Shoplifters Of The World Unite

Now come on, turkey ham. Is it “ham” from a turkey, or turkey-like meat from a pig? Or, worse, some kind of grisly mutant beast? No one is telling us what “turkey ham” is and there’s only a picture of a farm on the packet. No doubt, behind the dry-stone walls of this farm are machines extracting pure swine from the traditional holiday bird.

Ban this sickness.

Now, reader, as you may know, I am almost twenty-two years of age. I could grow a full mustache if I wanted to. I have climbed the jungle gym of life and stand atop the monkey bars bawling about the terrible sights I have seen.

So why is it that I am no longer able to buy a drink without being asked for ID? A note for foreign readers, in the UK you almost never get asked to prove your age unless you arrived at the bar in a pram sucking a lolly. I don’t think I was ever refused a pint of foaming, nut brown ale when I was 17. Now, wizened and decrepit, I have to repeatedly prove that it is not five years ago.

This came to a head in Marks and Spencers when I was buying a bottle of liquor as a gift for someone. The cashier had plainly seen me coming, I could feel the skunk eye being applied. “That’s right, I’m a child,” I said. “I’m going to drink this in a bus shelter then choke on my own vomit in the gutter”.

I didn’t actually say that, as I was too busy reaching under the cushion in my luxurious baby buggy for change. Plus I had a lollipop in my mouth.

Then, THEN, this morning I received some free samples in the mail which included “anti aging cream - for MEN”. I am tempted to apply it just to see what happens. My guess: nothing good.

It occurs to me upon writing the title of this post that “Mystical” sounds the same as “Miss Tickle” (bear with me here). Living with Miss Tickle would be a daily agony. You wouldn’t be able to enjoy a hot drink or a cream horn for fear that she would home in on you and cause you to spill it in your involuntary mirth.

Who says intelligent discourse is dead?

I watched the season finale of Lost a few days ago which, unfortunately for all around me, had me with my head in my hands, wailing “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” in the time-honoured style. But a greater mystery this week was posed by a packet of Spinach and Ricotta Fresh Pasta Ravioli I purchased. The package features a “serving suggestion”, however the “serving suggestion” does not depict the product, but rather a bowl of ricotta cheese and some spinach leaves. So the implication is that one should reconstitute the ingredients within from the items provided.

That’s just silly. You shouldn’t do that.

I haven’t a lot to say today, except that I am both upset and enraged at the turn the weather has taken in Durham over the last few days. It has gone from summer-like warmth and pleasing breezes, to icy-winds and rainy squalls.

However, as I am an innovator, dreamsmith and imagineer, I have come up with an excellent scheme to avoid the rain and the cold. I am going to sit in the tumble dryer until July:

Think how nice it is when the clothes come out of the dryer! It takes a strong man not to put a nice warm t-shirt or towel over their face and just live for pleasure alone. Well, what if you could enjoy that great sensation for hours at a time? As the diagram above indicates: NOW YOU CAN

Oh my goodness, Prime Minister Tony Blair has resigned! This is so unexpected and the nation is on its knees! Fortunately a task force has been assembled to run the country during this transitional phase:

Rabbi Lionel Blue

Former England wicketkeeper Jack Russell

and Bagpuss (pictured discussing transport policy with Professor Yaffle, who is consulting in an advisory role)

I would write more but unfortunately there’s now a curfew, and rationing.

Here is my blog, where you can enjoy hearing the the sort of things I think. This is the blog way.

Nothing to say today. Nothing nice anyway. I could unleash a stream of cusses at my many and varied enemies, such as Des Jam-Sandwich, Roger Porkpie and Lord Crispin Hove-Stompington - but what good would it do? I could outline here exactly how their shadowy business dealings and poorly developed morals have cast a blight across not only my life, but that of the orphanage/workhouse I sponsor, but I am not a man for petty, snide asides.

Far be it from me to say that Mr Jam-Sandwich frequently cannot tell the difference between the lavatory and the pantry, that Mr Porkpie has fathered four bastards, none of whose upkeep he pays for, and that Lord Hove-Stompington has twice killed members of the lower classes in his horse and four and gotten away with it, Scot-free!

I have nothing nice to say about them, and, as my father would often tell me, if you haven’t anything nice to say then say nothing at all.

I shall, however, leave you which this nugget of truth (truth-nugget). I think humanity could be helped (as a whole) by people ceasing to ask each other “are you all right” or “how are you doing” as a greeting. Nobody wants to know how another human being is doing if the answer consists of more than three words. So when asked those questions, make sure you answer it properly.

EXAMPLE
Q. All right, Dave?
A. Well, I’m not sure. I’ve got two or three pimples on my bottom and I’m worried it might affect my chances of becoming a thong model. Plus, you know, I’ve always worried that my arms are a bit long. For general use.

EXCEPTION
A good time to ask if someone is all right is if they have fallen into a ditch, or are crying. Or crying blood. Or crying blood in a ditch.

Here are some alternative greetings to help the human race live better:

“Good morning”
“Good afternoon”
“Good evening”

This is all.