Making Misty Happy

Making Misty Happy

Last week, we had an idea. A nice idea, to do a nice thing for an ...err.. nice person.

Y'see, partner in blogging crime Misty reached the climax of her court action to regain control of her family home from the clutches of ...err... not very nice people. She lost, and bastardry reigns supreme.

The plan was this: send Misty somewhere nice that doesn't involve court cases, yet indulges her love of very sharp axes. We're sending her to the 2006 Discworld Convention.

If you don't know our heroine, she is a bit of a celebrity in certain circles, as the author of this here book, which raised an awful lot of money for these very nice people. The author is also a bit of a performer, and would be guaranteed to give a good turn at any fan event. *cough*

So: I begged for money. And some very excellent people obliged. One hundred notes guarantees Misty and an axe-wielding friend, and I am very pleased to say that we are now more-or-less covered. You all know who you are - allow yourselves to feel warm inside. I told Tina on Monday, and she's still on the ceiling with excitement. Thank you all.

I know it's sappy, but this is what teh intarnets should be all about.

If anybody feels the urge to contribute further - there are still accommodation and travel expenses to cover - you might want to paypal funds to scaryduck at fastmail dot fm, or e-mail me at the same address for further details. Naturally, I will present Misty with the spends just as soon as I return from my holiday in the Bahamas. That is all.


The Wembley River of Piss - Slight Return

Poor Wembley Stadium. They haven't even finished it yet and it's falling down already. Not only is the roof falling off, but the weight of the entire edifice has crushed the stadium's sewage pipes flatter than a chocolate spread sandwich.

Anybody who remembers the old Wembley Stadium will find that the latest tale of mirth and woe surrounding New Wembley's collapsed sewers about as surprising as a post-match huff from Jose Mourinho, officially football's angriest manager.

Whenever I parted with far too much money to watch some event at the old ruined dog track, the legendary Wembley River of Piss would burst its banks and flow several inches deep around the concourse, and out down the grassy bank where they let the greyhounds do their business. I particularly remember a play-off final where never-been-to-a-football-match-in-their-lives wives and girlfriends discovered the impracticalities of open-toed sandals in an all-manky environment.

It is pleasing then, having controversially done away with the famous Twin Towers, that the architects have retained this important feature of the old stadium in the all-new Wembley Experience. And who says tradition is dead?


Mirth. And woe.

GW: Done a poo.