Meat Day Eve

I am quite excited about tomorrow. Do you know why?

Because tomorrow is MEAT DAY! After a month without, I've almost forgotten what meat tastes like.

Here is a picture of some meat:


Ooh. Even though it's only a drawing, it still looks really tasty. I'm getting a little meat boner just looking at it!

I have decided to hold off my first meaty meal until we get to the curry house tomorrow night. I want all of my friends to be witness to that momentous occasion!

Routine Disruption Resentment

I am a creature of habit. In fact as far as my morning routine goes I'm practically OCD; any deviation can cause me to fly into an entirely unjustified, disproportional rage.

If, for example, you were to intrude upon my traditional weekend morning, you might be faced with something like this:


This morning, I had to inform Dr K that her presence downstairs would NOT be welcome before 11am, when she began to display evidence of getting dressed.

I like things to be in their place. Many is the morning when I have had to have a quiet word with the remote control, when it has the temerity to force me to spend more than three seconds looking for it.


And woe betide the receptionist in my office if she stops me on the way in to offer me a parking space in the secure car park rather than in the dodgy car crime supermarket round the corner (otherwise known as the Argos Car Park)!


Once mornings are out of the way, I'm pretty easy going. Unless I need something from the pan cupboard.

JENGAAAAAAA!

Anniversary

Today is the 5th anniversary of the day I got my bluey-green Astra.


My bluey-green Vauxhall Astra was really pretty. I loved my bluey-green Astra. It was blue and green at the same time! It took me to lots of awesome places, did a whole bunch of miles and it never actually broke down on me.

What? The anniversary of the day I got my bluey-green Astra was yesterday?

That must mean that today is actually the fifth anniversary of when I met the amazing Dr K!


She's much prettier than a Vauxhall Astra.

Yeah.

Dazza vs The Carrot

I don't think that the people I deal with on a day to day basis are taking Veguary very seriously.

Today at work we had some visitors from London. They brought some delicious Krispy Kreme doughnuts with them for our delectation.

Except the doughnuts were not for my consumption. Instead they brought me a carrot.


Only a few days to go. I'm currently trying to decide whether to scoff bacon butties on Meat Day Morning, or to hold off until we get to the curry house and enjoy my first meaty morsel in the company of friends!

Fartiquette

The other night, Dr K had the farts, probably brought on by the horrible vegetarian diet that I've forced upon her over the last few weeks!

Her stinky emanations prompted a conversation around the etiquette of farting.

Dr K, for example, admits to farting in the office. That's something I never do, if only because if I do, everyone's eyes will melt and I will have to do all their work.

She then declared that I should claim responsibility for any farts that she might squeeze out in polite company. I would, she informed me, if I was a gentleman.

That may be so, I agreed, if it was a Lady that farted. But since Ladies never fart, the situation would never arise.

The Quiet Bogie-Eating Carriage

I went to London today. London rocks, but actually going to London is a bit shit.

The seat that had been booked for me was in the 'quiet' carriage. I'm not really sure about the point of the quiet carriage. You're not supposed to make phone calls or to listen to your mp3 player, so that you don't disturb the other passengers. But this little scenario, which took place shortly after we left Bristol Parkway shows why that's just a load of mouldy old balls:

A man got on the train and sat a few seats away from me. He took out his phone and started to make a call. I actually thought he was quite discreet about it. The woman a few seats up the carriage disagreed.

'Excuse me,' she said, tartly. 'I think you'll find that this is the quiet carriage.'

The man looked round, verified that she was correct, apologised and put his phone away. And then she sat down and continued her extremely loud conversation with her companion, who I can only assume was partially deaf.

In my mind, she was far less considerate of the effect of her voice than the man on his phone.

Around about Swindon, I noticed that the man next to me was picking his nose. He thought he was being quite subtle about it because he had rested his head in his hand and slipped his little finger up, like this:


In retrospect, I don't think I was actually in the quiet carriage. I think I was in the nose-picking carriage. I saw at least 2 other people at it around me.


I think, perhaps we're going to have to start putting up a 'no nose picking' sign in public places. Just so people know.

Chris The Robot Psychic

Today I was phoned by a robot psychic called Chris.

No, really. It's true. Honest. It actually happened. The phone rang and a recorded voice which was DEFINITELY a robot, began to talk. Unfortunately, I did not have presence of mind to transcribe it at the time, but this is an approximation of what it said:

Hi, I'm Chris and I am a Clairvoyant. I have helped hundreds of people with my parapsychic powers and I am coming to your area and am looking for people who can benefit from my unique talents.

Yes, you are going to receive details of my parapsychic services. Just press 'one' now.

Here is an illustration of what I believe Chris the psychic robot looks like:


Now, I'm not really sure what Chris the Psychic Robot really has planned for me, because being a robot with parapsychic powers, I'm pretty sure he's not going to waste his time contacting my dead mum.

In fact my mum isn't even dead and has quite a few years left in her. I don't know very many dead people, so I don't think he can help me at all. His unique parapsychic powers didn't tell him that did they?

So, in conclusion, I believe that Chris the Psychic Robot has some sort of world domination plan that involves manipulating slightly stupid, vulnerable people.

Having met quite a lot of people, I imagine he will be successful. I, for one, welcome our new Psychic Robot Overlords.

Lunaediesophobia

Oh, god. It's Monday again.

Turns out that there's a word for the dislike of Mondays. Well, actually, the fear of Mondays, but since we so often use the word 'phobia' to mean 'dislike', I think it's probably okay.

Lunaediesophobia.

Good, isn't it?

I think Mondays would be so much more tolerable if I didn't keep having a rubbish nights sleep right before them. It seems to happen almost every week.



If only there was a word for that, too. I've looked but I can't find one.

So I made one up:

Insomnianoctasolis.

Here's how it works: Insomnia-nocta-solis.

'Insomnia'. Obviously. Latinesque for 'want of sleep'.

'Nocta'. Latinish for 'night'; and 'Solis' from the Latin for 'sun'.

I went with this because 'Sunday' in Latin is 'Dies Solis' which translates directly to 'Day of the Sun'. Then I substituted 'day' for 'night': 'Noctem' and then tweaked it to make it sound cooler.

If there are any etymologists out there who want to help me perfect this awesome and useful word, please feel free to let me know.

Peeping Tomcats

You know what's quite unnerving?

Stepping out of the shower to find two cats waiting and watching...

How Lost Can You Be?

It all started at about 9 o'clock this morning. Actually, that's probably not true. It probably started a couple of hours after that!

Dr K had just dropped off her car for its MOT at the Mini garage in Bristol and we then had to drive to Yate to do some errands. Cribbs Causeway to Yate is a bit of a rubbish journey, but we discovered that the powers that be had built us a new road. Especially for today. How kind of them.

Heading back to Cribbs, Jo issued a distress call through the medium of Facebook. She was poorly but needed a bacon sandwich. You know how it is. As it happens, both the Mini garage, Jo's house and Scooby's: The Bacon Station are all within a mile of each other, so I offered to pick up a giant bacon sandwich.

So there I was, waiting with three or four other guys for Jo's sandwich. You know how it is with English people. We all basically politely ignored each other.

And then a man came and asked for directions.

'Scuse me,' he said. 'can anyone tell me how to get to the Harbourside Gala Casino? It must be around here somewhere.'

This caused general amusement as the guy was about seven miles away from his destination. There were several conflicting route suggestions and he was sent on his way.

More waiting ensured. But only a little bit, because a minute or two later, a small, expensive sports car pulled up and an improbably blonde lady stepped out, dressed in leopard print furs and declared:

'I'm a little bit lost. I'm looking for Trowbridge.'

It took a little while for the laughter to die down. Trowbridge, of course is about an hour's drive away... in a different county!


It's funny though, isn't it? Not the hilarious pathetic-ness of the lost lady. The camaraderie that is created by a shared experience. Particularly one that makes us all laugh.

There's me, a banker, a guy that looked like a builder and another guy that looked like he was probably a serial killer. In the normal course of things, we just wouldn't have anything to say to each other, but once the blonde lady had departed (undoubtedly to turn the wrong way at the motorway junction and pay an impromptu visit to Wales), we were laughing and chatting like old friends. Okay, I admit, I had to lie about watching the football. But it's the thought that counts.

Here is the bacon sandwich that caused it all, in a photo supplied by Jo:



It's possible that she's dead, now. There was enough bacon in there to stop an elephant's heart! Despite the potential heart attack, I'm still jealous of her bacony treat... I'm looking forward to the end of Veguary.

Unexpected visit

Im writing this blog post from the car park outside the mini garage, where Dr K is in the process of getting her car MOTd. Its cold and it's raining, but i have the Sppranos theme tune to keep me amused.

Isn't it weird how giving someone a lift home often turns into something completely different?

last night... Ahem... Er, this evening (because obviously, despite all the evidence to the contrary, I'm writing this at 11.59 on Friday night and not at half eight the next morning), it had been my plan to give my buddies Scotty and Gayle a lift home, then spend the evening figuring out how to bring dynamic HTML content into a Flash file for my brother's website.

It didn't happen like that. Scotty got stuck at work and I was forced to wait in the Brass Pig in Clifton with Gayle. We had a couple of drinks, one thing led to another and the inevitable happened.

That's right, we started talking about poo.

Specifically about poo that's somewhere it shouldn't be, such as on the walls of the toilet cubicle. (Not the walls of the toilets in the Brass Pig - I didn't go in there, so I can't comment on the fecal situation in their cubicles).

That's not what this post is about. Bear with me here.

So Scotty turned up an hour late and we had another drink because he'd had a shitty day.

The conversation turned to pizza and how much we loved it (much more so than shitty walls). it transpired that we all wanted pizza for our tea and so, we elected to go back to my place with pizza.

We had a most excellent evening of pizza and wine and purple grape juice (because Dr K isn't drinking during Veguary and I didn't want her to feel left out - although I'm not quite sure who i was expecting to fool with it) and, of course, tea. Oh, and conversation, some of which may have been about poo.

The only problem with having Scotty and Gayle over is the 20 mile round trip when it cones to raking their drunken asses home. It was horrible weather on the motorway. With the rain and the spray against me, there were a few hairy moments.

It was worth it though, because there's not much better in life than spending an unexpected evening with two of your best friends. It's better, even than new gadgets or Jaffa Cakes!

Here's to you, Scotty and Gayle. You are most excellent people.

The missing post

I haven't written a post today because I was far to busy having fun and didn't get home 'til very late.

To make up for my negligence, I will be making two blog posts tomorrow - one backdated for today and another for tomorrow.

Anyone expecting to take issue with my missed post will find me simply denying that it ever happened!

Dazvent Is Nigh

Consider this post a heads-up. Dazvent officially begins on Saturday.

You may have noticed the prevalence of Easter Eggs in the shops, even though Easter is many, many weeks away. In fact, there were eggs being sold in my local supermarket shortly after New Year's Day.

In the weeks leading up to Valentine's day, there was little else (apart from Easter Eggs) being advertised, while Christmas was being celebrated by the retail sector as early as September last year. Mother's Day* is about to hit, even though it's not 'til April. It will, no doubt be followed in short order by Father's day.

There doesn't seem to be a month of the year when advertisers aren't telling us thet we need to go out and buy chocolate or flowers, or overpriced bits of thick, colourful paper. It's been going on so long that the premature and extended celebration of events is pretty much a British tradition.

I'm quite patriotic. I like traditions. So with that in mind, I have decided that the population of this great island should start celebrating my birthday a month in advance. You'll note that I've been conservative in the amount of time people must devote their attention to me. I could have gone down the Christmas route and had them start in about November.

There are many activities associated with the celebration of my birthday. Obviously, you will all have to start singing birthday songs to and about me. In fact all the shops and restaurants in the UK are obliged to play birthday songs to and about me on repeat from the moment they open their doors to the public, to the moment they close them.

In addition to this, roaming groups of feral singers should roam the streets, knocking on people's doors and singing at them. Brass Bands are optional.

Now, I appreciate that there is only actually one song associated with birthdays; the appropriately named 'Happy Birthday'. Unfortunately this means that this one song will have to be heard up and down the country ad-nauseum for the next month.

Then of course there are presents. You must all spend the next four weeks fretting about what to buy me, before going out on Dazday Eve to purchase it at the last moment, only to find that it's sold out.

You will, of course, be expected to post bits of stiff paper to everyone you know reminding them to celebrate my birthday, too.

I know this is a lot to take in. If you don't participate, though, it means that you hate Great Britain and are probably some sort of terrorist.

To help you out, I have repurposed another great and slightly pointless tradition. The Advent Calendar is dead. Long live THE DAZVENT CALENDAR!

One door per day. Behind each door is a subtle reminder of what you are celebrating.

So without further ado, here is your Dazvent Calendar! Enjoy!


This is the front of the calendar.


This is the back of the calendar.

You'll need to click on each of the images to get the larger version, download and print them, cut around the doors (only 3 sides, mind - get a grown up to help!) and then stick the front to the back! And all the while you must promise not to peek at the pictures!


(*A couple of years ago, Mother's Day had the bad manners to fall on my birthday. I was very gracious about the situation. I still bought my mother a lovely card. A 'Birthday Boy' card. I think she got the point.)

How to finish a phone call

Here is how you finish a phone call:

"Goodbye."

There are several other options available to you. "See ya," is a popular option as is "Talk to you later," a simple "Bye," or even "Ta ta," if you're feeling a bit cheeky.

What you don't do is just stop talking and hang up.

Here's a scenario for you:

Caller: I need you to put together some paperwork for me.
Dazza: Sure. I can do that. I'm a very helpful chap.
Caller: When will you have it ready for me?
Dazza: How's Tuesday for you?
Caller: Yes, that'll be fine.
Dazza: Cool. Anything else you need?
Caller: ...click...
Dazza: Er... hello?
Caller: ...
Dazza: Did you just hang up on me?
Caller: ...
Dazza: You did, you rude bitch. You hung up on me. Why I oughta...

Can you see what went wrong there? Yes? Thought so.

See, on the telly, people do weird things. They only ever pour out half a cup of tea, they keep leaving their drinks in the pub after about 2 sips, they pull weird faces when they think no-one's looking and they hang up the phone without saying goodbye.

I don't know about you, but if you served me up half a cup of tea, you might see me react a little bit like this:


But then, as you know, I take my tea drinking quite seriously.

So, real people don't leave three quarters of a pint in the pub, they don't make weird little half smiles for the camera's benefit when they get away with a lie and they don't hang up before the phone conversation is finished.

Unless you're the weirdo lady I've been dealing with on the phone this week.

I'm Batman

I really, really couldn't think of anything interesting to write about today. I racked my brains... but nothing. This isn't really surprising, because my head is basically crammed full of nothing at all.

So, instead of writing a couple of scintillating paragraphs about a fascinating subject, that uses irony and humour to make an important point about life, the universe and everything, I drew a picture of myself as Batman:

Half Way

Today I had to go to a meating with some of our steakholders. My attendance is quite rare as it's usually quite a boar; they just fillet with verbal spam and they always hold it in a really chilli room. This time though, they had a beef with a particular process and were thinking of giving it the chop. They were too chicken to do it themselves and needed someone with the meatballs to do it for them.

