I Have Questions

Science asks a lot of odd questions.

For example, scientists in Stockholm trained chickens to show a preference for pretty ladies and a university in Hungary took the time to calculate the internal pressure produced by a pooing penguin.

They never really answer the questions that I consider to be important, though.

Here are nine things I'd like to have answered by science:

How do pubes know when to stop growing? Why don't mine go all the way down to my knees?


Why do people like the smell of their own farts? I think mine are brilliant, but they make Dr K's eyes bleed. She, on the other hand quite likes her own. If I had an aftershave made from the smell of her guffs, would she fancy me more?



Why do so many people consider voting to be too difficult?



What's better: cottage pie or curry? I love them both but can never decide which is better.


What does success smell like? I like to think that it smells of bacon, but I suspect that I'm wrong.


What does failure smell like, for that matter? Probably Dr K's guffs.


Why does my cat love the taste of ear wax? Seriously, he used to steal cotton buds out of the bin as a kitten and even now he loves a good lick of my finger if I scratch my ear. Ear wax tastes horrible.



Does everyone see the same colours? How do I know that what you see as red is the same as what I see as red?



Why is celery? More specifically, how can anyone like the taste of celery? It tastes worse than ear wax. Yuck.

Parasites

I don't know what they're for.

They're everywhere. I have to see them every day, in every home I go into.

If I knew what they were for, I'd be less nervous of them. But I don't and so I am.

Every armchair. Every sofa. There they are! Just... lying there. what am I supposed to do? Sit on them? What if they bite my arse?

Goddam cushions!

I Don't Believe In It

Here is a list of nine things that people say they don't believe in:

1. Religion
2. Eating meat
3. Smacking children
4. Homeopathic remedies
5. Nuclear power
6. The Alternative Vote
7. The Death Penalty
8. Whale hunting
9. Fairies

I'm sorry guys. If you don't believe in any of these things then you're a mentally defective blockhead. Every single one of those things is real.

Look around you. There's tons of religion about. There's a church, mosque or other religious meeting place in practically every village, town and city in the country. Religion has caused the deaths of millions through war and genocide. It has also inspired some of the greatest works of art the world has ever seen and one of the largest collections of wealth ever amassed. It totally exists. Some of it's practitioners wear dresses in public!

I eat meat almost every day. Eating meat therefore must exist! Mmm... meat...

If you don't believe there are people out there that smack children, then you're painfully naive and should probably have been smacked more as a child.

Homeopathic remedies. Whether they work or not, there are people out there making a whole bunch of cash off selling them.

There are nine working nuclear power stations in Britian. Nineteen if you count the decommissioned ones.

The Alternative Vote - if this didn't exist, how does Australian voting work and why are we be having a referendum on it in a few days.

The death penalty is alive and well in many countries around the world.

You don't believe in whale hunting? Look - 130 million Japanese and Nordic people are pointing and laughing at you!

Fairies: sorry to disappoint you, but there are gay people all over the place. They're like churches in that respect, although I don't think any of them have committed genocide.

What? Oh. Sorry. Apparently I'm not allowed to call the gays 'fairies'. They say it makes me a homophobe. Not sure why, cos gays aren't very scary. Unless they have axes for hands. But then it's mostly the axe-hands that are scary. I'd be an axe-handophobe, but I don't believe in it!

Late night zombie shopping

Going to the supermarket late at night is quite a spooky experience.

Rather than being a bustling hive of activity, where you struggle to find a parking space and then have to fight your way through hordes of inconsiderate shoppers doing the same, you arrive in a deserted car park that is more reminiscent of a zombie movie.

The illusion is maintained when you enter the supermarket to see the dregs of staff slouched over their tills and one or two shoppers shuffling around like the living dead.

Still, fighting off the zombie horde is preferable to fighting off the chav shopping horde any day.

Where Have I Been?

The recent iPhone tracking data 'revelation' is a load of old rubbish, which the Internet had decided to elevate into some sort of scandal.

