Thursday, January 22, 2009

Signing Off


I finally reached the end of the internet; I have read every page on both sides... which is the only reason I read yours. While nothing you wrote seemed remotely interesting (although that Cath girl seems interesting, please send nude photos) I was fascinated by the concept of small celebrity heads.

Last year I was awoken one morning by uncontrollable full-body twitching, and was subsequently diagnosed with PANDAS (Pediatric Auto-Immune Neurological Disease Associated with Streptococcal); a self-limiting disease whereby a full 8 weeks after I had a sore throat, my immune system mistakenly attacked a part of my brain responsible for movement called the Basal Ganglia.

The upshot? When my 3rd neurologist wanted to see a twitch, he made me count backwards from 100 in 7s, which made me twitch with each iteration. From there I discovered that not only was Maths a trigger for twitches, but Geography, and incredibly, Miley Cyrus too.

Please find attached my therapy.


PS The Gaslight isn't the same without you.


Monday, July 14, 2008

Humping Dog

People are always saying to me, "Davey, What is the perfect gift for someone who has everything, except for a bunch of useless USB gadgets that employ low brow humour for some cheap laughs?"

"That's a tough one." I say thoughtfully, scratching my chin and pondering the question with the level of attention it deserves. "Tell me, have you by any chance heard of Humping Dog?"

"Don't you mean a humping dog?" they inevitably say. The feeble minded often say ridiculous things. Prefixing Humping Dog with a derogatory 'a' would be paramount to suggesting that he is one of many dogs around that are merely attempting to hump. NOT SO. Humping Dog's influence is more ubiquitous than that, his actions far more profound. In his world, Humping Dog is god.

What world is that you ask? Well let me show you.

It is a magical world, where flowers and mushrooms grow side by side and the mountains are gigantic boobs. Where Humping Dog once trained for a whole year just to reach nipple summit. It was a treacherous climb -- his Humping Sherpa was was never found after falling head-first down a partially hidden cleavage crevasse. He was a brave and horny Humping Sherpa, and we honour him.

Even with all of these accolades, people are still resistant to the charms of Humping Dog. They ask me, "Does Humping Dog have any alternate uses besides humping your USB port?" While the stupidity of the question infuriates me, my parole explicitly stipulates that only non-violent responses are acceptable in social situations, so I answer them in measured tones. I say, "Does humping dog NEED to do anything besides that, you cretin?" They point out that he could potentially also be a memory stick that you could store important documents on while he was doing his business. Clearly logic escapes some people.

Humping Dog is not without his faults though. Having no ability to turn off or moderate his hump would be one of them. I don't need to tell you what impact his infinite hump has on the environment, nor what his disregard for it has on me. Humping Dog can be awfully selfish at times.

Another shortcoming would be his instructions, which I find particularly perturbing:

The main problem is that that I don't speak Swahili, so I have no idea what Humping Dog is trying to tell me. Are you in trouble, Humping Dog? I hope not. I like to think that he is informing me of his overall humping compatibility, perhaps sung to the theme of the Black Eyed Peas tune 'My Hump', but realistically he could be saying anything. He could be insulting my lineage for all I know. Humping Dog is impressively multi-lingual like that.

While the world of Humping Dog is indeed a strange one, and that questions regarding his usefulness are a bit worrying, I can't help but feel as though he's got it all stitched up. While the rest of us are running around in circles, having anxiety attacks over which Minogue would win in an egg and spoon race, Humping Dog is just kicking back, observing us all with bemused detachment. The guy's unflappable. He knows that while there's still one unused port out there, somewhere, he'll have a purpose in life. I envy him for that.

But then, how could you ever stay mad at a face like that:

Hump on little buddy, hump on.

If you too feel the love for Humping Dog, then please vote for him over at
. Money raised goes toward the Humping Sherpa orhpans, a worthy, and horny, cause. If instead you decide that you cannot be arsed, why not watch Humping Dog in some four way action? I challenge you not to be aroused.

Thursday, July 10, 2008

I hate me! I'm never speaking to me again.

Walking down the street in Stockholm last weekend, I noticed a distrustful looking individual coming down the path who was coveting what appeared to be a half eaten cream bun. As we approached each other, he suddenly veered off his line and careened uncontrollably toward me. Unable to avoid impact, we collided, decimating his cream bun and sending it flying off in all directions.