One of my colleagues kept mincing around to their side of the table - I think he was just hamming it up to curry favour with them. I was impressed - it was very well done.

We chewed the fat for a bit and when we'd fleshed it out, I came to the conclusion that they should phase out their process rather then go cold turkey and butcher it I just thought their plan was a bit rasher than a calm, collected approach. In fact I thought their idea was the wurst I’d ever heard. Unfortunately, they were unhappy with my suggestions and gave me quite a roasting about it. In the end I just told them to burger off and let them stew in their own juices.

That was my day. In other news, I’m now half way through Veguary and I don’t think the lack of meat in my diet is affecting me at all!

Quiche vs Tart vs Flan

I haven't eaten meat for almost two weeks now, and something has become apparent to me: people think that vegetarians eat a lot of quiche.

I don't think vegetarians actually eat a lot of quiche. It just seems to be one of those things that's common knowledge. Certainly, whenever I've mused aloud about what vegetarian dish to serve up for tea, someone inevitably mentions quiche.

Of course any discussion of the merits of quiche almost inevitably ends up in one of two places:

1) Quiche is a food for frail little girls;

2) What the hell is the difference between quiche and tart? And where does flan fit into all of this?

Well, you'll be pleased to know that I've looked into question two with the intention of providing a final and definitive answer, so that humankind no longer has to waste time pondering it. You'll be pleased to know that the answer is not the square root of 1,764.

Firstly a brief note on methodology. Rather than consult a chef or refer to a professional cuisinologist, I have simply googled it. Google has a handy 'define:' tag that you can add to your search criteria to get the definition of a word. If you want to check that I'm not full of shit, simply type 'define: quiche' into Google.

I'm not, however, simply going to paste the results of my search below, because that's no fun! I shall write nonsense instead.

Now I'd like to start by talking about about tarts. Basically, the Internet says that a tart is a pie without a top. It's important to get this out of the way early, because quiches and flans appear to be subsets of the tart.

The first thing that's mentioned in the 'define: quiche' search results is that quiche is a tart. The thing that makes a quiche a quiche and not just an ordinary, run of the mill tart, is the custard. Specifically an unsweetened custard, which as we all know, is not the best kind of custard*. later on, the definitions get quite eggy.

So if your tart has an eggy filling, then it's definitely a quiche.

Confusingly, the Internet also says that a flan is also a pie without a top, but it's distinguishing feature is custard and/or fruit. Unfortunately, as you can have both custard and fruit tarts, this is about as helpful as a spaniel at a dyslexic tool convention.

Notably, my research did not find mention of spongy bases, which many people have told me is a flan's defining feature. Now, I happen to know that one can purchase spongy flan cases in the supermarket, so this is obviously an option. I think we can safely say that quiches and tarts definitely don't have spongy bases.

It's all got a bit complicated so I've tried to simplify it with this flow chart to help you define your pastry product. It's a work in progress and I'd be grateful for any suggestions to further clarify this important issue.


(* For the record, the best kind of custard is the kind that covers a generous portion of rhubarb crumble.)

A Gross Post

This morning, I did something a little bit gross.

I don't think I need to use my words to explain it, when a picture will do it for me:

Dazza Vs The Stairs

I'm becoming suspicious of Dr K's intentions toward me. It's possible that she wants to kill me off.

There's no specific thing that I can put my finger on. There's the odd evil look that she throws my way, the occasional burst of maniacal cackling, and she has this bearded doll in her top drawer with a box of pins next to it.

Oh yes, and today she tried to push me down the stairs.

She disguised it as a friendly punch to the chest after I made some mildly derogatory comment about her appearance or something. But the brief flash of disappointment that crossed her face before she was able to stop it was enough to convince me that it was an attempt upon my life!

