The War on Belgium

What is it good for?

Following what will now be referred to as "the Unfortunate Birthday Incident", we regret to announce that war is hereby declared on My Boyfriend is a Twat for the following reasons:

a) daring to suggest, with malice aforethought, that I am, in fact, 43 years old.
b) living in Belgium
c) sending the dregs of the internet over here to look at my arse.

The forces of righteousness have been mobilised, not to mention the Penguin Liberation Army, so we're all doomed.

I'll have Zoe running for the hills before she knows what's hit her. And seeing that she lives in Belgium, the nearest hills are blummin' miles away. Riled up? You bet I am.

This war is only over until somebody gets their arse out on the internet. And it's not going to be me. You wouldn't want it to be me.

Crack suicide squad (that's you, by the way) - go get 'em!

Oz

As promised, Scary birthday woe, with added Australians.

Up before the lark at some god-awful hour to drive 110 miles to work. This after being woken in the middle of the night by both Scary Dogs going mental in the back garden at two in the morning, for which they are severely chastised. Then I trod in a doggy chocolate surprise (bare feet), for which their was further chastisement.

In this wonderful mood, I arrive at work to take my visiting Aussie equivalents on a tour of the facility. This included a trip out to our remote site, somewhere in the Oxfordshire countryside. This was the scene of many a working hour barbecue, before the management found out and modern technology got the better of staff numbers.

Down to the field we went to look our impressive array of satellite dishes and very, very long radio antennae. Tom Baker fell off one of these dishes in his last ever Dr Who episode, he said, dropping names.

"And that pond over there? Chitty Chitty Bang Bang." And we're not talking the Thai porn movie, either.

Then there was this bull.

In fact, there was this bloody huge bull.

Big, randy, and taking a good long look at my bright red jumper, bollocks swaying in the breeze. The Bull's bollocks were swinging in the breeze as well. It's mate, another equally large huge-bollocked bull sidled over, and both stared at me as if to say "Hump it. Hump it hard."

I had absolutely no desire to get rogered to death by a bull, not least on my birthday. And the thought of becoming bovine sloppy seconds was the clincher. And naturally, there was thedelicate matter of UK-Australian relations to consider. Transported to the colonies - it didn't bare thinking about.

"Leg it."

*cue Benny Hill theme*

"You're not getting in my car with cow crap all over your feet."

Oh, spoons. And only five miles back to the office...

Life imitates duck

"Dog Poker" pictures sell for $600k. And you think I make up this crap.