Basically, it turns out, the iPhone, like every other smartphone, keeps a record of all the cell towers that you've been in range of.

The upshot of this is that I now have a pretty picture of everywhere I've been in the last twelve months:

Breakfast In Bed

Somehow last night, I convinced Dr K that it would be a good idea to bring me breakfast in bed this morning. I think I had to do with her not pulling her weight around the house - after all, while I was very busy alternately mucking about with my computer and playing with Rochester in the garden, she was just lazing around doing the washing up, mowing the lawn, tidying the garage, cleaning the house and making my dinner and stuff.

Lazy cow.

So anyway, last night I was poking around on the book of faces and I noticed that one of my mates had enjoyed breakfast in bed that morning. So I pointed this out to Dr K and to my amazement, rather than suggesting I eat my testicles instead (maybe on toast), she agreed to make me breakfast in bed! This is something that almost never happens to me. In the last five years, I've only ever been given breakfast in bed two or maybe three times. One of those times was facilitated by my brother's girlfriend. Probably best not to ask*.

Sadly, it turns out that getting breakfast in bed is a minefield of problematic decisions. Look:


And it doesn't stop there. Once you're sitting up in bed, with your breakfast on your lap, you then have to make the most terrible decision of all. One that could affect your mood for the entire day:


I ate my cereal first. I really hate soggy cereal!

So, today we've established that I am an ungrateful son of a bitch. (To be fair, I've brought Dr K a cup of tea (sometimes two) almost every day for five years. I'm not that bad a boyfriend!)

(*what's that? You insist on knowing the story behind my brothers girlfriends breakfast infidelity? Okay:

We were on a family holiday; me and Dr K, Little Bro and Kebbers**, and my parents. For some reason I was avoiding my parents - I forget why - and was staying in my room 'til they left. So Kebbers brought me breakfast in bed.

Not nearly as sordid as you were expecting, huh?)

(**Yeah, I know 'Kebbers' is an odd name for a girl. There's a whole story behind that, too:

We were staying in a holiday park and in order to use the facilities we had to carry a membership card with our names on. Unfortunately, my dad got my brother's girlfriend's surname horribly, horribly wrong: Donoghue. Not even close.

So, because I'm a bit of a dickhead and like to play around with tenuous similarities in words, I changed 'Donoghue' to 'Doner' which became 'Doner Kebab' which became 'Kebab' and then finally, 'Kebbers'.

I didn't say it was a good story.)

Barbestew

I wrote a whole other blog post for today, but as so often happens, something interesting occurred and today's blog post got bumped.

To set the scene: I had a barbecue yesterday. It was very tasty.

Right, that's the scene setting out of the way. Now for a couple of apparently irrelevant facts:

Apparently irrelevant fact #1: Dr K is very good at recycling. She recycles cardboard and bottles and teabags. She even reuses the bags from cereal boxes. It's amazing.

Apparently irrelevant fact #2: I was so lazy I made Dr K make dinner today.

It's okay. It'll all become clear any second now...

It turns out that there is something almost a brilliant as a barbecue. Something I never knew existed before this evening.

A barbestew.

That's right. Because I was too lazy to make dinner myself, Dr K created a stew from the barbecue leftovers. An amazing concoction of chopped up burgers, sausages and mushrooms. And it was delicious.

I have nothing more to say.

Bedtime Is Complicated

You don't really think of going to bed as a complicated enterprise, but for me it always seems to be overly difficult.

Before heading off to bed I have to make sure the external doors are locked, all the downstairs doors are shut, all the lights are off, the cats are fed and watered, my phone is on charge, I've posted my blog and that Dr K and I have our bedtime cuppas.

Not a massive list of chores, you're probably thinking, but because I'm the king of procrastinators, I can guarantee you that I've left every single one of those things until the last possible moment, which means that as I'm closing those doors with my foot and switching off the light with my elbow, I have two cups of tea in one and, two bowls of cat food in the other, my iPad tucked under one arm maybe a book or magazine under the other and I'm holding onto my phone with my teeth. Also, the cats are more often than not trying to kill me by getting underfoot. Wankers.

