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I dunno. I spend all my waking hours devising new ways to spread goodwill amongst all mankind through the Web 1.0 medium that is Gruts, and what bloody goes and happens? Al Gore wins the bloody Nobel Peace Prize. (He dyes his hair, you know.)
That medal had my name all over it, I tell you. Someone got to the judges. And we all know who, don't we, Ratzinger.
Of course, you realise this means war.
Carolyn contacted me out of the blue on Tuesday and suggested we meet for a coffee: her treat. Which was nice.
"Hey," I said, as I supped on my suspiciously medium-sized-looking, so-called Grande, "I read a great joke on the internet the other day. Want to hear it?"
"Go on, then," said Carolyn, not particularly enthusiastically.
"'Doctor, doctor, my hearing is getting worse and worse.'
'What are the symptoms?'
'They're a yellow-faced cartoon family on the telly.'"
"… I don't get it," said Carolyn.
AAAS: Something in the Way She Moves
In a particularly stimulating study, researchers have found that lap dancers—women who work in strip joints and, for cash, gyrate in the laps of seated men—earn more when they are in the fertile phase of their menstrual cycle. The finding suggests that women subtly signal when they are most fertile, although just how they do it is not clear.
You've got to hand it to those sociobiologists: they get research grants to die for. I mean, how did they pull that one off? Getting paid to study lap dancers—and all in the name of 'science'. I am humbled by their ingenuity.
Although the above study seems hardly worthy of comment, I should point out that, when I were a lad, young women gyrating in the laps of seated men was not considered to be a particularly subtle form of communication. Has anyone considered the alternative (and, to me, more likely) hypothesis that, when these women are at their most fertile, they feel more frisky and put more effort into their dancing, thereby reaping more spondulix from their discerning clientèle?
Interestingly, the woman who wrote the above piece has the unlikely name of Constance Holden—or Constant Holding, as I'm sure her friends must call her. I thought they discouraged that sort of thing in lap dancing bars. Or so I'm told.
True story: Carolyn tried lap dancing once. She didn't find it at all easy. The reindeer kept trying to lead. Next holiday, she's off to Gdańsk to try her hand at pole dancing.
BBC: Brown rules out autumn election
Gordon Brown has said he will not call a general election this autumn.
Thank goodness for that! It's Children in Need day on 16th November. I can only take so much excitement in one season.
Too bloody right, mate:
Jonny Wilkinson was the scourge of Australia again as his four penalties put England in the World Cup semi-final after a thrilling win in Marseille.
Did you hear that noise? That was the sound of the Aussies crashing out of the World Cup at the feet of Johnny Wilkinson encore une fois.
Beaut! It's like Jen's 40th birthday all over again.
Stense sent me a text message while I was standing at a urinal yesterday. My phone chimed in my pocket. The chap standing next to me shifted nervously.
"That's why it's called a tinkle," I explained.
See also: Call of nature
Nobody's more surprised than me that this photo actually came out:
BBC: Pope's story through eyes of cat
The Pope has given his consent to a new children's book that tells the story of his life through the eyes of his cat.
The pope has a cat.
I rest my case.
From the same people who brought you buisness intrest:
I have no idea who Alicia Silverstone is. Sure, I know the name, but I don't know why she's famous. Perhaps her dad designed Formula One race tracks or something. I could look it up, I suppose, but life's too short.
Anyway, Alicia Silverstone has got her kit off to make a pro-veggie ad. Never one to miss an opportunity for some gratuitous female nudity on Gruts, why don't I show it to you?
Alicia Silverstone seems like a nice lass. For a veggie with an obnoxiously twangy American accent, I mean. They're usually such miserable sods. Vegetarians, I mean, not Americans. Not all of them, you understand—some of my best friends are veggies—but an awful lot of them are such miserable, joyless, pasty-faced sods. Vegetarians, I mean, not my friends. And it's no coincidence they're miserable, joyless, pasty-faced sods: not enough meat, you see.
Anyway, the American pro-meat brigade have responded to the Alicia Silverstone ad with an identical one of their own. Identical, that is, except this one stars a fat bloke with a 'tache. Never one to seize an opportunity for some gratuitous male nudity on Gruts, why don't I post a link to it on YouTube instead?
Do you see what they're doing, there? They're trying to imply that being a vegetarian makes you into a sexy babe, whereas being a meat-eater makes you into a fat bloke with a 'tache. No mention of miserable, pasty-facedness. No mention of obnoxiously twangy American accents. No mention of poo that smells of lentils. No, become a veggie and become a sexy babe like Alicia Silverstone; eat meat and become a fat bloke with a 'tache; that's what they're saying.
Well, let me present you with an alternative dichotomy. Compare and contrast:
