Shaving with Gravy

Shaving with Gravy

I've just cracked open a new tin of shaving gel. And frankly...

Dear Nivea

I'm not going to beat about the bush with false platitudes and what-not. I'm just going to say it:

Your sensitive skin Shaving Gel looks just like man's spunk. I opened the new tin, pressed the button, and watched in horror as a jet of jism spurted out all over my hand.

Unless you have extensive market research that proves the opposite, no man wants to shave his face with spunk, for it is ten shades of wrongness.

For did not Moses come off down the mountain and tell his people: "Thou shalt not shave thy faces with thyne own man gravy, or the man gravy of thyne brother, for it is an ABOMINATION in the face of The Lord, and those who commit such BLASPHEMY shall suffer death"? I think you'll find that he did, and is one of the main reasons that all known photographs of the great man show him sporting a bloody huge beard.

And despite being a deity-curious atheist, I'm with old Jehovah on this one. Unless you're willing to change the name to "Nivea Bukkake-Gel for men who like to shave their faces with actual spunk", I'm going to jump ship and purchase a tube of King of Shaves Fanny Batter Foam.

Be Lucky

Your pal,


Albert O'Balsam

PS If it really is spunk, my ...err... friend wants to know if you've got any jobs going.

If I get a reply, I'll eat my carpet slippers.

IT LIVES!

IT LIVES!

Weekend Video

Weekend Video

Rialto - Monday Morning 5:19



A random snippet of conversation, and I'm suddenly remembering how much I still love this song. A song of lost love and paranoia.

Right. In. The. Heart.

Brucie Bonus: Rialto - Untouchable

This band should've been huge.

DUEL

DUEL

1980, a country dances to the sound of the New Romantics, while Thatcher cuts services to the bone. Same as it ever was, same as it ever will be.

But it was also a time where a great wrong was committed. A wrong that can only be put right of THE FIELD OF HONOUR.

As long-time readers of this page will know, my life has been scarred by a single event that took place that year. An event that has never been resolved, leaving two grown men to go three decades, festering with anger, shame and rage.

I refer, of course, to the Great Piggott School Bicycle Crash of 1980, in which a unfortunate pile-up outside our educational establishment led to the complete and utter destruction of the velocipede belonging to my very good friend, who stalks this website under the pseudonym of "Balders".

My involvement in the Great Piggott School Bicycle Crash of 1980 was peripheral - I was forced to brake heavily on the roundabout outside the school to avoid a growing pile-up caused entirely by Girls On Bikes - while the younger Balders did not, resulting in his machine disappearing under approximately 100 pairs of wheels, smashed down to pieces that could have been posted home in a match box.

And for this - an accident for which I was not to blame, Balders - fleeing to the People's Republic of South Yorkshire - has borne a grudge these last thirty years.

But now, this must end.

I DEMAND SATISFACTION

Sirrah, for these slurs I shall see you on THE FIELD OF HONOUR.

The Field of Honour in question being a darkened cellar in Reykjavik*, where we shall be armed with thirty-pound sledgehammers

Then - and only then - can we allow this life-long shame rest. Except for the loser, obviously, who shall be hurled into a lagoon.

* Twinned with Hull - FACT!

FASHION ADVICE

FASHION ADVICE

A short message to the man with long hair and the Guns'n'Roses T-shirt on the 1512 South West Trains service between Waterloo and Basingstoke last Friday:

Yes, it's OK to tie your hair back. In fact, both fashion and work safety demand this to be the case.

However, your sister's hair clips and an Alice band are a no-no and will make you look like a nobber.

Don't be a nobber.

South Sudan

South Sudan

Congratulations to South Sudan, who, this coming July, will become the world's newest nation after declaring independence from their northern brothers.

Despite the hard partying that's undoubetedly taking place in downtown Juba, I do have one concern: the name of the country.

Yes, South Sudan's the safe option and fits very well on the postage stamps. However, with the planet's economy struggling its way out of recession it's a state-eat-state world out there and I worry that despite their oil, our new pals will struggle to stand up to the big boys on the world stage.

That's why they should have taken my advice and sold the naming rights. It works very well for football grounds. Emirates paid a fortune to get their name all over Arsenal's ground, even if the fans still call it Ashburton Grove.

O2 Arena? Yeah, it's the Dome.

Given a following wind, they could have been coining it in with a few of our little suggestions:

* Cola Cola presents the Republic of South Sudan

* Barclaystan (incorporating South Sudan)

* MS Sudan 2.0

And there's just one other point we'd like to make clear. Now that you've split from Sudan Classic: Do you like it up 'em, or not?

Just asking, like.

NESCAFE HANDSHAKE

NESCAFE HANDSHAKE

In the wake of last week's Fish Finger Sandwich revelations, I feel it my duty to write to another purveyor of fine foods for their contribution to the impending firey death of our planet and all who dwell on it.

Dear Nescafe

A hearty Nescafe Handshake to you all!

Congratulations on your newest product: The sachet of combined coffee, sugar and milk for lazy people who like their beverages to taste of Scout Huts. Despite being a BLASPHEMY that goes against all the teachings of six thousand years of modern civilisation, the people behind it are clearly Grade A geniuses who should be given the rest of the day off as a reward.

However, I can't help thinking that this new innovation might be missing a trick.

You see, there are a great many coffee drinkers who do not take their drink with sugar and/or milk and this has got me thinking out loud:

If only you made such a product which provided the coffee lover with just coffee, leaving them with the option of adding sugar and milk to taste?

And, in the name of convenience, do away with the plastic sachets, which are a crime against modern civilisation, and sell them to us in glass containers, which I believe are called "jars". I have several in my shed you can have but you might want to give them a bit of a rinse first.

I don't know about you, but I think this could be the biggest thing since the bloke who invented sliced bread thought to himself "Hey, it's only eleven o'clock, I've already invented sliced bread - how about something hot to drink that's not tea?"

Think about it. This time next year, Rodders....

Your pal

Albert O'Balsam

There. Charming as usual.

On bringing the word DOPPO to a wider audience

On bringing the word DOPPO to a wider audience

"Out of my way, you DOPPO!" I raged at the driver in the car in front of me who was driving like a doppo.

And to be perfectly honest, it was a Monday morning when the roads were teaming with doppoes. Or doppos. The Style Council is still out on the plural, and Paul Weller's not answering my calls*. The great doppo.

"So, what exactly, is a 'doppo'?" I hear you ask.

That is the kind of question that only a doppo would ask, for it is perfectly clear from the context that this is an entirely cromulent word to describe and idiot whose demonstrated behaviour indicates that they are one air mile short of a Parisian holiday.

Also, it was a word coined by my sister, essentially to insult me between bouts of attempted murder. As decades on, after the mental and physical scars have healed, it is time to bury the past like an older sister under the patio and offer the word 'doppo' for wider use.

You big bunch of doppoes. Especially you, doppo.

* The Style Council has ruled in favour of "doppoes", stating that "'Doppos' looks like the name of a Greek restaurant".

Weekend Video

Weekend Video

Father Ted - Bunker Mentality


Quite simply, one of my favourite ever comic scenes. Superb setup, excellent execution. Poor, dead Father Ted.

And the next person up against the wall...

And the next person up against the wall...

...is whoever it was who woke up in the middle of the night - shaking and sweating with excitement - with the words: "I know! Why don't we combine supermarkets and petrol stations!"

And then, he drove to his office in Tesco World Headquarters, where his entire life is dominated by the words "point of sale", "return on investment" and - worst of all - "synergy" to put his dreadful scheme into effect.

For that single thought brings us to the next, teaming, group of people up against the wall...

...people who fill their cars up with pretrol, who then go and do their weekly shop, leaving their car at the pump.

For these people are - if you will allow me to express myself - the biggest bunch of selfish shit-for-brains that ever drew breath.

Actually, they're worse than that. You watch them, heart sinking, turning left into the depths of the supermarket instead of heading straight for the till. And you know that you, and the twenty cars behind you are in for a wait, in which it is likely the end of the world will come first.

Theen, a quarter of an hour later, they emerge with three bags of shopping, juggling car keys, cigarettes and lottery scratch cards, as they amble towards their vehicle. They catch sight of you, pulling a "Fuck you, I wish you were dead" face and shrug. Shrug, and spend anothe five minutes not actually driving off.

It's that kind of person who makes me so angry that I nearly say something.

These people, I am reliably led to believe, are allowed to have children, vote and hold positions of responsibility in society. THEY MUST BE STOPPED.

But really: Tied to a stake at low tide and left for the crabs. Then fire the crabs into the heart of a nuclear reactor, and seal it in concrete for 10,000 years.

