Fluffy! Don't give me fluffy!
Regular readers will remember that I bought a new towel recently from the proceeds of the Buy Scaryduck a New Towel Appeal. You may even have seen the photograph of it in all its Hong Kong Phooey goodness, and a fine, fine towel it is too. I look forward to many adventures with it, camping out under the stars and whipping people with the damp end in swimming pools.
So, I thought it was high time to break the thing in and actually use it. I had a shower this morning, and toweled myself off with its soft, downy goodness.
I might have known. So, that's what they meant on the tag I ripped of and flung into the bin. "Wash before use."
I am now covered, head to toe, with a light, downy sheen of yellow and green fluff, and look like Wanky-Wanky the fifth Teletubby that left before they got famous.
Later: All the fluff seems - through some sort of capilliary action caused by the friction of my clothing, for which there is almost certainly a lengthy scientific treatise published somewhere - to have converged on a single point of my anatomy. My bell end now resembles a novelty yellow-and-green toffee apple. This is woe of the worst order. Damn you Hong Kong Phooey!
The most incredible thing suddenly dawned on me whilst nipping out a length and perusing the Daily Telegraph in the third cubicle along the other morning.
Iraq's been turned into a toilet, and whatever the rights and wrongs of going out there for any reason, there must be some underlying cause to the whole affair. And it struck me. The minute the late Ken Bigley - God rest his poor Scouse soul - was given Irish nationality, the Iraqi Head collectors killed him. Margaret Hossan, Baghdad's Care International director-turned-hostage was born in Ireland.
It's obvious. They're after us Micks, aren't they? In which case, let us teach the buggers a lesson they'll never forget. Let's send Ian Paisley out there.