🦆
My mum's new dog is already turning into a real character. For example, she barks at her own poo, which is kind of odd. But by far the strangest thing she does—I have never seen any other dog do this—is wag her tail in her sleep. Not just a gentle wag, you understand; she wags her tail like the clappers.
Now there's a happy dog.
Never thought I'd find myself in total agreement with the Daily Telegraph.
A fart on Thomas Putnam!
Right, I'm off to bludgeon a fox cub.
I just made one of the cleverest puns of my life.
Unfortunately, with all due respect to Jen, I could really have done with a physics graduate to hand to groan in appreciation. As it was, Jen just looked at me blankly (like any normal human being would), and asked me what the hell I was talking about.
Our dishwasher is broken at the moment, so we were doing the washing-up the old-fashioned way, and found ourselves fighting over a tea-towel:
"Tell you what," said Jen. "Hang the expense! Why don't I get a second tea-towel out? Is there some law of physics which states that you can't use more than one tea-towel at a time?"
I couldn't believe she had fed me such a line: "Yes," I said, "it's called the Toweli Exclusion Principle."
Ouch!
WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON'T GET IT?
Damn, damn clever, if I do say so myself. On so many levels. Ouch! There I go again!
Why isn't there a scientific equivalent of the word Philistines?
See also: The Einstein Joke
Watching Match of the Day with Jen:
J: Is that Emlyn Hughes on the bench?
R: No.
J: Are you sure?
R: Yes. Emlyn Hughes is dead.
J: Are we watching an old match or something?
BBC: Manchester tops second city poll
Manchester is thought to be England's second most important city ahead of Birmingham, a BBC survey has found.
The most important city, it goes without saying, is Liverpool.
BBC: Former Playmate Smith dies at 39
This one has conspiracy theory written all over it.
Email this evening:
hi… i like to know where you take this pic ( disney war ) i'm the designer who create the Disney War stencil in Buenos Aires. Argentine. and i trying to reach all the clones the people made around the world.
Thanks!
Jen just came out with a good one: the next time she's handed a microphone at a conference, or somewhere like that, she's going to put on a pretentious actor's voice and say, "Thesping, thesping, 1-2-3."
I had a really weird dream last night: Carolyn and I were walking through a campsite in what I assume was Anglesey, when we spotted her oldest daughter trying to drive a white camper van. We called to her to stop, saying the owner would be really cross, but she said she knew it was my camper van really (which it wasn't) and carried on practicing her driving (including, I have to say, some pretty impressive reversing manoeuvres). Then Ann and Bill's gay dog ran up and started biting at the hems of my trouser legs. The next thing I knew, Carolyn and I were in an office somewhere, and she was explaining how it was really important for her to arrange a meeting between her boss and the actress Imogen Stubbs. I said that, by an amazing co-incidence, I happened to know Imogen Stubbs quite well, because she was a friend of Irish Mick, and lived at 66, Bromborough Village Road (Note: Imogen Stubbs is not a friend of Irish Mick, nor, as far as I know, does she live at 66, Bromborough Village Road—but she did in this dream.) Then Carolyn had somehow disappeared, and Irish Mick brought Imogen Stubbs into the room. Only it wasn't really Imogen Stubbs; it was this very fat woman, who vaguely resembled a very fat Imogen Stubbs. I decided to go along with her pretence: "So, Imogen, would you be happy to meet Carolyn and her boss?" I asked. "Erm," said the pretend, fat Imogen Stubbs, clearly embarrassed, "I'd rather not, if you don't mind… Not after last time."
And then I woke up.
All of which goes to prove that you really shouldn't mix grape and grain.
Yes, yes, I know what you're wondering: where was Stense in all this? Exactly!! Boy, has she got some explaining to do!
Did you ever witness something and know for certain that there was far more to it than what you had just seen? I think it's down to what arty-farty, dramatic types refer to as the back story: stuff which happens before the event, which you aren't necessarily a party to, but which is deeply significant to what you are seeing.
The rush-hour traffic was pretty typical on the M62 last Friday: generally slower than on other days of the week, but still moving, albeit occasionally degrading into stop-start mode as lane-jumping jokers tried to save five seconds by undertaking the car in front. I'd just passed the exit before mine, when I noticed two cars pulled up on the hard shoulder ahead of me. I assumed they must have had some sort of minor knock because of the inconsistent traffic speed. The aftermaths of such knocks are a pretty common sight on Friday evenings.
As I drew nearer the cars, I saw the two drivers inspecting the damage. The driver of the front car was a man in his mid- to late-thirties; the driver of the second car was a woman of similar age. From their general body language, I guessed they had both decided that whatever damage there was was inconsequential, and that they would both rather just let it drop, rather that involve their insurance companies.
The two drivers nodded at each other, and the man made to return to his car. But the woman suddenly ran after him. He turned, and she kissed him: not just a friendly peck on the cheek, but a proper kiss on the mouth.
As I overtook them, they both returned to their cars, and presumably rejoined the motorway traffic.
What the flipping heck was going on there, do you reckon?