On the aftermath of the revloution to depose Hosni Mubarak in Egypt

On the aftermath of the revloution to depose Hosni Mubarak in Egypt

Congratulations to the people of Egypt for enduring in their peaceful revolution to overthrow the crooked regime of Hosni Mubarak and his cronies!

Commiserations to the people of Egypt for accidentally ending up with a military government, made up - in the main - of Hosni Mubarak's cronies.

To be sure, there are probably military governments out there that haven't resorted to deadly force for the heinous crime of dropping McDonald's wrappers in the street, but I have yet to met one, for military governments only know two ways to rule. For eg: Painful death; and 'drop and give me twenty'. Wihch are essentially the same thing.

You know you are in trouble just minutes after the glorious revolution to rid the nation of its despotic leader, when all the TV and radio channels air Supreme Military Council Statement No.1, which tells a tremulous nation who is going to be in charge for the foreseeable.

Then, as sure as eggs, Supreme Military Council Statement No.2 emerges ("We're still in charge, suckers"), then another and another, and before you know it it's sixteen years down the line, elections are a distant memory of a distant promise and Supreme Military Council Statement No.27,092 reads as follows:

"The Supreme Generalissimo decrees that:

all personalised car number plates to be written in Comic Sans;

State TV to air repeats of Terry and June at 8pm, 8.30pm and 9.00pm;

please report to your local police station for your forehead identity tattoo;

Two Minutes' Hate postponed until tomorrow, which will be a special Four Minutes' Hate.

PS We mean it about the Comic Sans."

The lucky bastards. Swap you that for The Big Society.

Big Society Doctor

Big Society Doctor

A final stab - as it were - at volunteering for the Big Society

With government cuts biting hard, and the Big Society coming into full effect, I've decided that my attempts to serve this community as either a Lollipop Lady or a Hot Librarian really aren't going to come to much.

It's all rather laudible axing these public services and putting them into the hands of a keen band of volunteers (being the kind of person who sits in freezing village halls taking the minutes at the Brownie Group Parents Committee), but I crave the kind of position that earns me respect. Respect and Yummy Mummies.

Therefore, I'm going for The Big One. I'm going to volunteer to be a Big Society Doctor.

I'll be the first to admit that I've got no formal training save for once watching my late mother (a district nurse, as it happens) syringe the ears of some old bloke of enough wax to start a very small candle factory. I also, as a confused adolescant, got to glop over copies of the Nursing Times and the British Medical Journal, but I've said too much on that front already.

However, I've seen enough episodes of Casualty and Doc Martin to know one end of a cadaver from the other, and I've got a copy of a useful book from Amazon, for eg: "Shorter NHS waiting lists and how to achieve them" by Dr Harold Shipman.

Also, in preparation for holding surgeries for my preferred customer base (becauise, according to the latest NHS refrom bumpf, they're no longer patients) I have taken time out from my busy schedule to watch the following instructional videos I found on the internet:

* Hot MILF visits the doctor

And if there's one thing I have learned from that cinematic masterpiece, it is this: Employ a Hot Big Society Nurse.

Actually, it's two things: Keep the central heating down low, or every customer and Hot Big Society Nurse keeps saying "It's so hot in here", before all their clothes fall off.

Nothing - NOTHING - could possibly go wrong.

Right. Who's next? You'd better not be old, young, poor or ill. That's all.

SHOPPING FOR DWARVES

SHOPPING FOR DWARVES

I am assured by those involved that this actually happened*.

"Hello, Supreme Talent Agency, how can we help?"

Might as well get straight to the point:

"Yeah, do you do dwarves?"

"If you mean persons of restricted height..."

"Yeah, dwarves..."

"...then we have a number of these artistes on our books. What kind of production are you staging?"

"Stag night."

"I beg your pardon?"

"We want a dwarf for my mate's stag night. We're going to handcuff him to the dwarf for 24 hours and go on a pub crawl."

"I... I... don't think..."

"It's OK, we'll feed him. Or her."

"I'm sorry. There's no way we can let one of our artistes go through with this. It's degrading. It's.. it's... just not the sort of thing we do. Good. Day."

> click <

Five minutes later, by the magic of 1471, the phone rings.

"OK, we've spoken to our dwarf. Five hundred pounds and free drinks."

"Fifty per cent discount?"

"What? Why?"

"We reckon we can get him in places half price"

> click <

* May not have actually happened

IN OTHER NEWS: It is my birthday. Send cake.