"Prushecta!" I managed after wiping down my front, pleased that I had remembered the Swedish expression for 'Excuse me' but still spitting it out with vehemence.

After we fled the scene I turned to Cath and rolled my eyes. "Geez," I said, trying not to sound flustered "was that guy wasted!" A keen observation if ever there was one.

"Disabled." she corrected.

"What?" Observation skills crumbling.

"You mean disabled. There was a group of them. Didn't you see the woman next to him in a wheelchair?"

Great. Like I needed another memory to feel disproportionately guilty about. So what does that make it: the speech I gave my sister at her wedding, calling my friend's mother Sandra when her name clearly isn't Sandra, ridiculing my friend's softballing skills when he was standing right behind me, and now: Disabled guy whose cream bun I ruined.

I'm sure there are more memories that I also cringe over, it's just that they only tend to make themselves known at 3 in the morning when insomnia has you by the balls.


If you thought this post was slightly humorous, or even downright offensive, why not embellish a little and vote for it proudly over at It will seriously only take a jiffy, which in case you were wondering is a time unit originally specified by the Commodore 64 development team as being 1/60 of a second. You see? Now we're all embellishing a little. It's totally what all the kids are doing these days. Well.. that and crack.

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

Who Needs Babelfish?

Corsica Resort:

Bonjour nous sommes désolés mais nous n’avons plus de disponibilités pour les mois de juillet et aout de cette année.

A l’année prochaine peut-être.

Cordialement : service réservation



I am assuming this means that I am very desolate that you cannot come and holiday with me and Juliet, and that Annie will be very upset also.

You sound a very cool little porcupine.

She's actually a lot closer to a meerkat, but it's still an incredible observation over email.

The ratings system has changed, which basically means I stand a chance of umm... something or other! But you can totally help me out getting there. No, we don't need to know where 'there' is, that's beside the point. It's all about the journey, remember?

Things I would love you to do:

1. Click on that link above
2. Sign up for an account
3. Find my posts
4. Click on the big smiley next to my post to give me a vote
5. Somehow convince a large government body to invade Zimbabwe

That's it! It's that simple!


Work has been crazy the last few weeks. And not in a 'the Gods must be Crazy' crazy, which would be OK, but in a 'Herbie goes Bananas' crazy, which is worse because it involves a possessed car and Lindsay Lohan.

On the positive side, I've been learning about some amazing new technologies. As a programmer it's always good to keep your skills honed, which is a characteristic of work I imagine us and cage fighters have in common. New things to add to my resume are: Web Services, WS-Security, WCF, Ajax and JQuery. Conveniently my resume also doubles as a list of subjects never to bring up during polite conversation.

In lieu of putting up a decent post, why don't we peruse some of the artistry my associate Dave and I created during a happier working zeitgeist.

Yes, I realise that they are just more celebrities with miniature heads, but you have to understand how much amusement we were getting out of this.

Style tip: try to stay away from feature accessories that draw attention to your worst assets.

How much does old mate on the right there look like a Womble? If you answered 'lots', you win. The prize is knowing way too much about 80s kid shows.

Y'see, the funny thing here is you look at it and second guess whether Elvis really did have a small head all along. You wonder how he ever looked so dashing in military garb when his captains hat must have looked like a old salon lady waiting for her hair to do its thing. Don't worry grandma. It's all a trick of the eyes. Go back to lusting after his intoxicating hips, for Elvis' head was bonafide.

Another guy who is wondering whether this is the first time he's noticed it.

Dave thinks that I'm going to hell for this one. He needn't worry. My fate was well and truly assured after that whole 'calling the wailing wall a sissy' incident. Yikes.

I think it was Blakkat who asked for an Arnie one, so here you go darlin. I believe John Connor is just about to prove that the Terminator's head is smaller than a pistol. Subsequently, Terminator cries. It is a very humanising scene.

Oh my god! It's 4 o'clock! I'm totally missing Ready Steady Cook!

It was around this point in time that Dave and I got bored of just giving people smaller heads. Logical progression, smaller faces. It would have taken an army of monkeys twice as long to figure that one out.

You know why you're dancing on the ceiling partner? Because nobody ridicules your fro up there. Awww. Slings and arrows.

I dunno what it is, but I find novelty-sized things hilarious. Look at him straining to reach that ball. Don't worry dude! Your racquet covers the entire court! Just prop it up on angle and go pour yourself a beer!

At least he doesn't have to go far.