This Is What Freaky Fridays Are Like

Did you enjoy your day off? Good, wasn't it? All that awesome not being at work. Life is just so good when you don't have to go to work on a Friday. It was so good in fact that we ought to give it a name that reflects just how good it is! Something really good. Something good like...

Really Great Friday.

You're welcome...

Happy Freaky Friday

I really enjoy my Freaky Fridays. There's something so awesome about having every other Friday off.

Unfortunately I get the impression that other people don't really appreciate just how goddamned sweet it is. Some people even take the trouble to write to me to share just how much they begrudge my days off.

So, in order to help all of you have a bit of empathy with me, I have personally arranged for you to have the next two Fridays off! That's right. Two Fridays.

And because I'm so magnanimous, as a special bonus, I thought I'd throw in a couple of Mondays as well, because they suck big time.

So, while you're having your little lie-ins and enjoying your days off, take a moment to reflect and say to yourself: 'Thank you, Dazza. Thank you for my Freaky Fridays and Marvellous Mondays.'

If I feel that you have benefited from your days off and learned not to begrudge me mine, I may organise some others for later in the year. We'll see.

Shopping

Every now and again I have to go to the shops to buy clothes. I hate going to the shops to buy clothes.

One of the things I hate most is being pounced upon by some cheeky little shit every time I enter one the trendier stores, desperately trying to sell me a store card.

'Excuse me sir, can I interest you in 10% off your purchase today?'

'F*ck no.'

'Don't you want to save 10%?'

'No I f*cking don't. Now f*ck off out of my way, you little f*ck. I want to look around your shitty little shop.'

Obviously the majority of that exchange took place inside my head!

I do quite approve however, of the policy of one particular chain to employ actual, real life grown-ups. These more mature staff members have a much better grasp of how to deal with customers and generally have a lot more to say for themselves than the usual monosyllabic grunting you get from the teenage brats in other stores.

Today, for example, the gentleman that sold me my new clothes wanted to double check that I was aware that I'd selected shirts with different collar sizes and that I was happy with the waist size I'd selected for my trousers.

'Not really,' I said. 'I'd much rather be buying a 36. In fact I'd settle for a 38.'

'It's just a number,' said the cashier.

'Yeah,' I replied. 'A nice round number.'

The gentleman then proceeded to ruminate on his younger days with a 32 inch waist.

'It was a long time ago,' he mused. 'I've had a lot of fun since then.'

Stig Of The Dump's Granddad

Today I saw Stig Of The Dump's Granddad stalking the streets of Bedminster in nothing but his boxer shorts.




I'm still kind've reeling... Not particularly because i saw an old man in naught but his underpants wandering the streets of Bedminster - that's actually par for the course. No, its because I'm not entirely sure, but I think this might have been the same old guy I encountered in one of the more unpleasant episodes of my life. I had a horrible flashback.

WARNING!!! If you are likely to feel physically ill after reading the following tale of alfresco grimness, please click on this link to whisk yourself back to the safety of some cute kitties.

If, however you are of hardy character and have a cast iron stomach, read on:

I popped out of the office at around 10.30am one morning to move my car from the Argos carpark into a space in our staff car park. I pulled out of the car park and stopped at a T junction. I looked left to see if there was any traffic coming and was horrified to see a grotesque man in a half squatting position, his trousers around his ankles, having a shit on the pavement

That's right... having a shit. On the pavement. On a busy public section of pavement. He appeared to be pushing quite hard.

Ugh.




(Just to be clear, you're right. The pictures in this blog post are crap!)

Upside Down Cats

Cats are pretty funny animals.

Especially when they're upside down.







What?

What do you mean, posting pictures of cute little cats doing cute things isn't a proper post?

I thought posting pictures of cute little cats doing cute things was exactly what the Internet was for. Well, that and porn. You don't want me to post home made porn.

