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Conversation with Jen this evening:
R: You can cheat at Scissors, Paper, Stone, you know.
J: …
R: I'm quite good at it.
J: …
R: It's all to do with the timing.
J: …
R: As you're counting 1…2…3…, you delay your hand movements ever so slightly, to see what your opponent goes for—then you go for whatever beats them a split-second later.
J: …
R: They usually don't notice.
J: …
R: …What?
J: …
R: WHAT?!!!
J: …WE'VE played Scissors, Paper, Stone.
BBC: Martin case tops BBC's Today poll
A proposal to allow homeowners to use "any means" to defend their homes, has topped a BBC poll on the bill people would most like to see become law.
This proposed law is designed to allow respectable and responsible members of society, such as paranoid personality disorder sufferer and convicted child killer Tony Martin, to employ more than the reasonable force they are already entitled to by law to protect their property. Which I guess would give us all carte blanche to use unreasonable force.
Jehovah's Witnesses, door-to-door salesmen and cats of Great Britain, your days are truly numbered. Yeeeee-ha! Let the lynchings begin!
Happy New Year.
The final score for my 10 bullshit predictions for 2003 (based on anagrams of my friend Carolyn Farthing's name) is just in…
Remarkable, in an entirely unremarkable kind of way.
Remember this the next time someone tells you they've had a psychic experience.
I just saw an advertisement on the telly, and I couldn't believe my ears—so I checked out the official website:
L'Oréal website: Boswelox™ is a breakthrough phyto-complex created by L'Oréal Paris that combines a power dose of boswellia serrata extract and manganese, which help reduce the appearance of lines caused by facial micro-contractions.
No, really, I kid you not: Boswelox! That name gave me more than a few facial micro-contractions, let me tell you. Still, I suppose it beats Swel-bolox™—but only just.
To be honest, Bob Monkhouse was never really my cup of tea, but let's hope he went in the way described in his brilliant joke:
When I go, I want to die like my grandfather, peacefully in his sleep; not screaming in terror, like his passengers.
Conversation over coffee with my friend the farmer this morning:
Today saw my sixteenth annual Christmas Eve ascent of Moel Famau in North Wales. Unlike last year, it was remarkably dry, and I had company in the form of Irish Mick, his dad and Stense.
[By the way Stense/Mick, when I said it was the fifteenth anniversary this year, I wasn't so much lying as getting my maths wrong. So much for my not-so-hard-earned science degree.]
I know I shouldn't laugh at my own jokes, but somebody has to…
Jen and I had the following conversation this afternoon:
J: "Russell's chickens didn't lay any eggs this week, apparently."
R: "Why's that? Don't they lay eggs in cold weather or something?"
J: "I don't think so. They can get too old as well, I think—a sort of chickens' menopause."
R: "You mean a henopause?"
"So, Richard, what do you use the internet for?"
"Oh, you know, emailing my friends, surfing, checking up on the news…"
"Wouldn't it be cheaper to turn on the telly?"