You can tell by the look on everyone's faces that they can't believe he's wearing stirrups. They're all like, woah. Stirrups. Afterwards, they can't look they're mate in the eye, just in case they got caught in some kind of Brokeback mountain situation. All the while the bull is looking upset and saying 'Why do I even bother being small. No-one notices.'

The sword. It does nothing! I like the guy behind the barricade. He's all "Ello? Ello! Et 'im with your thing! Your THING!"

That's all of them. We haven't made any more since I started acting secretively and talking in slogans. "If you can't beat em, join em!" I'll remark after being invited to lunch. That was two weeks ago. I'm not receiving as many invitations nowadays.

Recently I've started to think about a change. Not because I'm disliking the work I'm doing necessarily, but because the guy two seats down from me smells as though he selects his clothes from a decomposing pile of rags. I'm under the impression he utilises the age old clothes drying technique known as 'forgetful evaporation', although by the rank smell in the air I question how much science is relied upon during his washing cycle. I wonder if he has nostrils. I wonder if his friends do. I wonder how long I can hold out before mentioning it to the team over beers.

People smell of lemongrass and posies over at, which is an incredible achievement when you consider that they used to smell like a cross between an armpit and an underpass.

Monday, June 30, 2008

On Stalking Beings, and Other Things

He is waiting there again as I close the security door to Cath's building. Turning around, I see that he is staring intently at my movements through his Egyptian eyes. Strange, aloof eyes that don't seem to match his patchwork coat and hairy face; an generally unkempt attire that eludes to a completely different ancestry altogether. I greet him in our usual fashion. He in turn acknowledges me by closing his eyes slightly and nodding. I decide not for the first time that this must be a pretty cool way of saying hello wherever he's from, and begin constructing other mannerisms in my head that might later be incorporated into my daily routine. Waggling my head and blinking furiously, I saunter off with a slight limp to go fetch the morning bagels.

Later that day, running back to apartment to find something, I run past him sitting at a table outside the cafe on the corner of the building. Only too late do I realise who it is I just ran by, and miss the opportunity of trying out one of my new greetings. I feel guilty for about half a second, before going back to trying to remember what it was exactly Cath had asked me to retrieve from the apartment.

It is almost dinner time. After having said goodbye to Kate and Pauley, we shake off the afternoon beers and set about the difficult task of deciding exactly which local restaurateur should delight upon receiving us for dinner. We finally decide on the pub, despite the flimsy argument of superior food quality hanging stubbornly in the air between us like a floating polygraph. Leaving again, I see him sitting once more on the step outside the apartment, and buoyed by the beer I walk up and begin exalting him with the amiability only drunks can muster.

"Kiss Kiss! Who's a pretty boy then?"

"Meow!" he spits, turning on his heel and scurrying around the corner, clearly still pissed at me for having ignored his little stunt of sitting atop a cafe table during the lunchtime rush without getting shooed.

Cats eh. You make one slip up and they're getting all retributive up in your thang as though it was some awesome 80s kung fu movie, but with notably less roundhouse kicking.

Stop animal cruelty NOW! by clicking on Every click will go towards saving one defenceless bunny named Hapless George, who's never been given anything in his life except YOUR CLICKS.
Don't be selfish. George wouldn't want that.

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Best Wingman Ever

I wonder if he'd consider renting himself out to be my hero.


Friday, June 20, 2008

Learning: No Longer Just for Sissies

It has been a week of revelations for me.

Good friend and fellow blogger The Irish Dreamer initiated a nightmare last Friday in a scathing post that split the Irish blogging community in two. Considering the subject of the post I'm not really surprised, and although I personally don't agree with her method of critique (and also have the impression there's more to her frustration than she lets on), my heart goes out to her; she is quite obviously reeling from being the instigator of what appears to be a very deep rift within a group of people she not only cares about, but works extremely hard to be a part of. She's in San Sebastien now, so happy holidayin' darlin. Pack all your troubles in your old kit bag and smile.

In my part of the world, a post yesterday that I had intended to be a flattering and humourous portrait of a dear friend drew completely the opposite reaction when she read it. She was embarrassed, hurt, and asked that I take it down immediately. Despite numerous apologies and attempts to explain that my intentions were not to ridicule her in any way I garnered no further reply. I hope that I haven't lost a friend over what I arrogantly presumed was an innocuous ramble.