Fortunately, due to my superior sense of balance and my acrobatic grace (and also the fact that it was more of a light tap rather than an actual push per-se) meant that I didn't actually fall.

In order to show you how evil she is under her sweet and innocent exterior, I have prepared a dramatic first-person mock-up of how it could have been:


Evidence, I think you'll find, that would hold up extremely well when she's tried for my horrible murder!

I wonder if it's the lack of meat in my diet that repulses her so...

Dr K vs Boredom

Today's post comes to you courtesy of a guest blogger: the illustrious Dr K!

Today at work I was quite bored and sent a text to Darren to tell him this very interesting fact; just to pass the time! It's not that I had boring things to do, just that I'd been too productive and finished everything on my list, and nothing more had come my way to keep me occupied. Darren immediately responded to my text with the usual stock response of 'Build a Fort!', which, to be honest, is wearing a bit thin now, along with some other inane suggestions like 'learn to fly', 'make a new origami model', 'make the tea', 'pick your nose', 'pick a colleague's nose', etc. etc. But in amongst the silly ideas was the suggestion that I write him a Guest Blog Post. This was an excellent suggestion, although I immediately started to wonder what I could write about...

… at that very moment a colleague of mine shouted across the office 'Come and look at this picture!' I wandered over the other side of the office to be greeted by a picture of a strange creature. Due to copyright reasons I cannot show you the picture, but here is a representation of it lovingly recreated by Darren.


My colleague asked me to tell him what I thought the creature was, after also telling me that we have them roaming wild here in Britain. After a thoughtful few moments I decided that this was some sort of joke, as this particular colleague of mine likes to kid us around, so I said 'It's a deer... with something in its mouth that makes it look like it has tusks'.

Well, after much discussion I have now learnt that there are indeed deer with tusks in Britain. Who'd have thunk it? I had never heard of Chinese Water Deer until today. Reading the Wikipedia article on them I was interested to note that they were introduced to London Zoo, from China, in the 1870s. They are very good swimmers, hence why they are called Water Deer. The London Zoo population was transferred to Woburn Abbey and later Whipsnade Park in the 1890s. There are now over 600 roaming wild at Whipsnade and 250 at Woburn. Due to some escapees, there are also wild populations in Suffolk, Norfolk and Cambridgeshire. They are colloquially referred to as Vampire Deer for obvious reasons!

Well that alleviated the boredom for a little while !

Breaking News...

I've just finished T300!

Bugger And Fuck

Shocking, huh? Rude words in a blog post! Bear with me, I have a good reason for it. Well... a reason anyway.

There's a lady in my office that keeps saying 'bugger'. Look, here she is:


Now, I have no real objection to profanity in the office. I've been known to use a few choice words myself, most notably the ever dependable 'fuck', 'cock', 'twathole', 'fucknugget', 'nob', 'thumbless fucking retard', 'jizzmaster', occasionally 'motherfucker' and once, I even used the 'C' word.

My objection to her use of the word 'bugger' is that she insists that it's not a swear word.

This lady, as you can see from the picture above, is a member of the pearl wearing twin-set brigade. She prides herself on being well spoken and well dressed and on her ability to network with the elite (which mostly consists of materialising next to them and standing just a little too close and engaging a fixed, creepy grin. It's either hilarious or really off-putting, depending on whether it's you she's picking on).

She regularly expresses her displeasure at my use of naughty words. Just yesterday she told me off for telling my computer to go fuck itself. Fuck.

Yet she routinely uses 'bugger' in place of mild exclamations. This, she explains, is acceptable because it's on the same level of profanity as 'oops' and 'darn'.

No, love. It's not. It's a verb referring to the act of sodomy. You know, like when a man puts his willy into someone's bottom.

It's just like saying 'fuck', only worse, because there are arses involved. You are, in fact, actually saying 'arse-fuck'.


See?

Twelve Receptionists Walk Into A Bar...

I know it sounds like the opening line to a really awesome joke, but the reality of it is not quite so amusing.

