My baby's pram seems to have been specifically designed to cause me the maximum amount of discomfort and pain. Its handle is positioned at exactly the wrong height, causing me to walk hunched forward at just the angle that will cause my back, upon straightening up, to spasm wildly and require me to lie on a board for a week before I can stand up straight again.
In addition my older son's buggy-board, attached to the back of the pram, has thoughtfully been fitted with a sharp edge at shin height, which extends out just far enough to ensure that I have only two choices; take tiny wee steps like a ballerina or bark one or both shins at every step.
And yet my wife pushes this instrument of torture every day with no apparent ill effects. Mums truly are a breed apart :)
Monday, November 07, 2005
Sunday, August 21, 2005
DVLA Database
Having just watched the DVLA advert which explains that every UK car owner's details are now stored on database which will automatically send out a fine if car tax is not renewed, I am left wondering why we still need tax discs?
Wouldn't it save a substantial amount of tax payers' money to do away with them entirely?
Wouldn't it save a substantial amount of tax payers' money to do away with them entirely?
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Suicide is painful
This is an interesting one: if you were going to commit suicide what would be your preferred method of despatch?
I was thinking that I would favour a skydive sans parachute. However this would be a little unfair on those tasked with clearing up the mess. If I was going to be thoughtful about it this also rules out a shotgun under the neck and a host of other bloody methods.
Then it occurred to me that some potential must exist to have a bit of fun with suicide. If you're prepared to die in the process there must be countless merry japes or potential profit-making capers to be pulled off.
For instance, and this is a weak one, how about a spot of Russian Roulette in a Deer Hunter stylee? If you win you make a little bit of cash, and if you lose then, well, job done. And you never know; a few squid in your back pocket might even make you change your mind.
I was thinking that I would favour a skydive sans parachute. However this would be a little unfair on those tasked with clearing up the mess. If I was going to be thoughtful about it this also rules out a shotgun under the neck and a host of other bloody methods.
Then it occurred to me that some potential must exist to have a bit of fun with suicide. If you're prepared to die in the process there must be countless merry japes or potential profit-making capers to be pulled off.
For instance, and this is a weak one, how about a spot of Russian Roulette in a Deer Hunter stylee? If you win you make a little bit of cash, and if you lose then, well, job done. And you never know; a few squid in your back pocket might even make you change your mind.
Excerpt
Here, dear reader, for your delectation and delight, is a little snippet of my novel The Van Akkeren Wheel to encourage you to read further...
Even in the brightness of the late spring afternoon smoke rose from the crude chimney of the tavern, and sounds of merriment could be heard from within. While tenant farmers and villeins still toiled in the fields a few happy souls drank the afternoon away in the low, thatched building, and the sound of their laughter disturbed the otherwise deserted hamlet. In front of the tavern a goat grazed contentedly, seemingly the only other occupant of the tiny settlement, as every other able-bodied person worked the land in preparation for the new season.
Two black crows were startled into flight as the door of the tavern clattered open. From within the dim building the corpulent figure of a Roman Catholic priest emerged, staggering as he did so. The fat priest was well dressed, though not too richly. A bag of coins hung from his belt, a gold crucifix was around his neck, and he used a long staff to steady himself.
The priest stood still for a moment, blinking in the fading sunlight, then erupted into a hacking fit of coughing. He recovered from the fit, wiped his mouth with a podgy hand, and began to wend his way unsteadily through the deserted hamlet, singing as he did so.
He passed by most of the hamlet’s scattered cottages, and was approaching the Nottingham road when a soft popping sound silenced his singing. The noise seemed to penetrate deep into his bones, and he shivered in the cool afternoon air as he looked around for its source. After a few seconds he spotted some movement in a copse of trees just beyond the hamlet and, intrigued but wary, cautiously began to move towards it.