Trust me...

A Sweet Deal

I have a pretty sweet deal here.

Dr K lets me live in her house and all I have to do in return is feed her. So that's what I do. I buy most of the food and make sure she has a lively hot dinner pretty much on demand. Oh, and I keep her off my bac... er... I mean entertained, by supplying a subscription to satellite TV, a magazine or two and a steady stream of video games, days out and live entertainment*.

Somehow I consistently manage to get out of doing the lion's share of the household chores. I pretty much get away with cooking dinner every night and not a lot else. Dr K tells me that she likes it that way and that she actually enjoys doing the vast mountain of washing up that I generate every evening.

I suspect there's another reason for her idleness enablement: I don't do it right.

It's not really that I don't do it right. It's more that I don't do it in the way that she wants. There's something wrong with my washing up technique, for instance. It's not, as she suggests, because the plates are still dirty at the end of it. They're not. No more than when anyone else washes up, anyway.

There was an example of this today.

Dr K was lounging in the sunny garden with one of the previously mentioned magazines, when the washing machine finished it's cycle. She got up to begin the task of transferring the waning from the machine to the line, but I stopped her.

"No, my precious darling," I said. "You stay there. I'll deal with it."

She looked dubious, but consented.

As I was hanging the washing out, however, her true nature began to shine through:

"Don't bother pairing the socks," she instructed as I paired the socks. "I'll just empty them out onto the bed last and then they'll all get mixed up again."

"I can't help but pair the socks, my beautiful angel," said I. "I am a compulsive sock pairer by my very nature and it would offend my sense of the aesthetic to put these socks on the line in a higgledy piggledy fashion."

"I would rather," she insisted, "that you concentrate more on stretching your gargantuan pants along the line. I heartily dislike your usual method of using just one peg for your undergarments as it leads to a longer drying time and thusly, damp gussets. Use more pegs."

"Very well, my fragrant petal," I muttered to myself. "Even after four long winters of co-habitation, you have not yet learned how to issue instruction to the most passive of aggressors."

And then I did this:


She was less amused than I might have hoped.

Passive aggressive nonsense aside, Dr K is lovely. She puts up with my messiness and my larking around and my ridiculous songs about her hair and her legs and her jubblies and she even quietly ignores me when I attempt to dry hump her as she washes up.




(*by live entertainment, I don't mean that I put on a cabaret act in the living room every night, awesome though that might be. I actually mean that I drag her to theatres and comedy gigs and stuff.)

Women Are Bitches!

Yeah, what this blog needs is a horrible misogynistic post about how I hate women and stuff.

Actually, I don't hate women. I think they're brilliant and that most of their bits are brilliant too.

What I have noticed though is that many of the ladies in the office consistently make sexist remarks about men. Not usually particularly offensive remarks, but sexist nonetheless. And of course, these are the very same ladies who would be the first to complain were the situation reversed.

Because I am somewhat passive aggressive, I decided to do a number of things to combat this insidious creep of missogyny (see what I did there?):

1. Over the course of one week (last week) I would count the number of these horrible sexist remarks.

2. Every time I hear one, I will mutter the phrase 'women are lady dogs' under my breath (I wasn't brave enough to actually say 'bitches' in that context in the office! Yes, I know. I'm a coward.)

3. I will be unapologetic but transparent in my explanation of the reasoning for my apparent bigotry.

4. I will post about it here at the end of the week.

Now, if you're reading this, it's the end of said week and I've finished stage 4. How exciting. Here are the results of my week:

1. There were 36 instances of missogyny over the past 7 days. Examples include:

'Men are useless.' (several instances)
'Men can't cope with pain.' (in relation to a workmate who had an operation on his knee a week ago, yet struggled into the office, clearly demonstrating that he could in fact cope with it just fine)
'Men.' (about 12 instances, normally coupled with rolled eyes.)
'Oh, he's just got man-flu.'
'What's the best type of man? A dead one.' (this one was actually a comedian on the telly. It may not count)

2. I did not get fired.

3. Most of the people that overheard me were briefly offended but when I explained my reasoning, were, in the main part, either mildly amused or just rolled their eyes. I get that a lot, so no change there.

