Nasty little ginger shit.
That’s how I will be referring to the third in line to the throne from now on.
What a total wanker.
It’s inherited through the Y chromosome, apparently.
Clarificatory postscript: The nasty little ginger shit should not be confused with the song Holding Back the Years by Simply Red. The latter is a nasty little ginger’s hit.
While we were out on Monday, Stense bought herself the latest edition of Men’s Health magazine.
Excellent motoring section.
From what I’ve seen of Men’s Health magazine—which, you’ll appreciate isn’t much—it seems to be aimed at blokes who like to stand around in their underpants all day working on their ‘abs’. And for women who have a thing about blokes who like to stand around in their underpants all day working on their ‘abs’. Which is most women, as far as I can tell.
I haven’t a clue what an ‘ab’ is, but I’m damned sure I wouldn’t want to go showing mine off in public. Even if I could.
And what is it with those six-pack stomachs? Six-packs are for lager-sipping softies. Real men drink real ale, and that stuff comes in barrels.
I don’t understand women, I really don’t. They keep insisting that, when it comes to men, looks aren’t important; it’s personality that counts. But when did you last see a woman buying a magazine with Fred Dibnah or Jeremy Paxman on the cover? Exactly! Women are full of shit.
Jealous? Me? No way, ladies! There’s nothing those muscle-bound hunks have got that I haven’t got four times over.
Screaming Blue Messiahs (1984):
That’s NINETEEN… EIGHTY… FOUR…
Christ!
Not even Stense could explain this one:
I’m sorry, I’m not entirely sure why I said ‘Not even Stense’. But, seriously, how do you misplace something like that?
Local legend has it that the chap putting up the sign had a few pints in the pub mid-way.
D/Ch.Supt Gill Templar: Find me a witness tout fucking suit!
Compare and contrast:
Carolyn, 24-Sep-2007
Stense, 22-Oct-2007
We have a right to know.
A pub for grown ups on Monday.
What a fantastic pub! Full of grown-up people enjoying grown-up beer and grown-up food in an altogether grown-up environment.
I was totally out of my depth.
On our way out, we couldn’t believe our luck when we saw a family of four reading the blackboard outside. “Oh, it’s not fair! Children aren’t allowed in!” moaned one of the sprogs.
“Just like it was when I were a lad, kid,” I wish I’d said.
Stense reading one of her new (old) acquisitions in a pub on Monday.
Which is just as well, really, because that’s how I spent Monday. Stense was in town, and we went through our favourite combination of second-hand bookshops, cafés, and pubs.
Several stories and a brand new competition to follow.
If you’re really lucky, I might even put up some more photos. (OK, Stense, so I lied: learn to deal with it.)
A few years ago, I bought a rhyming dictionary. It was shrink-wrapped. Imagine my disappointment when I got home and opened it to discover that it was nothing more than a bunch of lists of words which rhyme with each other. I had quite reasonably expected it to be an ordinary dictionary where all the definitions were written in rhyme. You get the idea:
floater (n) sl.
A poo
In the loo
Whose buoyancy
Causes annoyancy
It seems to me there’s a huge gap in the market for a proper rhyming dictionary.
(Twenty bonus points for the best rhyming definition in the comments.)
Postscript: I see from the comments that the gap in the market has already been filled.
Sonny Boy Williamson II: Bye Bye Bird:
BBC: England 6-15 South Africa
South Africa ended England’s reign as world champions as the Springboks claimed their second World Cup victory.
The scoreline flattered South Africa, but, to be fair, they were the best team in the tournament—if not on the pitch.
The Australian television match official inflicted by far the most damage on the defending champions by disallowing Cueto’s clear try early in the second half. The question has to be asked: why didn’t he have access to the same video images as the rest of the world?
England were written off as no-hopers before tournament. We never expected to get to the final.
We’ll be back.
Conversation over Jen‘s ever-excellent homemade chorizo and pepperoni pizza this evening (I made the dough):
J: Is this your favourite dinner?
R: It’s definitely up there.
J: What would you choose to eat for your last ever meal, if you were on Death Row?
R: The Pope.
J: The Pope?
R: Yeah. If I’m going to die, I’m taking that bastard with me.
J: This is my game: you’re not allowed to eat another human being.
R: Well he eats the body of Christ every Sunday!
Use tripod more often:
At work yesterday, I noticed that my hand smelt rather unpleasant. It was the sort of smell you get if you’ve been handling a lot of coins. Not very nice. So I went and washed my hands.
Five minutes later, I noticed that the smell was still there. So I went and washed my hands again—a bit more dilligently this time.
Blow me, when I returned to my desk, the smell was still there! This was getting ridiculous. So I went to wash my hands yet again.
It turned out the smell was from the soap.
It’s generally frowned on these days, but it’s good to know that some of us Brits still have a certain class.
Occasionally, visitors to this site accidentally click the wrong link and leave a comment against the wrong item. Usually, if I realise their mistake, I simply move the misplaced comment over to the intended item.
Earlier this week, on the Guardian newspaper’s Comment is Free website, some poor soul made a similar mistake. In an item about the ludicrous suggestion that Britain should have a national motto (politicians, huh?), a person calling themself Bleedingheart accidentally posted a comment saying:
They are the Falkland Islands, twit, and they were British long before America seized Texas, California, the rest of the “Southwest” and all the oil and minerals they contained.
They immediately realised their mistake and added a second comment:
Yikes, sorry about that, wrong thread. Ignore! Ignore!
… But it was too late: the other commenters were on to Bleedingheart.
It turns out that They are the Falkland Islands, twit would make an extremely popular national motto amongst the Guardian-reading intelligentsia.
It’s worth reading the article and its comments: they made me laugh out loud at least twice. (But it should be said that I was pretty tired at the time.)
Colleague: Is it just me, or is there a nasty niff in this kitchen?
Me: Oh, I’m pretty sure it isn’t you.
Pat. not yet pending.
I say jackdaw-resistant because them crows are damn devious. I’m sure their cunning bird brains will eventually overcome the challenge. In the meantime, the tits should be able to feed untroubled.
Oh, and it’s a hell of a lot easier to fill than the traditional bird feeders.
That’s nuts and tits in the same post. Should help the ratings.
We WON! Against all the odds, we actually bloody won! We’re in the sodding Rugby World Cup final!
Your heart has to go out to the poor French.
Yeah, right! Remember your very own Baron de Coubertin, you Frogs: l’important n’est pas de gagner mais de participer.
Yeah, in yer face, Pierre! Them’s the words of a looooooosssssseeeeeeeerrrrrr!
Magic mustard! Well done, our lads!