A moment later the priest stopped dead, frozen with fear by the howling scream that erupted from the trees and echoed through the still air. Ahead of him something burst from the tangled copse and began hurtling towards him at a terrifying speed. The priest caught the briefest of glimpses of a fetid, pale body with grasping arms outstretched before it, and ran.
The priest’s corpulent frame had covered only a matter of yards before the ululating shriek sounded again, seemingly from right behind him, and he echoed the scream in fear. A sickening stench hit him an instant before the homiril did, the force of the impact flinging him to the ground.
Scalpel-sharp talons rent the flesh of his back as he gagged on his fear and the reek of the demon’s milky hide. Somehow the priest managed to roll over onto his raw back, and stared up into a visage straight from Hell.
He screamed again.
The creature stopped flencing the flesh from the priest’s fat body, and squatted on his chest, staring down into his face. The victim’s scream subsided to a blubbering, gasping sob, and the homiril cocked its head to one side, regarding him with interest.
For a moment the two looked at each other, the priest’s eyes widened with fear as they stared into the homiril’s expressionless orbs of red, split by a vertical slit of sheer blackness. The demon leaned forward.
Over the next few minutes the priest stopped longing for life, and started praying for death.
Above him the two slowly circling crows were joined by a third.
Even in the brightness of the late spring afternoon smoke rose from the crude chimney of the tavern, and sounds of merriment could be heard from within. While tenant farmers and villeins still toiled in the fields a few happy souls drank the afternoon away in the low, thatched building, and the sound of their laughter disturbed the otherwise deserted hamlet. In front of the tavern a goat grazed contentedly, seemingly the only other occupant of the tiny settlement, as every other able-bodied person worked the land in preparation for the new season.
Two black crows were startled into flight as the door of the tavern clattered open. From within the dim building the corpulent figure of a Roman Catholic priest emerged, staggering as he did so. The fat priest was well dressed, though not too richly. A bag of coins hung from his belt, a gold crucifix was around his neck, and he used a long staff to steady himself.
The priest stood still for a moment, blinking in the fading sunlight, then erupted into a hacking fit of coughing. He recovered from the fit, wiped his mouth with a podgy hand, and began to wend his way unsteadily through the deserted hamlet, singing as he did so.
He passed by most of the hamlet’s scattered cottages, and was approaching the Nottingham road when a soft popping sound silenced his singing. The noise seemed to penetrate deep into his bones, and he shivered in the cool afternoon air as he looked around for its source. After a few seconds he spotted some movement in a copse of trees just beyond the hamlet and, intrigued but wary, cautiously began to move towards it.
A moment later the priest stopped dead, frozen with fear by the howling scream that erupted from the trees and echoed through the still air. Ahead of him something burst from the tangled copse and began hurtling towards him at a terrifying speed. The priest caught the briefest of glimpses of a fetid, pale body with grasping arms outstretched before it, and ran.
The priest’s corpulent frame had covered only a matter of yards before the ululating shriek sounded again, seemingly from right behind him, and he echoed the scream in fear. A sickening stench hit him an instant before the homiril did, the force of the impact flinging him to the ground.
Scalpel-sharp talons rent the flesh of his back as he gagged on his fear and the reek of the demon’s milky hide. Somehow the priest managed to roll over onto his raw back, and stared up into a visage straight from Hell.
He screamed again.
The creature stopped flencing the flesh from the priest’s fat body, and squatted on his chest, staring down into his face. The victim’s scream subsided to a blubbering, gasping sob, and the homiril cocked its head to one side, regarding him with interest.
For a moment the two looked at each other, the priest’s eyes widened with fear as they stared into the homiril’s expressionless orbs of red, split by a vertical slit of sheer blackness. The demon leaned forward.
Over the next few minutes the priest stopped longing for life, and started praying for death.
Above him the two slowly circling crows were joined by a third.
Broadsword calling Danny Boy...
Well, it's on again: Where Eagles Dare (BBC1 11:05pm August 17th).