Fish Finger Sandwich

Fish Finger Sandwich

Good grief, I am informed that at least one British supermarket sells Fish Finger sandwiches - proper man cuisine that cannot be sold in mere packets.

In selling these sacred bloke products, Asda have over-stepped the mark from the Bloke Kitchen Arts to BLASPHEMY.

This on the back of breakfast cereals being sold in bowl-sized portions with a plastic spoon and a splash of milk. And let us not forget pre-mashed mash.

WRONGNESS, which leaves all blokes with a certain level of culinary skill (Level One Geezer) at danger of forgetting how to cook at all.

And God help us, then, if there is a war.

What next in this new line of products for people too lazy to look after themselves?

Aunt Bessie's Lumps of Burned Cheese from the Bottom of the Grill Pan?

Findus Pre-chewed steak?

Hovis ready-buttered sliced bread (extra-thick-sliced only)?

Birds Eye Turd-in-a-box (Save valuable bloke time eating, just flush down the toilet)

Mankind: It is doomed

Womankind: As you were, nothing to see here

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF TOTTENHAM?

Tottenham Hotspur Football Ground: You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. We must be cautious.

Weekend Video

Weekend Video

Soft Cell - Say Hello, Wave Goodbye


So, I'm happy, it's my birthday on Tuesday, and I'm here presenting a break-up song.

GUN SHOP SALE

GUN SHOP SALE

Saturday afternoon, and we are drawn towards the local gun store by the sign: Clothing sale NOW ON!

I am intrigued.

"I am intrigued, my good man. What clothes, exactly, are in the sale?"

The one-armed bloke looked at me with his single good eye, and gestured towards a rack of peppered with holes, and somewhat spoiled by brown-red stains.

"The last man who tried shoplifting."

We leave.

Be careful what you wish for

Be careful what you wish for

About a year ago, I totally abused the Moonpig website to make this, primarily for shits and giggles on b3ta.com:

It only took a little more than a year, and this came along: Man to become grandad at 29 as 14-year-old daughter falls pregnant.

Never mind all the righteous finger-pointing about Broken Britain and our so-called nation of scroungers, I'm simply stunned that something I assumed would be beyond the ken our our (ahem) advanced post-modern culture should arrive so quickly.

And it made the Daily Mail have an aneurysm, too.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to Moonpig to design a "Congratulations on your brand new lightly-oiled MILF with a Jet Pack" card.

On grasping The Big Society with both hands and becoming a Hot Librarian

On grasping The Big Society with both hands and becoming a Hot Librarian

With government cuts biting hard, and the Big Society coming into full effect, I've decided that I'm going to jack in my rubbish job as a lollipop lady and work in a library.

Budgets are tight down in Dorset, and, quite sensibly, cuts are to be aimed at those least likely to fight back: for eg, tramps looking for somewhere to sleep in between using the free internet to keep up with their pals on Tramps Reunited.

And that's where the Big Society comes in. Why pay these expensive, hot librarians when you can get some publicly-spirited volunteer to do it for free? It is a BLASPHEMY to all right-thinking Daily Express readers to even imagine these so-called librarians, lounging around in warm, centrally-heated buildings, sipping coffee, feet up on copies of the GOOD LORD'S Bible, mocking us all with their platinum-plated pensions, smouldering behind the counter in the way that only hot librarians can manage.

This is the kind of job that ought to be done for nothing by the kind of person that works in charity shops, for it is no different. In fact, they should close all the libraries, merge them with charity shops, and nobody would even notice. And I want some of that hot librarian action.

All for no payment whatsoever except the satisfaction that you are keeping the Chief Executive of the County Council in freshly-peeled virgins, as is his birthright. And the company of hot librarians.

Why I shouldn't become a Hot Librarian

- Tramps

- Tramps on the free internet surfing Reader's Tramps Dot Com

- Having to change my name to Coleman the Librarian

- Allergic to rubber stamps, inability to say the word "Shhh!" without adding "ite" at the end, which could annoy the other Hot Librarians

- Not actually being Hot Librarian material, for eg: Not Hot. Not a Librarian

- The continued stocking of books by Dan Brown, DESPITE THE PROPHECY

- Not actually getting paid for it

Why I should become a Hot Librarian

- Grateful yummy mummies, many of whom claim to "like a man with a brain", who, after requesting if you have anything on naked yoga, ask if you'd care to show them the contents of your reference section

- The continued stocking of books by "Anonymous", DESPITE THE PROPHECY

Actually, come to think of it, I'd much rather my local libraries stayed a) open and b) staffed by salaried hot librarians as the valued, vital members of the community that they are.