Yesterday afternoon, sitting on the front porch in the sun and trying to digest the paper I realised that I had been reading over the same paragraph for last 15 minutes. Not that bond financing wasn't inherently fascinating to me, it's just that sometimes minds tend to have a mind of their own. Particularly mine.

Unlike the Exiled Dreamer, I've always shied away from getting too personal on these pages. Keeping people at an emotional arms length and addressing them through the fogged lens of humour is a great deal easier for me that trying to get people amused by the common facets of my life. But I realised yesterday that this goal of light-heartedness has blinded me to a very simple truth -- people generally don't like being the butt of jokes. No matter how well intended the joker is.

Unfortunately, it seems that I've learned this lesson the hard way. Hopefully, given enough time to discredit me sufficiently, my friend will stop being angry and decide that actually, I'm an okay guy. Perhaps I could speed up the hug train with the prompt delivery of some flowers; I read somewhere that apologies to girls are made easier that way. Mind you, I also read somewhere that European wasps taste like pine nuts, which is incredible when you think about what they had to go through to find that out.

"Mm, this is a lovely pesto."


Regardless of the outcome, I decided that for the sake of avoiding hypocrisy I should reverse the looking glass every now and again. But won't that just make you look really, really small? I hear you ask. Perhaps. My understanding of physics is such that anything is possible. It's a big world out there kiddo, and looking glass theory is only the beginning. Next week we could be talking binoculars. Zip Zap.

So, expect a few more posts that might not be so funny. Heck, they might not even be interesting. But they'll be about me. Me and, you know, anyone I see on the bus who looks weird. Because for me, the joy of writing comes not through the fluid expressions of an instinctual linguist, but in the twists and turns of a bumbler who has no fucking idea what he is doing.

And I don't expect that is ever going to change much.

Quickly plummeting down the charts at Things are considerably worse in Darfur though, so it's good to have a bit of perspective on the whole thing.

Friday, June 6, 2008

He's the Tall, Silent Type

"I Married the Eiffel Tower" was on Channel 5 the other night. I know. Best name for a TV show ever, right? After the initial lead in, the producers could have pretty much shown me 30 minutes of static followed by someone burping and I still would have declared it the most amazing show on television. I mean really. Married to the Eiffel tower? Who on earth has that much imagination? When I'm drunk sometimes I'll draw a picture of a fighter jet squadron attacking Godzilla, with people down the bottom on fire and getting hit by flying debris and stuff, but I would never think to marry that debris. Who marries debris?

One young lady does, and she goes by the name of Erika La Tour Eiffel. I have no idea where the 'la tour' bit came from -- I expect she was just trying to add some extra Frenchiness, you know, to make the whole thing less weird. Her sexual orientation is described as 'objectum sexual', which is a term that was made up to classify people who are sexually attracted to inanimate objects. In this case, towers.

I've drawn a diagram for those people having trouble keeping up:

Figure 1.0 - Objectum Sexual Love Graph

Now I read on a toilet door once that it's not right to make fun of people who are different, so let me just preface the following remarks by saying that I am truly, truly in awe of this raving lunatic. Fancy having to acquire zoning permits just to get a bit of late night action! Incredible.

What I wanted to show you was the original article that this programme was based on (or the other way around, I forget). I cut it out from the quality magazine 'Reveal', a self styled exposé rag which is a fantastic read so long as you are interested in either Amy Winehouse or the effects of cellulite. If you're not in fact interested in either of those things, then frankly I'm a bit concerned about your ability to assimilate.

I actually really admire her willingness to broadcast her weird sexual proclivities to all and sundry. Especially sundry, because I don't know who sundry is and unknown things are scary. It must take some real guts to cash in on a weird sex story, cheapening your entire relationship and rendering illegitimate your demand for acceptance. I totally admire her for that. What I don't admire her for is that tattoo of the Eiffel tower between her boobs.


Betcha wish I didn't point that out huh? Yeaah, me too.

I love this article though. It has some of the greatest comedic gold I've ever read anywhere ever as far as I can remember. Allow me to draw your attention to paragraph 7.

The Space Shuttle Columbia? Priceless! If you ask me, the Space Shuttle Columbia just sounds funny. "Mum, Dad, I'd like you to meet the Space Shuttle Columbia."

Of course, young love doesn't last forever. Her romance to the shuttle burned out around about the same time the shuttle did, which was upon re-entry in 2003 killing all seven astronauts on board. It's hard to pick up the pieces after something like that.