A great film, as I'm sure everyone will agree, and one which can be seen on practically a weekly basis (and that's just on UK terrestrial telly).
Henceforth I shall keep a tally of its broadcast frequency.
Will everyone let me know when it's being shown, and which channel and country?. I have a feeling it will be shown more here than anywhere else! It's a quirky English war caper, despite the token Septic in the form of good old Clint.
I have a friend, Edward, for whom this is much more than a film. Whenever it's shown he is compelled to enact a sacred ritual that dates back to his childhood. He fetches a pint glass which he fills with Cocopops and milk, wraps himself in a duvet and proceeds to devour the contents of the glass with a spoon, all the while providing key dialogue just ahead of the actors, presumably to help them in case they forget their lines.
A great film, as I'm sure everyone will agree, and one which can be seen on practically a weekly basis (and that's just on UK terrestrial telly).
Henceforth I shall keep a tally of its broadcast frequency.
Will everyone let me know when it's being shown, and which channel and country?. I have a feeling it will be shown more here than anywhere else! It's a quirky English war caper, despite the token Septic in the form of good old Clint.
I have a friend, Edward, for whom this is much more than a film. Whenever it's shown he is compelled to enact a sacred ritual that dates back to his childhood. He fetches a pint glass which he fills with Cocopops and milk, wraps himself in a duvet and proceeds to devour the contents of the glass with a spoon, all the while providing key dialogue just ahead of the actors, presumably to help them in case they forget their lines.
Monday, August 15, 2005
The Van Akkeren Wheel
I've started posting my novel, The Van Akkeren Wheel. I'll get it up as quick as I can.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
Petrol Woes
Why is it that the last time petrol prices rose there were massive protests, but now with prices at over 90p a litre everyone seems to be quietly accepting it? My car suddenly costs ten pounds more to fill up.
Friday, August 12, 2005
Blogging
God, I can't stop. I'm sure the novelty will wear off soon enough. I fully admit to being a faddist, so I'm sure my posts will cease within a month.
I like the idea of blogging, and it raises some interesting issues. It's like a diary, but one which anyone can read. Should I be brutally honest in my opinions, or tone things down so as not to cause offence? Should I be controversial to attract a greater readership? (This has just made me wonder of there is any way of seeing the number of hits this blog takes). I guess it's okay to be genuinely controversial, as long as it's not done just to shock. Bloody French. D'oh!
These are rhetorical questions BTW, dear reader, but feel free to post a response if you so wish.
I like the idea of blogging, and it raises some interesting issues. It's like a diary, but one which anyone can read. Should I be brutally honest in my opinions, or tone things down so as not to cause offence? Should I be controversial to attract a greater readership? (This has just made me wonder of there is any way of seeing the number of hits this blog takes). I guess it's okay to be genuinely controversial, as long as it's not done just to shock. Bloody French. D'oh!
These are rhetorical questions BTW, dear reader, but feel free to post a response if you so wish.
Tonight we dine at the American Embassy
Well, this is my first blog. I have no idea what it will be about, or indeed if anyone will read it. I hope it will be amusing and thought provoking, but it may well be dry and vapid. At least it will provide a forum for my stream of inner bullshit, which will save it backing up painfully in my brain-tubes. Does this mean a blog is a form of virtual head enema? An e-colonic? It gives a whole new meaning to streaming.
Anyhoo, this week I have mostly been eating fruit for lunch, which means that I am more than ready for our habitual Friday treat: a sumptuous repast courtesy of the American Embassy. I'm sure America will feature from time to time in this blog, but for now let us just give thanks for the Golden Arches. Sweet.
Anyhoo, this week I have mostly been eating fruit for lunch, which means that I am more than ready for our habitual Friday treat: a sumptuous repast courtesy of the American Embassy. I'm sure America will feature from time to time in this blog, but for now let us just give thanks for the Golden Arches. Sweet.
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