Today our building was invaded by receptionists. Loads of them. Well, about twelve.

Turns out they were there to attend some sort of course in the training suite across the way from my office, but it appealed to my sense of humour to stand and watch twelve receptionists turn up in reception to be... well... received.

Also, one of my workmates got her hand stuck in the revolving door. Go figure. As we had no ice packs to tend the bruising, I managed to scrounge a bag of frozen peas from the canteen kitchen. Not just an bag of peas, though. The chef didn't want to open the 2 kilo catering bag of peas that he found in the freezer.

I made her a sign:

The Power Of Meat

General opinion seems to be that I incurred yesterday's horrific injury because I have not eaten meat for a week. I am now, apparently entirely made of vegetables.

It would appear that the ingestion of meat products conveys a small amount of indestructibility that a vegetarian diet does not. Without meat in the diet, life becomes just a little bit more hazardous: tea bags have sharp edges, cornflakes can break teeth and backs can be put out lifting medium sized cartons of milk.

Of course, habitual vegetarians have unconsciously learned to counter the dangerousness of everyday life by taking extra care in everything they do. Every action is taken with extra prudence and diligence for fear of breaking their delicate vegetable skin. This also explains why the are so slow.

As it happens, I asked a scientist to conduct a Spectrocarnemeatographic analysis of my hand last week, before I started this vegetarian lark. Today, a week later, I persuaded him to don his pristine white lab coat and protective goggles to perform a second, comparative analysis:


The image on the left was taken last week and, as you can see, my beefy diet has afforded me protection against minor injuries. The right hand image was taken today and there is no meaty aura to be seen. Also my hand has become 32% more effeminate.

Clear, scientific evidence, I think you'll agree.

By undertaking this vegetarian challenge, I am risking both my life and the manliness of my hands.

Fortunately, I'm very brave!

Dazza vs The Teabag

I just got a small paper cut:


I know, I know. A paper cut is hardly an event to write home about, but I think the circumstances surrounding this particular paper cut render it noteworthy.

Because I got it from a tea bag.

Unlikely, I hear you say. But it's true. One minute I was making tea and the next, my finger was gushing blood. 'Gushing' is probably an overstatement. 'Oozing steadily' is probably more accurate. 'Seeping slightly' is probably even more accurate.

This is evidence that tea is a real man's drink. Forget whisky or beer, there's no risk involved in drinking them. Tea, though. That's a dangerous drink!

Mr Whoopie

Let's see. What did I get up to today?

I slept a lot. 'Til 10am, anyway. That's late.

I ate quiche. That was traumatic. With every bite, I could feel my penis retracting into my body and a vagina growing in its place. Quiche is not for boys. It's for frail girls. Frail girls in pink, floral dresses with pigtails and little bows in their hair.


Fortunately, Star Wars came on the telly, to make me feel better. Star Wars is brilliant and only has one lady in it; although, if I lived in Star Wars, I'd probably avoid women, because statistically, they're all bitches. Take Princess Leia, for example (not that you have much choice cos she's the only woman in the galaxy - Luke used to have a nagging aunt, but she died):

Leia: Aren't you a little short for a Stormtrooper?
Luke: Well that's a bit offensive. I'm Luke Skywalker, I'm here to rescue you.
Leia: Who?
Luke: That's so rude, you ignorant bitch. I just told you who I was. Me and my buddies are risking our lives here rescuing you. I'm a murderer now, thanks to you. Oh, and I'm with Obi-Wan Kenobi.
Leia: To hell with you, shorty. Where's the old man?

The film continues with constant nagging and complaining and then there's some blatant anti-Wookie racism and then some bitching about the ship they came in.

And then at the end she thinks she can make it all better with a couple of medals and a winning smile. But continuing her theme of Wookie-hating, she gives everyone but Chewie a medal. Pff.

