October32012

So, there I am, standing in the kitchen, making myself a glass of squash. I glance at the label.

"Orange and mango", it says, "selected by Sainsbury’s".

I feel something brewing inside my brain. I know what’s coming but it’s far too late to stop it. I find myself desperately scanning the bottle for another word to fixate on but it’s of little use. There it is, second largest word on the bottle: Mango. My eyes are locked on those five letters, the memory of an unbearably catchy tune forcing its way forward, desperate to be heard.

Less than a second later, a ditty by a certain Mr. Weebl is looping relentlessly inside my head.

Attempting to sleep shall be fun tonight.

October12012

Every damn night.

No matter how tired I am (and today I find myself really quite tired, hence waffle tacked onto a reblog instead of a proper post), no matter how early I go to bed (I consider anything before around midnight to be early), no matter how hard I try to shut out the rest of the world (it seems the harder I try the less successful I am), eventually I know that I will look over at my alarm clock just in time to see the dull, greenish glow emanating from the display advance just one more minute, and that minute means it is now far too late for any amount of sleep I could possibly get to be enough.

Some nights, when the maximum amount of sleep I could get before my alarm sounded to start my day be no more than two or three hours, I’d think to my self “the hell with this! I am wide awake, and I may as well remain so!”.

Of course, within minutes of having thought this particular thought my eyelids would suddenly be at their heaviest and I’d crash into a dreamless sleep that did little to rest me, and before I knew it my alarm would be setting about my eardrums with its relentless buzzing and I’d be feeling far worse than if I had stayed awake.

Ho hum.


Original Poster: kecky

September282012

If get out of jail free cards really existed but you were only allowed one in your lifetime how would you use it?

You could hold onto it for when times got really tough, knock over a bank and live comfortably for the rest of your life.

Or perhaps you would elect to take a much darker path, and do something utterly heinous just because you could, knowing you’d never have to face any consequences.



Just an odd conundrum that popped into my head while I was in the bathroom looking for cotton buds. Thought I’d share.

September262012

Seasons Fleeting

Every year, usually around the beginning of January, once the effects of Christmas have worn off, I start getting really worked up about summer.

I’m fed up of the constant rain, the lack of anything to do and the general feeling of “here we go again” that comes as standard with the beginning of a new year.

"Summer shall be fun this year", I always think to myself, "I shall frolic on the beach, have big, bombastic barbecues and generally lounge the long, balmy, summer nights away".

Then, inevitably, we have a week or two of sun sometime in May, followed by it promptly chucking it down for around three months solid. September rolls around, and, faced with going back to work (another thing that evokes that special “Groundhog Day” feeling), I start looking forward to winter.

I begin to fantasise about crisp, cold mornings, wandering leisurely around town, window shopping in preparation for Christmas, wrapped up warm in coat, hat and scarf, and drinking hot chocolate from one of those special takeaway cups, resplendent in red with that snowflake pattern that only appear for the last two months of the year.

And then it rains for three more months. And Christmas fails to live up to the hype. And then it’s January again.

Rinse and repeat.

September242012

Deathwash

Almost every morning starts the same way for me; I get up, spend about five minutes dithering around the bathroom waiting for my vision to clear, brush my teeth, and take a shower.

Most days this all happens without event, but sometimes, just sometimes, if I’m especially tired and spend too long staring down at my feet, I find myself wondering how long it’ll be until my bathtub finally kills me.

Now, I’m not as paranoid as I’m making myself sound - my bathtub has a bumpy area at the end with the plug-hole to facilitate grip. The problem is that my shower-head was installed at the wrong end of the tub (or the tub was installed back-to-front - whichever you prefer). This means that when you take a shower you’re standing at the shiny, slippery, plasticky, non-bumpy end of the tub, and by the time the water is running and shampoo runoff is forming a thin, soapy layer on the floor of the tub it can get quite dangerous.

I’ve never done myself any serious harm - at least not yet - but I’ve certainly done my fair share of sliding around, sometimes even when getting into the tub if the floor is still slick with water from its last use, and, for someone as clumsy as me, I count the fact that I’m still alive as nothing short of a miracle.

It’s during these moments of contemplation (or sometimes the moments following a slip) that I think about how many ways the tub could actually kill me. I could fall out of it face first and break my neck. I could brain myself on a tap. Even if a fall doesn’t kill me there’s plenty of potential for many a nasty fate.

Sometimes I’ll drift even further and think about all the other things that could have brought an abrupt end my pitiful existence over the years. Once, an aerosol deodorant canister that had been thrown into a bonfire burst, sending a large ball of twisted metal and flames whistling mere inches past my face. Then there was the time I almost fell out of a roller-coaster. It was one of those types with an overhead restraint and a little belt that clicked into the bottom of it. Halfway around the first corkscrew the belt popped out and the restraint shot upward. I can’t say for certain if it would have shot up enough to allow me to slide out of it the moment we leveled off, but I’m glad to say that I was able to grab it, pull it back down over myself and put the belt back in so I never had to find out. One time I blew up a toilet in France.