4. There was one person who, rather predictably was singularly unimpressed by my activities:


They can't help it, I suppose. It's their hormones.

What The Hell?

Somehow, I ended up with salad for lunch. I don't know how it happened; I certainly didn't plan it, but it happened nonetheless.



Even though there was a bit of chicken there, I didn't enjoy it. Towards the end, I found myself chewing a mouthful of lettuce and contemplating an alternative life as a cow.

Salad sucks. I should have gone for a steak.

Nothing To Blog About

I'm kind've at a loss this evening. I can't really think of anything to blog about. I mean, I can think of some stuff, but I'm not really feeling especially inspired but would actually quite like to go to bed instead.

But because I'm a dedicated blogger and because I know that you are all hanging on my every word, I shall endeavour to produce something worth reading. And I shall do it by typing a load of bollocks until something amusing comes out.

I could tell you about my work colleague who regaled us this morning with half-hour long anecdote about how a drunk man pointed out her big boobs to her. I won't though, because it's not very interesting and you already know the best bit.

I could also tell you about the wave of conjunctivitis that's about to strike in our building because one of the dinner ladies won't take time off. I won't do that either, because I reckon I can get a much better blog post out of it when it actually happens.

I suppose I could comment that the car park in Bedminger smelled exactly like sick when I arrived at work yesterday morning, but the truth is that by the time I went out at lunchtime, the sick smell had reverted to the rather more familiar smell of poo.

I could mention in passing my minor error with my measurements on yesterday's blog post, but I'd rather not let on that I can't do simple math.

Perhaps I could write about my sudden inability to parallel park my car, but that might cause you to question first my competence to drive and by inference my status as a man.

No. I think I might go to bed instead.

Night night.

iShed

Two things entered my life today. an iPad2 and a shed. The are both very cool things, but in very different ways.

I thought it might be helpful to draw up a comparative chart:



As you can see, there are plusses and minuses for each product and I think they end up pretty much as good as each other on paper, however it's quite a subjective thing. A shed owner may require slightly different functionality to an iPad owner.

If, for example, you are looking for some sort of compatibility with people who use a different product, an iPad with it's proprietary Apple iOS is going to disappoint. The shed, however, comes with windows, which are widely used and supported.

The shed may let the user down with it's lack of connectivity: no wifi and no 3G. It's not even Bluetooth. But it's storage capacity is far superior. Try storing a lawn mower, garden chair and barbecue in your iPad!


The shed also shows a distinct advantage in it's durability. In tests, sheds have endured rain, wind and snow with no appreciable drop in usability. The iPad on the other hand is likely to be rendered unusable if you leave it outside in a snowdrift for a week.

The two devices sport very differing looks. The iPad is slender and shiny, while the shed adopts a more traditional wooden look. Both are very nice, and both can be customised to the users preferences in similarly limited ways - in the example of the iPad, one can purchase an official 'smart cover' in one of about 10 different colours. The shed can be painted pretty much any colour. The form factor of each, however cannot really be modified.

In conclusion, I would advise carefully weighing up what you need from your device. If you're looking for a garden storage solution, then the iPad is not for you. If however you are after a shiny media consumption device, then I simply cannot recommend the shed.

Lists

If you spend any length of time on the Internet you'll have noticed that many blogs resort to listing things in order to fill space. I am pleased to say that I am no exception to this proud tradition.

Here is a list of nine lists that probably exist:

Shopping List
This would be quite useful if there was a number of things that you wished to purchase at a grocery emporium and, like me, have a memory that is notable only for it's lack of... um... I forgot what I was saying...

Contact List
This is a collection of the details of people you would like to remember. Again, it is useful if you can't remember things like your brothers' name.

Hit List
This could be considered a subset of the contact list. Basically it's the people that you really don't like and wouldn't mind paying a burly man to murder. Probably best not to have one of these.

Task List
I don't really like these. I mean who wants to write down a selection of the chores that you have to do? Chores! Ugh.

Christmas Card List
Sometimes you need to remember the names and addresses of people you want to send brightly coloured bits of litter to around the Christmas season. I'm not sure why.

Guest List
I suppose if one were to hold an event to which one had invited so many people that one could forget who should and shouldn't be attending, one might wish to produce one of these. Personally, I don't see the attraction.

The A List
In 1972 a list of crack commandoes was sent to prison for a crime it didn't correctly bullet point. This list promptly escaped from a maximum security stationery cupboard to the Bedminster underground where it survives as a list of fortune. If you have a number of things that need to be itemised and no-one else can help, and if you can find it, maybe you can hire... THE A-LIST!

What? Oh. Apparently I got this one completely wrong!

Register
This is really just another word for a list, I think. Mainly used in schools to pick on children.

Listerine
This is a type of list that you can use to clean your teeth. Brilliant!

Yet Another Post About Curry (Also A Graph!)

I managed to go a week and two days without a curry. The withdrawal symptoms were getting too much to bear.

I went to my usual haunt with the lovely Dr K and the mighty Mr Berry and indulged in special chops and lashings of toilet humour, some of which involved thinking up boob related names for curries, such as Mammary Madras, Boobie Bhuna, Jubbly Jalfrezi and Titty Tikka Masala (all courtesy of Dr K) Don't ask why. It just happened. You had to be there.

Apparently exposure to me drags Mr Berry's sense of humour into the gutter (a place I believe it gravitates to naturally) and keeps it there, allegedly against its will.

As has become customary in this blog, a graph has been produced to illustrate the Daz Effect:


Back to the curry narrative: You know you eat out too much when, whilst giving you the bill, the waiter says 'So we'll see you again tomorrow night, huh?'

I don't care. The curry is good.

Afterwards we stopped by Mr Berry's house and tried his home made apple pie ice cream. Man did that taste of apple pie. My mouth was simultaneously delighted and confused! It doesn't experience those two states together very often.

Another Fish Supper

Before I start, I should clarify that I did not eat fish for my supper and in fact, the meal that features in this post is not, in fact, supper in anything other than the loosest sense.

I have in fact created a blog post title that completely misleads you with regards to the content of the post. Even the word 'another' is a lie, because I have never had fish for supper.

I'm not sorry.

This post is actually about a Chinese meal that snuck up on me today. The fish referred to in the title is actually the Fish Lady, who was not nearly as sneaky as the sneaky Chinese meal. I'm not sure she was capable of doing any sneaking at all, given that she had caused her knee to explode the other day by running up a mountain. Running up a mountain? Who even does that?



A sober warning, I think you'll agree, of the dangers of running up mountains.

Anyway, that's off topic.

I went to Chipping Sodbury this evening because Mr Berry was playing at some sort of charity gig and I felt duty bound to provide mildly disinterested support. I was not entirely successful at this endeavour as his band went in for their one hour set about half an hour early and were asked to stop playing before their hour was up. I'm unsure whether the cease and desist order was related to the quality of their music.

The upshot of this was that we only had to hang around the pub for about twenty minutes.

Following the music segment of the evening, Mr Berry declared that he was hungry and, by coincidence, so was I, having failed to consume the regulation quantity of cake today. Dr K and the Decidedly Unsneaky Fish Lady, who were also present, did not appear to completely share our enthusiasm for food, but were willing to go along for the ride.

So we walked (most of us, anyway - those members of our party with exploded knees sort of hobbled) to the nearest Chinese restaurant and... well... had Chinese food.

Mmm...

Two important things were learnt during the course of our conversation over dinner:

1. Crispy chilli shredded beef looks like Nic Nacs.

2. If you want to upset a Polish person, swear at them in German!

My Boss Reads This Blog

That can't be good, can it?

Not my immediate boss, who is a lady, but her boss. He recently found out that I was blogging every day and now has a regular read of it. I'd better not say anything compromising here, just in case.

To be honest, I don't really have much time to write this blog because of all the awesome hard work I'm doing in the office. I love my job, it's brilliant.

What's that? The best bit of my job? Oh, well, let me think about it for a few moments. Hmm... Oh that's right. It has to be my brilliant boss. He's just so excellent and clever and handsome and witty and generous and... er... strong. And... Did I mention clever?

Ahem...

At least my ladyboss doesn't read it... I hope...

Snottea

This morning I made myself a delicious cup of tea.

I'd been looking forward to it for some time as I had been distracted by such menial things as showering and dressing and hadn't had one for about 40 minutes.

So I made the tea and, because it was a glorious day, went outside to enjoy it in the garden. Rochester, who also likes sitting out in the sun, came to join me and sat on my lap.

I was just about to drink my tea, when this happened:



Yuck.

Freaky Friday Eve

I have a Freaky Friday tomorrow.

How should one best celebrate the onset of a glorious day off? There's only one way, really. Curry.

So I went out for a steak.

Although I have no idea what I'll be doing, I feel sure that I will fill tomorrow with many awesome activities that will be considerably more entertaining than anything the office can offer!

There may even be pictures!

To make up for the lack of pictures in this particular post, here is a picture of this post:

Shittea

Sometimes, for no apparent reason, I make a really shitty cup of tea.

I think it happens to everyone. You follow exactly the same process that you always do, leaving the bag in for the same length of time and adding the same amount of milk and so on. But rather than producing a delicious cup of perfect, refreshing tea, you somehow end up with something that tastes like it was wrung out of a dead badger's armpit.

I can't explain it.

What I also can't explain is why, even when the shitty tea is so shitty that even a man who likes the delicate flavour of a cadaverous badger armpit and is dying of thirst won't drink it, I would.

It's almost as if I'm hardwired to drink it no matter what. Unless it gets cold. Even I won't drink cold tea.

Incidentally, I hit 600 cups last night. Woohoo!

The Scene Of The Crime

Crime Report

Date: 05/04/2011

Reporting Officer: PC 1602 Dazza Moo

Location: Dazza/Dr K residence, near Bristol, UK

Upon returning home from work, I entered the kitchen area to prepare the evening meal, whereupon I heard a cry from upstairs. the cry appeared to be one of surprise and mild distress.

Responding to the cry at an appropriate speed, I proceeded to the stairwell area where I ascended the steps, one at a time, starting with my rightmost foot. After several steps, I reached the top of the stairs and, ascertaining that the cry had come from the vicinity of the en-suite, proceeded to my right, at which point I came across Dr K (the witness) looking surprised and mildly distressed.

The witness was able to convey to me the reasons for her surprise and, indeed her mild distress, pointing out to me a set of incriminating marks of a blue nature upon the surface of the floor. I present a photograph of these marks as EXHIBIT ONE:



I further proceeded into the room whereupon I noted further marks of a suspicious nature on the seat area of the toilet. I present a further photograph of this evidence as EXHIBIT TWO, which clearly shows the marks and a blue detergent like substance in the toilet bowl:



Upon closer examination of these marks, I was able to ascertain that they were footprints. A close up photograph of the most prominent print is presented here as EXHIBIT THREE:



Upon further questioning, the witness was able to confirm that they were of a feline nature, which lead me to suspect that the culprit may have been a cat.

Upon performing a search of the immediate vicinity, I encountered a small cat sleeping in a suspicious manner on a nearby bed. The cat was somewhat stripy, so I approached with caution, in case it proved to be a tiger, however it was quickly subdued.

As the cat refused to submit to questioning, I arrested and restrained it. While waiting for backup, I searched the cat and discovered that one of it's paws was slightly bluer than the other, leading me to suspect that the cat was responsible for the blue footprints. A photograph comparing the relative blueness of the paws in question is presented as EXHIBIT FOUR:



Following further questioning at the Station, the cat admitted that it had been drinking from the toilet in violation of byelaw 1701: No cat is permitted to drink water, pissy or otherwise, from the toilet.

