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!