Now, some people might say that she was only interested in the shuttle for it's uncanny resemblace to.. a flying mongoose. But they'd be wrong. She loved it because it totally looks like a giant wang. Squint your eyes up a bit. Theeere you go.

Hold up, I'm starting to see a pattern here.




I have no idea what that means but I'm sure it's profound. Profound and sexy.

Oh my. What was her pet name for the Space Shuttle Colombia I wonder? Rod? Shaft? Outside of the fact that her lover's names sound as though they were plagiarised from a porno book store, you've really got to hand it to someone who obviously has her priorities for love sorted out:

1. Must be phallic symbol
2. Must be inert
3. Must have telepathic connection with

They didn't do particulary well at archery, and I'm not surprised. To me, the whole relationship seems like a conflict of interest. Think about it: I seriously doubt whether Lance would help you win an archery contest if he was paranoid that you were going to cheat on him with the winner's trophy. I've been around enough sporty love triangles to know that jealous sporting apparel makes for some pretty uncomfortable change-room dynamics. Ditch that bow girlfriend. Find yourself a nice, non-possessive airgun instead.

Anyway, that's it for me. There's really only so long you can talk about this stuff for. You start to feel a bit ensconced in the subject matter, and just between you and me, the laptop has been shooting me pensive looks for the last five minutes.

He needn't worry. I've always been a Mac man myself.

If you correctly guessed that my entire post last joke was in poor taste, I'd suggest you go to It's a happy place where people are free to love whatever objects they choose. Shoes, bikes, whatever. People describe them as smelly hippies, but by god; If getting sexual gratification from a George Foreman grill is hippy, then flower power me up baby.

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

Notes to Self

  • When you open an axe store, open it in some backwater hole and call it "Better axe your Mother". Feign surprise when people axe you why they need permission from their mother to buy an axe.

  • When you get a pet pig, call him "Hamlet".

  • When you get a pet polar bear, call him "Penfold", which although traditionally being a name attributed to Danger Mouse sidekicks is still a good name for a Polar Bear I think.

  • When you procure an apple cider company, GM the apples to contain tobacco and then call the result "Tobapple". It will be thoroughly addictive, and you'll make millions but then feel bad about it. Eventually Julia Roberts will sue your fucking ass.

  • When you get around to starting your Skid Row tribute band, call it "Skid Marx". Naturally you should play lead guitar and get all the babes, who'll eventually leave you for someone younger and hipper and whose band doesn't have a name that honours poo residue and glam rock in equal measures.

  • When you get a pet dog, call him "Cucumber", or "Cuke" for short; because then nobody would be as cool as Cucumber. He'd be a border collie or a German Shepherd, because those dogs rule.

Go and tell your wildest dreams. Please? I get a vote if you do, and that will make my dreams come true. You'd be like my dream weaver, you ol dream weaver you.

Wednesday, May 28, 2008

Image Ideologues

Elections. A fear peddlers paradise. An avenue for liars, muck-rakers and dog-waggers to blissfully engage in the manipulation of the masses. I find the whole process utterly depressing, not to mention extravagantly wasteful. But besides the excess, the lies, and the megalomania, the very worst aspect of new-era campaigning to my mind is the unwavering focus on the negative.

Take the upcoming American presidential election for example. Since Hilary was asked politely to leave after overstaying her welcome (not to mention drinking everyone else's beer), McCain and his cronies have been cranking up the Obama rake-o-meter, taking pot-shots at everything from his lack of experience to his alleged willingness to have an open dialogue with terrorists.

Accusations like this seem to blatantly ignore the fact that the current administration's no dialogue foreign policy (which McCain openly intends to continue with) have been a proven disaster with respect to keeping suspect powers in line. This policy, in my opinion, would be a bit like expecting someone who doesn't like you very much to quit smoking simply by telling everyone else besides them that they smell like the ashtray of a long-hauler. Then, you know, attributing them to some evil axis thing you had a dream about once.

What I find most distressing about this recent round of campaigning is McCain's assertion that Obama is trading solely on aesthetics. I mean, I guess I should expect some level of image attack coming from a guy who looks as though he shares a weekend wardrobe with Sargeant Slaughter, but there was something else that bugged me about this. I couldn't put my finger on what I found so hypocritical about it.. until I opened the paper last week.

Inside I saw a photo of McCain riding in a BlackHawk helicopter somewhere in Iraq.

