Stand By...

You're probably thinking: I've been waiting all week for a blog post and all I get is a crappy three line post.

And you're right. In a way. This is a short post. But in another way, you're wrong. As wrong as a nude centrefold of your mum, or a fat man (me) in speedos, or a curry made from fish.

You see, I'm on holiday this weekend and I don't get home until tomorrow. And, as is traditional, I shall be sharing my holiday experience with you. But as my holiday isn't finished yet, I can't finish the blog post.

So hold your horses, keep your pants on and unbunched and stop fretting. You will get an excellent blog post tomorrow evening.

Location:Yorkshire

I've Been Ruined

I wrote a lovely, long post earlier.  It was awesome.  It was a rant about a bunch of things that were annoying me at the moment.  Sadly, the Evil Cabal Of Evil had other ideas, and amongst other things, deleted my little piece of literary genius before I could share it with you.

Also, they somehow disabled the IR function of the wireless video sender that I bought this weekend shortly after I'd got it working perfectly.  And they made my computer crash every half an hour or so while I was trying to animate.

So that was nice.  At least I know they haven't left me, which is good, I guess.

Anyway, instead I have for you a few thoughts on Dr K:

Dr K is particularly lovely.  In fact she's so lovely that I've been ruined for all the other girls:

The come up to me an they're all like: 'Hey Dazza you're so handsome that bits of me tingle when I think about you.'

And I'm like 'Ew, no, you repulse me because you are not as lovely as Dr K!'

But when I see Dr K, I am not repulsed at all, on account of her loveliness. I could ogle her all day.  In  fact sometimes I do.

And that's it for this week.  Ta ta.

In Which Mother's Day Is Cancelled, Someone Shits In The Bed And I Develop A Craving For Cream Teas.

I'm really sorry, ladies, but those of you who were expecting cards and presents from your offspring today should prepare for disappointment.

Despite all the advertising by the greetings card industry, there is in fact no Mothers Day this year.

You see, there was a scheduling error. Those idiots in the the calendar department went and double booked the 18th March. Today is in fact Dazza's birthday. It's been Dazza's Birthday on the 18th March for the last 30-odd years and it's not about to change. Here he is with this year's haul:


I have my suspicions about how this horrible Mothers-Day/Daz Day mix-up occurred:


So if you've gone out and bought your mum a card, I'm afraid you're going to have to ask for a refund. They shouldn't have sold it to you in the first place. And if you have received one, try not to be too despondent about the fact that it's a hollow gesture.

Now, my mum puts quite a lot of emphasis on Mothers Day. So that she doesn't feel all put out and everything, I have in fact purchased a card. But I didn't want to fall into the Cabal's ridiculous little trap, so I bought her a card that was far more appropriate for the day:


Now I've set the world to rights, I shall move onto other things.
This week, Rochester has been very poorly. He has kidney problems and they sort of got the better of him. Turns out that he had no potassium in him, which was causing him to be lethargic and dehydrated. Kinda like a hangover...


Anyway, the vet kept him in for a couple of nights, shaved bits of him for some sort of kinky ritual, poked him with all the stuff she could find, charging me a small fortune for the pleasure, and now he's much better. So much so, that when we got him home, he thanked us by coming up to bed with us and liberally sharing his lovely diarrhoea.


There's nothing quite like having to change the bed, clean the carpets and shower at half past eleven at night.

So basically, Rochester has spent all of my savings and then shit on me. Thanks, mate. You're very lucky to live with people who still love you despite being covered in your shit!

One last thing.

When I turned on the telly yesterday morning, James Martin was making Cream Teas. Guess what I had a craving for all weekend?

Luckily, I was able to indulge it...

The List Of Things Not To Do

Last Monday, I very cleverly managed to pour boiling water from the kettle onto my hand.

After I posted about my misfortune on Facebook, I was asked if I would share my wisdom and experience further by producing a list of things that you probably shouldn't do.

So here it is.  In case you're wondering, all of these have been verified by me or a trusted third party.

1: Pour boiling water from the kettle onto your hand. Now you wouldn't really think this needed to be said, but apparently there are some idiots out there that still think its a good idea.


2: Eat spicy food before bed. I know, it sounds like an awesome idea, but I am reliably informed that your anus will take revenge in the morning.


3: Leave a dead mouse right where the Sky engineer is going to set up his ladder. Unless of course you like bursty dead mouse guts squirting all over the patio and his shoes!


4: Inhale tinsel. It hurts.


5: Tell people about your week off.  Because they find things for you to do!


6: Make fajitas with vegetarian 'steak'.  It's like eating brown strips of polluted snot.  You know, like when you've been in the London Underground.  Yuck.


7. Offer to make a 6 episode cartoon series for your brother in your spare time. Turns out it takes up every waking moment of your life.