Anyway, after that we went to the Scottish household for dinner and a movie. Scotty makes much tastier veggie chilli than me. I suspect it's because he's not a retard in the kitchen like me.

Which brings me on to the title of this post, which I imagine has, until now seemed rather arbitrary and random.

Over dinner, we covered the topic of ice cream and sex and the use of ice cream during sex for something other than its original purpose.

Cheese + Potato = ?

At last!

During my first four days of vegetarianism, I have wondered what it is that prevents vegetarians from dying a horrible death brought on the the gnawing emptiness in their bellies. Leaves, roots and other bits of garden just don't seem to do it. But then I received enlightenment.

Enlightenment in the heavenly form of cheese and potato pie!

I'm pleased to say that many of my friends have rallied round to support me in my veggielicious endeavour, with encouraging comments such as:

"I'm going out for MEAT tonight. Yummy. Enjoy your Veguary."

"It's not the same as eating meaty pasta!"

"Or even chicken pie like the one we made the other night!"

"I had lots of beef tonight, was so lovely."

Thanks guys. It means a lot.

Now, believe it or not, there's other stuff going on other then my meat free month. Yes, it's true.

Today I installed a copy of Adobe Creative Suite 5 on my computer, and lovely it is too. Except I don't have the first clue how to goddamn well use it. I've never used Photoshop in my life.

It's my brother's fault. When I was visiting him last week he said to me:

"How easy would it be to turn this image into a fully fledged Flash based website?"

Which led to a discussion that led to me offering to build a fully fledged Flash based website without the first clue how to do it. I mean... I've used Flash to make cartoons, but that's just pictures and keyframes. Websites are, like... code and stuff. I guess I'd better get clever pretty damn quick!

Cost me the best part of £300, too. I wonder if I can persuade him to pay me.

I'm going to bed now. Night.

Blogging After The Theatre

Dr K has implied that my previous post was inadequate and that something more substantial is required.

The theatre from which I posted earlier was the Theatre Royal in Bath, during the interval of Avenue Q, which was awesome.

We were driven in style to the theatre by Nicky who, when she is behind the wheel, transforms into a loony magnet. As she drives, pedestrians throw themselves in front of her car, unlit cyclists wearing camouflaged outfits weave erratically in her path and buses pull out randomly. It's bloody terrifying.

We were pretty short on time, so we grabbed some fast food from a very suspect burger joint. When I say 'food', I mean 'vegeburgers'. And when I say 'vegeburgers', I actually mean 'flaccid, cardboard-like shite fit for lining the bottom of wheelie bins'. Still, I had chilli sauce on it which makes almost everything edible.

Also, this talk of burgers gives me a chance to reuse this:

Blogging from the theatre

Because I can.

Sausages And Rain

I'm writing this from the foot of Clifton Heights in... er... Clifton. Due to a miscalculation in my timings, I am waiting in the rain for some friends, to whom I'm giving a lift. It would be okay, but I think I heard wolves a few minutes ago.

Veguary is going fine. No cravings or hair-loss yet, although one of my workmates made me listen to the sound of her husband frying sausages down the phone.

Vegetarians, Meat Eaters And Why You Shouldn't Come Home From Work Early

By sheer coincidence, there was a report on the radio this morning, the first day of Veguary, which stated that women find vegetarian men far less attractive than they find meat eaters. I can only assume that this is because men who eat meat are awesome as illustrated by this scientific diagram:


Note the listlessness and lack of hair on the vegetarian as opposed to the enormous muscles and general manly hirsuteness of the meat eater!

These findings were confirmed by my female workmates who unanimously agreed that after only a few hours of vegetarianism, they found me slightly less attractive than yesterday. One lady voiced a concern that by the end of the month, the mere sight of me might make her sick a little in her mouth.

Changing the subject...

Today marks the second day this year that I have arrived home in daylight. It turns out that rather than being a good thing, getting home from work early results in my being given chores.

Hmph.