It looked normal enough, to the untrained eye. But to my heightened sluethy senses, I could see that the image had been PHOTOSHOPPED. Egads!

I couldn't understand why... what on earth were they trying so hard to cover up? I knew that I wouldn't be able to rest until I found out the answer.

After days of searching, I finally caught a break. Hidden away behind JavaScript comments in the source code of the 'Girls Gone Wild' site (I like, totally swear it was the non-members section) I found THIS:

ahhh HA! I KNEW it. I totally knew it. John McCain is a clown fearin', doily nose blowin', nancy boy. Geez louise this was going to blow the entire caucus apart. Assuming I could determine exactly what a caucus was between now and talking to the media, this was going to be big. Tom Hanks big.

UPDATE: For some reason, the Obama campaign office has been ignoring my calls. I guess their machine is broken or something. It really shouldn't be too long now before I'm regarded as a left wing pin-up boy. Aaaany day now.

More half baked political diatribes over at If you mention my name you get a free 'Bush is my Bitch' sticker plus a two-for-one at Wendys.. whatever the hell that means.

Monday, May 26, 2008

Death Defying Metal

Even if you:

  1. have lost your lovely hair, so that now you resemble Lando Calrissian's cyborg sycophant

  2. think that Levi 501 red tabs are the most rock-n-roll jeans ever made

  3. suffer from nappy bum

  4. wear your white Reebok cross trainers every day you're not 'workin for the man'

  5. think that considering how inconvenient pockets tend to be, its surprising more people don't use bum bags

Even if all of these things sum up the person you've somehow become over the last 10 years..

..Never, ever, ever stop loving Iron Maiden.

The sickos over at listen to Bulgarian Two Step. On the count of three, go over there and ridicule them till they whimper. One, two..

Thursday, May 22, 2008

Red Harian Nation

As we shuffled slowly across Victoria Park, I chatted tentatively with Colin in the manner of new friends. He seemed like a great bloke, happily dispensing conversation that drifted quickly away from the stagnant topics we were forced to begin with. Luckily we had his imminent wedding to discuss, which was always going to give us a base camp from which to go foraging. I was looking forward to the wedding; excited to be visiting the Shetland Islands for the first time and secretly hoping to see a plethora of miniature ponies, hopefully being ridden by miniature monkeys. I decided after some deliberation to keep that information to myself; I had learned the hard way that some people react strangely to flights of fancy involving equidite riding simians. Particularly small ones.

The group arrived at Victoria Park Pavilion. Colin and I stood around trying to look like men while the girls busied themselves poking Amy's two year old son Ruban. The little ginger haired chap wore the expression of someone who simply couldn't fathom why everyone was still hanging around being boring when they could instead be at home watching Pingu on repeat. Not getting the reaction they were looking for, the girls continued to prod.

Remembering that the guests had been invited to attend a dancing class a few nights before the wedding, I asked Colin about it. We wouldn't be able to attend and I was loathe to miss it: unless traditional Scottish dancing shared some kind of similarity to Axl Rose's hip sashé, I was going to be in a lot of trouble.

“So I’m a bit worried that I won't be able to remember how to strip the Willow.” I confided.

It was true. The last time I tried I'd lost the group I was dancing with on the very first change. My partner pretended she didn’t mind, but I could tell she was upset. I could plainly see that to her, failing to strip the Willow was paramount to contracting an odious yeast infection. At the time I felt no humiliation over my error. After all, I wasn’t even sure what the Willow was.

“Not a worry mate.” said my new ginger haired friend. “Getting it wrong is all part of the fun. In fact, Céilidh dancing was invented so that Scottish men had an excuse to beat their women.”

An uncomfortable silence formed between us. A coyote howled in the distance.

“That’s a joke, right?” I asked.


“Oh good. Just thought I’d clarify.”

“When you didn’t laugh I thought uh oh. Now he’s going to think I’m a wife basher.”

“Nope. Comedian. Got it.”

But I didn't get it. I was no closer to realising my goal of appropriate Willow stripping. So, lacking the necessary technical know-how to pull off a barn dance heist I settled on a compromise: As long as I could get through the night without falling over and revealing the darkside of my kilt, I would consider it a win.

Sometimes, when I feel low, I go and try on the wedding dresses over at It's comforting to know that I look good in a taffeta veil, even though I'm destined to always have the hips of a bridesmaid.