8. Leave the TV on BBC1.  Because at some point, Eastenders will come on and make you bleed from your eyes and ears!


9. Imply that they may be a list of things not to do. Because then people expect you to show them the list.  Lucky I'm good at listing things!

The Beard Collective

What's the collective noun for beards?  A matt of beards?  A clump of beards?

Much discussion has been had about my ever expanding facial hair.  While most people agree* that the more beard I have, the more handsome I am, another vector of comment has generally been along comparative lives.  Specifically, that people think that my beard makes me look like other people.

I thought it would be interesting to illustrate this post with sketches of myself with the facial hair of the people I am accused of looking like.  So here goes:

The manager of my local comic book store told me that I looked like Brian Blessed.  Mr Blessed has the single most awesome beard of all time, so I consider the comparison to be a favourable one!

Several of my workmates seem to think that having a beard and wearing glasses means that I look like Ricky Tomlinson, because Ricky Tomlinson is the only other person in the world who has a beard and wears glasses.  Hah.  Bear and glasses only make me look like Ricky Tomlinson in the same way that having hair makes you look like Shane McGowan!

My boss' boss recently informed me that I reminded him of Rasputin.  Far be it from me to disagree with my boss' boss.  I'd like to think that I'm a bit less of a whack job than the Rasputin...  but I'd probably be deluding myself.

At the time I was accused of resembling Hagrid, I needed a haircut.  It wasn't this bad though.  I did, however, take the hint.

A couple of weeks ago, my Dad refused me entry to his house on the basis that I looked like a terrorist.  That said, he's a Daily Mail reader, so you can't really take anything he says seriously.

One of my nicer friends told me that I looked just like Teen Wolf.  You remember Teen Wolf, right?  That awesome movie where Michael J Fox played the handsomest basketball player in the world!  He's a bit like Hagrid's better looking younger brother.  As it happens, I have an older brother who's not as handsome as me, so the parallels run deep!

My favourite accusation though, took place just before Christmas when a mate informed me that I was almost certainly Young Santa.




( * by an unconventional definition of the word 'agree' )

The Curry Police

We're a week into the New Year and I've only had one curry.

I was going to have one last night, but my curry date didn't show and I ended up having a drink with a strange man in the pub.  Then I had a sausage roll which, contrary to popular belief is not as good as having a curry.

This post, however is being written just a couple of hours before I'm due to go out and meet some of my excellent friends for  what should have been my third curry of the year.  I'm fairly sure this lot will show.

Now that first curry was a pretty disappointing affair.  While it was tasty enough, the meat-to-sauce ratio was unacceptably low. I have a handy little chart that you can cut out and keep in you pocket to show curry house owners, to clarify this issue:

As we returned home from the takeaway with that disappointing curry on Wednesday evening, we passed a car that had been pulled over by the police. Dr K made a passing comment that might just stick with me until the end of my days:

"Look," she said. "It's the Curry Police,"

It's a chilling concept, isn't it?

The Curry Police. Just typing it sends an unpleasant little shiver down my spine. I can just picture being pulled over...

Beware The Sausage Fiend

The Shelf Life Of Brownie Points

Wow, brownie points don't last long - if you can even accumulate enough to be worthwhile! It's like they're some sort of super-perishable soft fruit that goes mouldy before you even get them home from the supermarket.

Some examples:

Brownie points acquired from making a round of teas in the office last pretty much until the first sip of that round. No-one wants to return the favour when you get thirsty.

Brownie points acquired from preparing a sumptuous feast for your loved ones have neither the value nor the life expectancy to get a cup of tea made for you after said feast.

Brownie points gained from taking your mum Christmas shopping are actually reversed by the time you return home. By then, you owe your mum.

I've done a few (scientific) calculations and provide the following graph to illustrate how long you can expect your points to last:

From this we can take that you need to redeem your brownie points within thirty seconds of acquiring them. There's not much you can do with thirty seconds. I would suggest that carefully prepare your redemption plan well I. Advance. Here are some suggestions:

1. "Hello, darling. I've made you a cheese sandwich, do you mind signing this cheque/application/order-form."

2. "Hey, I bought you diamonds. Can I have a Lego Death Star?"

3. "Look, I've decorated the whole house for you. Oh and I may have killed your goldfish."

Merry Christmas!

Dinner

Today I thought I'd share a picture of my dinner with you. Here it is:

I'm off to my my mum's for dry turkey and overdone sprouts tomorrow, but tonight I will be feasting on roast beef. I can't promise that it won't be dry and that the sprouts won't be overdone, but they'll be MY dry beef and overdone sprouts.

Well, that's all.

With luck, next time you hear from me will be after I've finished building the £800 Lego Death Star that I've convinced myself Dr K has bought for me!

