One year ago today, I signed up for a weblog to see if it was any good. It was. I wrote about blowing things up and a huge all-pensioners brawl at Reading post office. I chose the template with the pebbles over the brown-purpley-green one. I think that was a pretty good choice. From the outset, I tried to be different from the conventional diary style of many blogs, and went for daft reminiscences from my life as a social retard. I'm thirty-seven next week, so there's plenty to choose from. And contrary to rumours, YES they are all true.
In the last year, I've moved to the seaside, narrowly escaped death by randy dolphin, sent a dog shit through the post, won some award or other, gave my prize money to British Gas, got scabies, made a whole pile of online friends, got my political conscience pricked sometime around early September and got kidnapped by my arch nemesis before being rescued by heavily armed special forces rabbits. That really happened. Honest.
Looking back at my very first post, I vowed never to publish cute fluffy pictures of my cat on the grounds that she's an ugly man-hating lesbian mentallist, turned to the dark side by sex-crazed rabbits. Sorry.
My finest moment? The high water mark thus far is also the most requested: PiSS. All my Scary stories are archived here. You will be pleased to hear that I have enough of these tales on file to last another six months, and three out of the next four involve things getting blown up.
There will be a short period allowed for festivities, during which musical chairs will be played. And sardines, if enough laydez show up. Pie-shaped cake, anyone?
Smokehammer is back.
Arseblogger is offering a cheap, reliable blogging and hosting package at blogfc.com, which I've agreed to pimp for him as he's still got the negatives. Will that do, mate?