Monday, May 19, 2008


We take team bonding very seriously at my company. It's not that we want to play network car racing games every lunchtime or stay for that extra pint on a Friday night; it's more of a necessity. You see, when you work in an industry where your very safety balances on a knife edge, you have to know that Goncalo 'Battlestar Galactica' Pereira has his wits about him, and that the guy who always smells of Doritos who you call Paul but who probably isn't called Paul is a man of his word. What I'm saying is you have to know that pseudo-Paul has your back, and that you have his. That's the life of a software developer. We don't expect people to understand.

Which is why the other Dave and I invented this new game called Slebs. Slebs stands for 'Celebs with small heads'. The game is cunning in its simplicity in that you have to photoshop a famous celebrity so that their head is smaller. Then you send it to the other person so that they laugh and hopefully get lambasted by someone of authority, or at the very least get some derisive looks. It's a great game. Here, let me show you:

Sleb 1 - Hulk Hogan (dave)

I was always a bigger fan of Andre the Giant. But it had nothing to do with The Princess Bride, I swear. Anybody want a peanut?

Sleb 2 - Mr. T (me)

Sleb 3 - Rocky (dave)

Look at the shorts. That's attention to detail right there kids. That's how we beat the Russians. Some might tell you it was economics, but they'd be wrong. It was shorts detail.

Sleb 4 - Han and Chewie (me)

If I had a small head, I'd try and look all unperturbed about it too. I'd be all.. "It's coool man, just chillin with my big dog and my small head. It aint no thang."

Sleb 5 - Bill and Hillary

Sleb 6 - Big Bird

Check it out, I even made Mr Hooper look all uncomfortable with his upside down frown and whatnot. Ahh Hooper. Never could handle a bit of malformed bird head.

Sleb 7 - Jon Bon Jovi (Dave)

For all you guitar players, look at his chord hand. It's not a chord!

Bon Jovi is mediocre -- You heard it here first.

Sleb 8 - King Kong

Could you ever love me? Even though I'm a big monkey? It's the head isn't it. You don't go for dudes with disproportionately sized heads. *Sigh* I needs a banana.

More people with smaller heads than you would care to look at over at You know what they say about small heads though, right? Small hats. Very small hats.

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

Old Man BMX

The other day when I was walking down Well Street to grab the paper a really old guy whizzed past me on a bike. While this is nothing that usual, what caught my eye was that he was dressed head to toe in a fluoro Kappa tracksuit, wearing a huge gold medallion and backwards cap and that his bike was a hotted up BMX.

"Woaaah," said my very impressed internal monologue. "He'd be amazing for the blog. I could explain that he was a perfect example of what you would look like if you'd just woken up from a 60 year coma caused by a BMX accident. I'd need a picture of him, so I could say that I work for BMXing Australia and that I was doing an article on the implications of wearing incontinence pants while freeriding. Hopefully he won't ask for a card, but if he does I'll just say that I've already given them all out down at the Sunny Vista estate and that he could grab one down there from Beryl if he liked, so long as he didn't ask about her recent divorce. 'Yikes' I would then say, for effect."

It was brilliant.. until I remembered that:

a) I didn't bring my camera
b) it had taken me two hours to make up the joke about the coma
c) the old guy was long gone

I was left feeling vaguely uncertain, as though I'd somehow invented the entire scenario in my head; just like in the Labyrinth where that chick wakes up and can't believe David Bowie could actually be the head of the muppets, while at the exact same time have such enormous hair and bad dress sense.

Paying for my newspaper, I cautiously asked the lady behind the counter whether she had seen any old guys getting around today, you know, like on a BMX or something. She turned her head and looked at me out of the corners of her eyes; the way people do when you walk into a bookstore and ask if they have any other books in a similar vein to 'The Notebook', because you're on a bit of an emotional roller-coaster right now and that book made you feel as though you had something to live for and you have every intention of keeping that buzz going, man.

"Forget it." I said quietly and walked out, not collecting my change. Then it occurred to me that the old guy and the paper lady probably have a racket going and are taking over the world, 20p at a time.

I'll find you, geriatric BMX bandit. And when I do, I'm taking the best damn picture of you the world has ever seen. And then I'm taking my 20p back. I'm taking them all back.

More tales of delusion and grandeur over at Please click that link for me? It helps me out a lot while at the same time helps starving kids in that place.. overseas. The dusty one. It's totally win win.