Daz Handling

After I found that Daz Management Guide at work, I asked Dr K her opinion. Turns out she has a list, too:

1. Give him a cuppa to shut him up. The big mugs are best.

2. Buy him toys to keep him occupied and out of trouble. These are an essential part of birthdays and Christmas presents and PS3 games are best because they last for a longer time.


3. Allow Dazza to be in main control of the skybox and what TV is viewed.


4. Buy the occasional Pepperami fire stick as a surprise.

5. Do not disturb Dazza when he's having poo time.

6. Do not come between Dazza and his pussy. Respect the Roach!


7. If Dazza wants curry for tea then curry is what you are having for tea.


8. Don't force Dazza to drive long distance. Offer to drive if he's looking tired or bored.

9. Never ever let Eastenders on the TV... even just the sound of it upsets Dazza's delicate constitution (Same can be said for cheesy pop music).

My Inner Monologue

I have a very active* inner monologue.

In the time it takes me to answer a simple question, my brain has a whole conversation with itself, often going off on strange and unexpected tangents. That's why I frequently appear to make no sense**.

Here's a couple of examples (click on them for larger versions):

On the other hand, sometimes my inner monologue doesn't even get a word in edgeways:

* (Much more active than me. If I was as active as my inner monologue, I'd be slim and fit. I am not active.)

** (Well, actually, it's about 50:50. Sometimes it's my inner monologue and the rest of the time I really am just not making any sense.)

The Car I Want

I've recently ordered a new car.

Here's what I asked for:

Pretty sweet, huh?

Note the Knight Rider light on the front, the jet turbines for super-speed, the awesome bat-fins and the miniguns for shooting the hell out of the other idiots on the road. Most importantly, look at those awesome caterpillar treads for driving over stuff!

Unfortunately, once the dealer had removed all the the non-existent, dangerous and illegal options, I was left with a fairly ordinary looking car:

I was going to have it in an exciting red, but my emo finger insisted on black.

Now I just have to wait 'til February for it! Only 52 sleeps to go!

My Emo Finger

Today, I thought you'd like to see a delightful picture of me.

See, there I am. Don't I look pleased with myself?

I bet you're wondering what's up with that smug smile. Perhaps I just won the Nobel Prize for Literature for yesterday's post. Could I have just solved the Riemann Hypothesis in my head? Or perhaps I'm savouring a particularly ferocious fart.

Well. It could easily be any of those, but I'm actually modelling my emo finger.

'Emo finger?' I hear you ask. 'What the hell are you blathering about, man?'

Well, take a closer look at that picture:

See it now?

That's right, the nail on my left pinkie is painted a dusky dark blue.

Needless to say, I didn't do it myself. It was done to me. I blame society. Or possibly the parents. I haven't decided yet.

Here's a close up.

That's what an emo finger is. While the rest of my hand is trying to get things done, like making the tea or typing interesting stuff like this post, my emo finger is sulking upstairs in its bedroom listening to Lostprophets or Panic At The Disco.

I'm just thankful that it's not a proper goth. Cus then I'd be proper screwed!

Poo Particles

Several people reacted with mild disgust when I mentioned that I often read comics or play with my phone whilst having a poo. Apparently it's unhygienic.

When I pointed out that I generally didn't handle my poo, or anything in the immediate vicinity of my poo whilst engaging in that particular activity.

Again and again I was scoffed at. And the same phrase kept being used:

These particles, apparently, come put of ones bottom whilst having a poo, and zip around the room, settling on things.

This seemed odd to me, because they appeared to be selective about where they went. For example, my phone, or my comics were prime poo particle targets, while the door knob or the hand towel, which were also in the same room, did not seem to have the same attractive quality. And the poo particles primary reason for existence, apparently, is to re-enter my digestive system orally, thereby making me ill.

It suggested some form of intelligence on the part of the poo particles. Not proper, tool making, reasoning intelligence, but at least on the level of, say a fly.

I set out to discover more about the poo particles.

My search was long and arduous, but I finally discovered a scientist who specialised in microfecal analysis. Although he prefers to remain anonymous - who, after all wants to admit to studying tiny bits of shit? - he was happy for me to share the fruits of his labour.

Using a particulate microscope of his own design, he was able to photograph a cloud of poo particles, normally invisible to the naked eye:

Well, the sight of these little critters was a surprise to me. But I was still rather dismissive of them. After all, who ever heard of a microscopic organism, too tiny even to see, causing anyone any harm? Ridiculous, I say.

But my new scientific friend was quick to assure me that they could be very harmful indeed. And then he showed me a picture that would scar me for life. An enormously magnified photograph of a single poo particle.

It's very blurry. Apparently it's very hard to photograph the tiny, tiny creatures. But it was enough to put me off pooing for ever.

Today, I can reveal for the first time ever, a close up and personal photograph of a genuine poo particle: