eager asterisk finger, doesn't mean I want you to trespass on my private property!

Actually, Mr Silver, anything you post on a blog like this one, is then technically and legally owned by the blog company, which in this case is google. So there.

WHTATATATA!

HOW?!

WHY?!


SPEELLING ERROIR!!

I'm garnished with time

Hello all of you and welcome back.
I've certainly been doing a lot of things since last we spoke, or rather I typed and you read. We shall speak little of those things, most of them are boring and/or related to you through the ether.
You may have noticed, though, through the blogosphere of A.N.other, that I have bought a new car. It goes brum, and vroom and zoom zoom apparently, and that should tell you something. Certainly it has some characteristics of a car, whilst retaining some of the characteristics of a mobile hairdryer.
I'm a fan.
Also, I've been working on some wordifying of the magnitude of which I have not worked on before, I even wrote some stuff. Its nice when you give yourself permission to have ideas, and I have to be the one giving permission, as I'm not getting any encouragement for ideas in the workplace.
I sometimes feel for the Wibster when we're hanging out as she has to put up with all the ideas I have all coming out at once. I come home and we hang out and all of a sudden my brain seems to think 'ah ha' now would be the time to switch back on.
Its almost like being entirely mental.
The Labyrinth has of late become rather more busy than usual, which has led to me being entirely more busy, which has annoyed me immensely. Its not so much the working as the business, I do so despise the feeling of hurried harried humdrum. Its like being sellotaped to the back of a Saturn 5 rocket, its nice to be doing something, but soon enough you can smell burning.
Ah well, time for bed.

LIfting weights with Ghandi

Now then, where were we?

Ah yes:


The secret to a good ramble is to start out boldly, not knowing where you're headed. Sure, if you want to you could plan a few steps ahead, but more than that is unnecessary really. Simply follow every thought as it develops and find the best distraction which will cause the most laughter.

I remember writing about distractions in one of my early blog posts, about the Mother of All Distractions, actually. As I ponder this I realise that here is a character I've left woefully under developed in my blog. We've had appearances from Herbert and more recently the rogue 'The Swine Flu Riddler' but I left this poor woman all on her own with no one to talk too and not even some nibbles. Shameful, I'm sure you'll agree.

On the note of things not really forgotten; I will be posting the next part of my 'Man on a hill' series, soon. I'm also, you'll be delighted to know, working on a new serial based on a phrase used by the inexplicably inedible Miklos Lowenstein* to be called 'Village'.

Anyway, back to 'Mother' or MAD as she's known for short.

She's a lovely lady, and surprisingly, very focused in her job. I suppose when you give birth to so many distractions, you really learn diligence. Diligence is a good word and for some reason mostly puts me in mind of the French Army, which I know many of you will laugh at.

I find it quite comical how the French are always reviled for their lack of military skill or success and yet managed to provide us with Napoleon Bonaparte, one of the best military tacticians in a flock of seagulls and The Foreign Legion, who are universally renowned and respected. I mean, just look at the people on the discussion page of their wikipedia entry trying to seem cool to people they've never met by pretending they're 'all hard and stuff.'

Golly, the internet is really ruining our lives, isn't it?

Apart from in all the ways its made them just slightly better, and stuff.

I'm not going to finish there, as I previously thought, because I fell that to do so would be to rob you of another of my [not] award winning (and bracket inducing)

Musical Jokes!

I'm a lumberjack and I'm OK,
...

Oh wait, that one's not mine.

This one, however, is;

(to the tune of 'Supermassive Black Hole' by Muse)

'Arghh,
I'm getting sucked in, help. Please.
Oh no, nothing can escape its pull, not
even sound, so you can't hear me.
Bummer, even my line
structure
has gone to
p
o
t.

And so, now I will leave you with the thought that I'm rediscovering the calming and cooling power of a good workout, so if you see me running in your neighbourhood;

vote for me. ish.

* I need those reports on my desk by 11 on Wednesday, Lowenstein!

I'm sure I'll be back

Lately I discovered the phrase 'I deal in the surreal'.

By this, I don't mean I sell fluorescent door knockers that go 'awooga'. I don't mean that people invite me to parties to say silly things, or invite me to say things at all actually.

Yesterday it was put to me that 'you just never know when you might be called upon to do a bit of stand-up comedy'. I took this as both a prophecy and a compliment. You see, I wrote a clever and slightly good word play joke which got a laugh of two entirely different crowds of people, and I was pleased.

I'm not going to tell you what the joke was (and not its not that 'deal/surreal' one) because as soon as you put something of yours on the internet, it is no longer really yours. In fact the more original and brilliant it is the more people will claim it is theirs, they had the idea first, etc.

Ouch, I've just realised, just as I'm about to go to bed, that I've no breakfast cereal for tomorrow morning, and I do, I so do want some breakfast tomorrow. Damn you schedules and things and people and places and time! Darn you all to heck!

I'm sure I'll be back.

Riding to your salvation

As I sat listening to a man gargle the first few bars of 'Land of Hope and Glory', I pondered the terrible state of world affairs.
It seems as if, whenever I stop blogging, terrible things happen. Now, this is not to say that I have some kind of influence over the inherent state of the universe, that would be arrogant, but since I've been 'off line', the whole world has caught trout flu.
I thought it was bad enough when the WHO started banging on about the Narwal crisis (thats the organisation, not Roger Daltrey and his crew) that was threatening to take over the world, but now apparently some monkey mated with a gorilla near a river and then sneezed on a passing rabbit, who was terribly late for his checkup, then his wife went for a smear test at Doctor Harold Fishman's and was mis-diagnosed with carp-al tunnel syndrome.
And trout flu was born.
I don't wish to be distasteful but the idea of putting blancmange with pineapple and ostrich gravy, just really doesn't appeal to me, and couldn't help but be said.
I am writing poorly, and I am tired, I will finish this at a better time.

Now seems to be a better time, especially considering that I probably should be working, which is when the best stuff always gets done.
Now, I was going to post a link to a website which I just found about swine flu, but I've decided that I don't want to post links and that seen as I'm not responsible for the comedy therein, I'm not going to let some other money-grabbing-pig-stabbing-flu-carrying-prole take the credit.

There, thats better.

So, back to the point at hand which is the topical logic problem I've been developing. And for those of you nay-sayers whoare guffawing at the idea that I can use logic; suck on this:



--> suck here <--



Those others who are interested in my topical logic puzzle, read on.

'I have three pigs, named Winnie the Pig, Pigbo and Pig De Burgh. Each has been infected over the last week with swine flu. During this time I had a visit from four friends, Mavis, Beavis, Doris and Isis.
The possibility that all four were infected is high. Judging by their current locations, which will be provided, what is the likely number of people inhabited with swine flu?
Mavis is now in Chepstow visiting her elderly niece, Beavis has returned to Scotland where he lives on a loch with a imaginary beard, Doris is stood next to you and Isis has gone back in time to Egypt, which was her starting point anyway.'

The answer will follow at the end of this entry.

Recently the labyrinth has proved stressful and more than a little conducive to mental breakdowns, the last 7 of the 3 people who worked here all went on to have mental health issues. By which I mean they contracted malaria or something and a too young doctor diagnosed with one of the following variations:

'Dude, that is totally sick and not in a good way.'
'Mental illness home slice.'
'Hombre, you done protracted a deadly killer bug thing, ride on!'

Well, now that I'm done, you can have the answer to the logic puzzle.

To recap, the question was 'What is the likely number of people infected by swine flu?

The Answer:

None, I lied about owning pigs.


End.