Right, kids?

On grasping The Big Society with both hands and becoming a Lollipop Lady

On grasping The Big Society with both hands and becoming a Lollipop Lady

With government cuts biting hard, and the Big Society coming into full effect, I've decided that I'm going to jack it all in and be a lollipop lady.

Budgets are tight down in Dorset, and, quite sensibly, cuts are to be aimed at those least likely to fight back: for eg, small children crossing busy roads during a rainy morning rush hour, too slow to escape the relentless, crushing wheels of a forty-ton truck delivering its precious load to the new Tesco up on Portland.

And that's where the Big Society comes in. Why pay these expensive Lollipop Ladies when you can get some publicly-spirited volunteer to do it for free? Getting up at the crack of doom as the frozen rain comes down sideways, ushering the smallfry across the busiest road in town under the piercing, hateful gaze of drivers, their commute held up by a whole twenty seconds of their busy, productive lives.

All for no payment whatsoever except the satisfaction that you are keeping the Chief Executive of the County Council in freshly-peeled virgins, as is his birthright.

Why I shouldn't become a Lollipop Lady:

- Rubbish hours

- Rubbish uniform

- No actual money

- Not a lady

- Having to get up first thing on a rainy Tuesday to help the worthless spawn of the loins of this town across the road without actually dying under the relentless, crushing wheels of a forty-ton truck

- Rush hour drivers. The biggest bunch of buggers and bastards on the planet. When Obi Wan Kenobi called Mos Eisley "a wretched hive of scum and villainy", he was referring to the Tatooine spaceport's morning rush hour, which he used to sit in day in, day out in his Nissan Landspeeder on the way to his job as a wage slave to the Hutt (Jabba) Corporation. And when the local Lollipop Lady stepped out in front of him, the Dark Side took over

Why I should become a Lollipop Lady:

- Grateful yummy mummies, many of whom claim to "like a man in uniform", who, after taking their offspring to school of a morning appear to be at a bit of a loose end at EXACTLY the same time you knock off work.

That's a big YES, then.

This can only end in one thing. Yeah, WOE

Car Anger

Car Anger

Angry.

And the reason for my anger is this: A man driving a Mini.

A man, complete with Rupert the Bear scarf, designer glasses and hipster haircut driving a mini over Caversham Bridge in the morning rush hour.

My blood boiled.

"Sir!" I shouted, "You are a man in a woman's car! Get yourself the second-cheapest BMW, you utter disgrace to humanity."

This outburst, I will be the first to admit, lost a certain amount of authority coming as it did from a short, fat bloke driving a blue Nissan Micra. Yet my point stands.

The new Mini is nothing but a car for girls. A car for successful girls aged between 25 and 40, solely for driving between their designated parking space in a modern flats developemnt to a designated parking space somewhere in an out-of-town office park.

The kind of successful young lady with a wardrobe of designer clothes, a somewhat smaller wardrobe of flimsy designer lingerie and an impressive collection of clockwork cucumbers in the second drawer down of her bedside cabinet, next to the secret diary abandoned three days after watching the first Bridget Jones movie.

Yes. Quite.

So, let's get this right:

- Successful young ladies: Mini
- Successful young men: BMW
- Short, round blog authors: Blue ex-film prop Nissan Micra, with twin turbo 6.0 litre engine, phased plasma rifles, time-travel enabled
- Old People: Proton, or aging Rover 75
- White van man: White van
- Everybody else: Ford Focus

Got it? Let us put an end to this nonsense for once and for all.

I AM NINE

I AM NINE

"Being EXCELLENT since 6th February 2002."

And - at last - we have caught up with both my mental age and my shoe size.

Weekend Video

Weekend Video

OMD - Maid of Orleans (Live)



This is the man who taught me how to dance, shortly before I had the seven shades of shit pummeled out of me in a night club by an enraged rugby player whose tray of drinks I had catapulted into the roped-off VIP section.

Dad Dancing: DON'T DO IT

In other news, I am on a Stag Night tonight. There will NOT be dancing, Dad or otherwise. I am in charge of making sure no-one gets handcuffed to a dwarf.