I’m surprised I didn’t quickly become a gibbering wreck, but then again I used to jump off the school roof for fun when I was a youngster so obviously I was enough of a daredevil to let these things slip by me. Of course, these days I find myself so overly cautious of everything that I’m surprised I ever get anything done, but that’s a story for another time.

So, anyway, the bathtub.

I can’t work out why nothing’s ever been done about it; it’s been like that for the best part of 24 years and could be cured with a simple mat, but it seems slipping is rare enough an occurrence that nobody really thinks about it long enough to bother fixing it. Maybe I should start having baths instead. Drowning seems far less likely.

September212012

Well, Fancy That

I thought I’d get an early start on my Hallowe’en costume this year. I realise I’m getting too old to get kitted out in fancy dress and go out on the town, and for the most part I don’t participate any more, but Hallowe’en is different as everybody is doing it so I feel far less of a tit. I’ve had a couple of ideas already so it made sense to at least start rounding various costume elements up.

The past couple of years I’ve ended up somewhat disappointed with my choice in costume, partly due to the last-minute nature of their creation and partly due to them not really fitting well into the overall spooky theme of the occasion. For example, last year I went as venerable douchebag Captain Hammer from Dr. Horrible’s Singalong Blog - great for fulfilling my own nerdy fantasies but not so good in terms of being recognisable. The year before that I was Roger Rabbit, a costume that was slightly better received but suffered due to it being an incredibly last-minute contingency costume, for which I spent the best part of two hours carefully crafting my own set of fluffy bunny ears, and then a rushed five minutes throwing on a white, long-sleeved t-shirt and a red pair of dungarees.

The best thing about the idea I’ve had this year (which I refuse to reveal in case it doesn’t go to plan and I end up as yet another sodding zombie) is that I knew where to find all the various components. Or at least I thought I did. One of the items I require is a relatively simple suit. Well, a specific style of suit, but a suit nonetheless. I had seen this very suit available in Matalan sometime earlier this year - quite cheaply, too - and it would have been perfect… except that it’s disappeared without trace.

I keep forgetting how fickle the world of fashion is, and how once a line of clothing has had its run, it can get completely discontinued with nothing even remotely similar to replace it. I’ve scoured a few websites but so far anything which seems suitable is well out of my price range. Several hundred pounds out of my price range, in some cases.

I’m almost tempted to just plump for one suit that I found on eBay - the only problem being that I have no idea if it’ll fit me (my size has changed rather drastically since I last bought proper, fitted clothing, but possibly not quite enough to fit this particular suit) and the auction ends in just a few hours so I’ve little hope of even finding a real-world size equivalent to try for fit before rushing home to put my bid in.

It is possible that a suit like this would be suitable for various other occasions, so it may be worth me spending the extra cash and coming out away with something half-decent, but my brain refuses to allow me to blow huge amounts of cash on what is essentially little more than children playing dress-up.

Maybe I should just plan to stay in instead and hand out sprouts to trick-or-treaters.

September192012
This is all that remains of my once-mighty badge collection.
When I was a youngster I had a denim jacket that was covered almost entirely in pin badges. I think badges were the first thing that I ever really collected, even if only by default as my parents kept buying them for me to add to the jacket. Even so, as the collection grew so did my desire to add to it, and soon I was adding any old badges to it just to see how much of the denim I could make disappear. It got to a point where every step I took was accompanied by a distinct clinking, like a bin-bag brimming with bottle caps.
Eventually, of course, I outgrew the jacket, and didn’t end up replacing it for several years. When I finally did get myself a new denim jacket, most of the badges had been misplaced or thrown away. Birthday badges, for example, are only really relevant for one day of your entire life, and many of the other badges featured pop-culture icons that I had since outgrown (when I was a teen I felt I had outgrown them, at least; as I’ve gotten older I have discovered that I am far more susceptible to the pull of nostalgia).
I still picked up the odd badge here and there; mostly promotional charity ones found at supermarket checkouts and on the counter in banks. Some are souvenirs from places where a badge was the only trinket I felt I was able to afford, and many of the rest are just freebies from magazines and events that I haven’t the heart to dispose of.
Recently I’ve started adding badges to the strap of my messenger bag - just a few small ones depicting pop culture icons that I feel have had an impact on me in some way. I don’t think I’ll ever again achieve the magnificence of that denim jacket though.

This is all that remains of my once-mighty badge collection.