I further ascertained that the cat has previous form for this offence, namely an incident on the 21st January 2011.

The cat further admitted to being stripy, but firmly denied being a tiger.




It is my belief that this cat should be considered a danger to toilets and I ask the court to consider detaining him at Her Majesties' Pleasure.

PC 1602 Dazza Moo

Jammie Little Bastards!

Jammie Dodgers are brilliant. Look at this brilliant picture of them:


I even managed to get them to pose nude for you:


Phowarr! Look at their jammy holes!

Ahem. Anyway, it turns out that these Jammie Dodgers are dirty, chavvy little slags. They've been sleeping around with lots of different biscuits and now look what's happened: they've had lots of little half-breed babies!


Obviously I had to take them in and... er... taste them.


Well, it turns out that jammie awesomeness isn't hereditary when you pollute the gene pool with inferior biscuits!

Take the chocolate one, for example. Obviously the result of a sticky little fumble on the back seat of a Yugo with a bourbon cream. The result is a biscuit that's not as nice as JD or a bourbon cream.

The lemon one is slightly better, but not much. The less said about the toffee one, the better!

Fortunately, Dr K sensed my disappointment in these misbegotten little mongrels and made me delicious batch of raspberry curd muffins!

Bad Son

I am a bad son.

What with all the stuff happening over the last week, a trip to Bonnie Scotland and the zoo, followed almost immediately by another one to the South Coast and a curry house, I neglected to donate to the NCVFC (National Card Vendors and Florist's Charity).

Well I didn't forget, exactly. I kept meaning to. Those cards and flowers aren't going to sell themselves, and if everyone forgot to donate to this extremely worthwhile charity, then they'd have to go and get... well, real jobs.

I suppose I'd better go and make a donation tomorrow. Dunno what I'm going to do with the stupid card and flowers though... I might dump them at mum's house.

How Far Would You Go For A Curry?

What would you say if someone phoned you up and said 'Hey, let's go for a curry!'

Obviously, because curry is awesome, you're gonna say 'Yes'.

Now imagine that the curry in question is 10 miles away. Or 20. The average person would probably start to consider fuel cost and the time it would take to get there and back.

Okay... How about 30 or 40? I'm thinking most people would start to back away from the whole curry idea, while 60 or 80 miles would be right out.

Let me show you a graph:



The blue line represents the average, normal, well adjusted person's desire for curry plotted against their distance from said curry.

The red line, on the other hand, is me.

You will note that I start out far more eager for curry than the aforementioned average, normal, well adjusted person. As the average, normal well adjusted person becomes less inclined to travel for curry, my eagerness remains a universal constant.

The reason I bring this up is that I am going out for a curry tonight. That curry is approximately 104 miles away. And I still think that's worth it.


(As a point of interest, I've set this post to auto publish at the exact moment that I'm due to meet for the curry. Let's hope my date turns up this time!)

Hall Smell Update

This is not today's post. I don't want you to be worried that I've short-changed you on your daily post.

I just thought you'd like an update on that hall smell issue, now that I'm back home.

It's gone. I think.

Dr K basically cleaned the hall from top to bottom. She did not find the source of the smell.

But it's gone now.

Check back here at 7pm for today's proper post.

How To Waste Time At Work

Well, I dunno about you lot, but I went to the zoo.

Edinburgh zoo to be precise. I like zoos. They're brilliant.

Look at this dude. He's a motherf*cking EAGLE, for f*cks sake!


Two feet away from my face and looking awesome.


This little guy was pretty cool, too even though he was trying to steal my phone:


Look carefully at this photo. Where's Wally?


I think this guy had just woken from a really good dream:


Tigers are great:


I was pretty knackered at this point, so I had a nap!


So... That's how I spent my afternoon while waiting for my plane.

Home now. I have kebab.