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Note discovered in my new Moleskine™ this morning after a session on the ale with Fitz (the tosser) last night:
Did you know, if you rearrange the letters of the name 'Richard Carter', you can spell 'This anagram doesn't work'?
Other than that, we talked a load of bollocks for three and a half hours, if memory serves. Which it probably doesn't.
Spotted on a gravestone this morning:
MARY JONES
(STUMP)
I thought Stump was a pretty odd nickname for a woman, and wondered whether she had been rather short and squat. She mustn't have minded her nickname, I reckoned, for it to have been carved on her gravestone.
Then I worked out that Stump had probably been her maiden name.
You'll never guess what I saw in Tesco, Prestwich, last Thursday—right next to the HP Sauce. Go on, have a guess.
No, that's not it.
No, that's not it either.
Pickled quails' eggs. I kid you not. In Tesco. Who do they think they are?
Come to think of it, what sort of person actually wants to buy pickled quails' eggs in the first place? Have you ever seen a quail's egg? They're not exactly filling. I reckon I could get one in my nostril at a push. And, even if this mythical customer was in the market for a few pickled quails' eggs, can you imagine them saying to themself, "I wonder if they'll have any at Tesco."
Hardly bloody likely, is it?
(Unless they read this, of course.)
BBC: Euro jackpot lost in player error
Members of a Belgian lottery syndicate who thought they had won 27m euros were dealt a huge blow when they found their winning numbers had not been entered…
[T]he group of friends were crushed when it turned out the person charged with buying the ticket had allowed the machine to choose random numbers.
This is exactly the reason why, in my two-person lottery syndicate with Carolyn, I insist on choosing random numbers each week. Carolyn, however, believes in the Gambler's Fallacy, so, in her two-person lottery syndicate with me, she always chooses the same numbers.
To date, my randomly chosen numbers have won us fifty quid, whereas Carolyn's lucky numbers have won exactly zero sausages.
Not that that proves anything.
I wonder what treatment they offer to people with a morbid fear of hypnotherapy.
I'd just poured myself a glass of wine on Thursday night, when Carolyn sent me an instant message asking for some computer assistance. I didn't really understand what she was on about, so I rang her. It turned out she was about to pour herself a glass of wine too, so we had a virtual drink together. It's the best we seem to be able to manage these days.
The following conversation took place:
R: Which wine are you drinking?C: It's a posh one with lots of gold thread round the bottle: Marques de Valido… REE-ODJA.R: REE-OCKA, it's pronounced REE-OCKA.C: No, that's a type of cheese!R: No, that's ricotta.[Howls of laughter on both our parts.]C: It's very good: nineteen ninety-nine.R: Bloody hell! It should be… Oh, you don't mean the price, do you? You mean the year.[More howls of laughter.]C: You were really impressed for a moment, then, weren't you?
Of course, Carolyn wasn't quite sure whether to believe me about Rioja being a wine and not a cheese, so she took the precaution of checking with her dad the following morning. He said he was fairly sure it was a wine.
Don't bald men seem to spend an awful lot of time rubbing their heads? They want to get over it. I'm fat, but I don't spend all day rubbing my stomach.
But perhaps I've got it the wrong way round. Perhaps rubbing their heads all day is what made them go bald in the first place.
Someone should do a study.
I nearly forgot all about this one. Last Friday, Jen and I did a spot of Christmas shopping in Manchester. While we were in Marks and Sparks, I took the opportunity to powder my nose. As I walked into the gents, a scruffy-looking man followed me in carrying a huge pair of branch-loppers. This was rather off-putting.
On his way out, rather than using the door handle like any normal person, the scruffy-looking man opened the door by reaching up and pulling on the mechanical door-closer. He did it on both sets of doors. I thought this was pretty odd, so I gave him a few seconds before I followed him out.
Thinking about it afterwards, I've come up with four possible explanations for his strange door-opening technique:
Any other suggestions?