When I was a youngster I had a denim jacket that was covered almost entirely in pin badges. I think badges were the first thing that I ever really collected, even if only by default as my parents kept buying them for me to add to the jacket. Even so, as the collection grew so did my desire to add to it, and soon I was adding any old badges to it just to see how much of the denim I could make disappear. It got to a point where every step I took was accompanied by a distinct clinking, like a bin-bag brimming with bottle caps.

Eventually, of course, I outgrew the jacket, and didn’t end up replacing it for several years. When I finally did get myself a new denim jacket, most of the badges had been misplaced or thrown away. Birthday badges, for example, are only really relevant for one day of your entire life, and many of the other badges featured pop-culture icons that I had since outgrown (when I was a teen I felt I had outgrown them, at least; as I’ve gotten older I have discovered that I am far more susceptible to the pull of nostalgia).

I still picked up the odd badge here and there; mostly promotional charity ones found at supermarket checkouts and on the counter in banks. Some are souvenirs from places where a badge was the only trinket I felt I was able to afford, and many of the rest are just freebies from magazines and events that I haven’t the heart to dispose of.

Recently I’ve started adding badges to the strap of my messenger bag - just a few small ones depicting pop culture icons that I feel have had an impact on me in some way. I don’t think I’ll ever again achieve the magnificence of that denim jacket though.

September172012
I really don’t have the energy to come up with anything interesting or even coherent today, so instead here’s a crude rendering of a stegosaurus I did a while back. The original idea was to blatantly rip off this but have my dinosaur be Spanish in an attempt to help me learn that particular language. Of course, learning Spanish got pushed way down the list of things that needed doing, in no small part due to the fact that I was unlikely to be traveling to Spain any time soon, so unfortunately my little stegosaurus (I believe he was to be called “Javier”) never made it any further than this sketch.

I really don’t have the energy to come up with anything interesting or even coherent today, so instead here’s a crude rendering of a stegosaurus I did a while back. The original idea was to blatantly rip off this but have my dinosaur be Spanish in an attempt to help me learn that particular language. Of course, learning Spanish got pushed way down the list of things that needed doing, in no small part due to the fact that I was unlikely to be traveling to Spain any time soon, so unfortunately my little stegosaurus (I believe he was to be called “Javier”) never made it any further than this sketch.

September142012

Seven things it took me far too long to realise:

That “Miles Prower”, Tails’ full name in the Sonic the Hedgehog games, was a play on the words “miles per hour”.

Just what the “that” was that Meatloaf claimed he wouldn’t do for love.

That I’d been tying my shoes incorrectly all these years. No, really - see this video for details.

That The Mask pulls a condom from his pocket during a scene in the 1994 movie of the same name.

That in a different scene in the same movie, two characters got car tail pipes forcibly inserted into their bottoms (I’d always thought that they’d been impaled, which is actually far more gruesome but made more sense to me).

The meaning behind the now infamous “Finger Prints” gag in Animaniacs.

That Nickelback are shit (I figured this out sometime in my late teens, but that was still after liking them for the better part of five years. I feel unclean).

September122012

pro-Portion-ate

I’m sure most of you are familiar with the little boxes that appear on food packaging listing nutritional information. They usually get broken down into two catagories; information per hundred grams and information per portion.

Today I bought a bar of Lindt Creations Caramel after hearing about it from friends. I was skimming the info on the packet and noticed the nutritional info box. The bar was one hundred grams and a portion was listed as twenty-five grams - one quarter of the bar. It seemed straightforward enough, until I realised that the bar consisted of ten squares of chocolate. That meant that Lindt considered a portion to be two and a half squares.

Now, this may seem trivial to you but it’s the type of thing that really rustles my jimmies. Who the hell is going to eat half a square? It’d be fiddly enough trying to bite off half of a block of regular Dairy Milk or Galaxy, but a square of chocolate filled with oozing caramel? No, chances are you’ll either eat two or three. Call me a glutton if you will, but two would probably be less than satisfying, so chances are I’d go for the three, and as there are ten squares that means I’d get three portions and one square left over.

What bugs me about it is that it means that Lindt either didn’t think it through hard enough to realise they’d be giving you an uneven number of portions, or they chose twenty-five grams in an attempt to keep the number of calories listed per portion low in an attempt to appeal to those trying to watch their intake.

It could have been fixed so easily, too - why choose a design that features ten squares? They’d probably have you believe that through various focus groups and other market research it was revealed that this particular size and shape piece was the most appealing, but you know what? Bollocks the market research. With something as simple as a change in the mould they use to cast the bar in they could have made the same hundred gram bar come in four rows of three squares. That way they keep their twenty-five gram portion size and it means people don’t have to muck about trying to either eat half a square or figure out how much impact that extra piece is going to have on their diet.

Maybe you think I’m just being pernickety, and perhaps I am, but I see this happening far too often these days, and I see absolutely no good reason for it.

There. End rant. I need some chocolate.

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