More Movie FACTS

More Movie FACTS

Coming soon to a cinema near you:

The next "Meet the Parents" movie will revolve around an ill-fated family canoeing holiday to the Canadian north: "Focker up the Northwest Passage"

Due to budget cuts, the new James Bond film will dump its customary casino scene, with Bond instead going undercover as a bingo caller in a penny arcade in Southend, hoping to crack SPECTRE's scheme to tranmit US nuclear codes via the national Bingo Game. Failing that, Ernst Stravro Blofeld is hoping for a full house.

Furthermore, the legendary Q Division is to be replaced by "Please queue here and wait for your number to be called" at the Basildon branch of Argos

A studio leak tells us that Daniel Craig is to be replaced in the role of 007 by TV favourite David Jason, and the film's title is to be For Your Eyes Only Fools and Horses*

From the internet's @robmanuel: Look out for the Cheech and Chong version of the world's favourite secret agent franchise, in which James Bong prevents bad crap happening, "as soon as I've got my shit together, man"

Work has already begun on the next Pirates of the Caribbean sequel in which Jack Sparrow and his chums are locked in a cargo container in Somalia.

The Spanish-language version of Hollywood action thriller The King's Speech is to be called "La Voz Del Presidente Fantistico!"

*Full discolsure: This gag Cheggered off the internet

The Schroedinger's Cat Woman Paradox

The Schroedinger's Cat Woman Paradox

Regular readers may remember my peer-reviewed scientific paper into the "Quantative measurement of madness in female subjects over the age of 35", relating to a certain state of advanced hysteria in ladies of a certain age. To whit: Mad Cat Women.

Our study into Susan Boyle's Law concluded that any female household with three or more feline co-inhabitants invites the observer to conclude that the human resident would be what is scientifically termed a Mad Cat Woman

"Ah-ha!" says one of my peer reviewers into this extraordinary paper (who wishes to remain anonymous), "We have three cats, but as my daughter has moved back in, there are TWO FEMALE ADULTS living in the house.

"That makes us," she concluded, "a mere 1.5 cats mad, which is perfectly acceptable."

Sadly, I reply, you have failed to take Schroedinger's Cat Woman Paradox into account.

Schroedinger (who is, FACT fans, the kid from Charlie Brown who played the piano all grown up and working in actual SCIENCE) wrote:

"In normal circumstances, a straight number of cats (c) divided by number of females adults (n) calculation would be acceptable. However, to the outside observer, the field collapses and n always equals one.

"This means that any female adult living in a house of - say - three cats, will be seen by the outside observer to be Three Cats Mad with all the stigma and/or benefits that go with said status.

"Obviously, the higher the value of c, the more likely that n tends to one, even if male adults and/or dogs are present. With higher c values of 12 or more, all adults (even males) may be termed Mad Cat Women according to the remote observer existing at zero gravity in a vacuum."

We hope we have heard the last of this madness.

OFFICIAL: Exercise is bad for you

OFFICIAL: Exercise is bad for you

I will be the first to admit: I am a middle-aged, short-arsed fat bastard. And, in a mis-guided attempt to deal with the one of the three that I have any control over, I have started running again.

One week in - and shying away like a complete yellow chicken from an offer to go rowing round the watery hell of Portland Harbour - it's harsh, harsh work. This is entirely because we live at the top of a hill, and any run inevitably ends thussly:


And like some sort of self-masochist, I do laps of this, taking me down the Rodwell Trail, dog shit capital of the world.

On my first lap of my course, I run past the thoughfully-rpovided dog shit bin, noting that it has been crammed full with a rug, which some filthy bastard is too lazy to get rid of in the conventional manner (for eg, an actual bin outside their house)

On my second lap of my course, I jog past the same bin, and old lady eyeing the crap-infested rug with the kind of longing you only see from four-year-olds in the sweet aisle in a supermarket.

On my third lap of my course, I amble past the bin to see it devoid of rug, old lady dashing away furtively with it under her arm, muttering the words "It'll wash out, it'll wash out".

By the look of it, it won't wash out.

And then, catching a waft, I was sick inna hedge.

Exercise: BAD FOR YOU

Tattoo

Tattoo

Greatest Living Englishman Neil Gaiman tells a strange tale of a recent visit to the Antipodes, in which he spotted, in a Sydney street, a young lady tattooed with some words he wrote in his celebrated Sandman series some years ago:


It was, he said, somewhat ghostly to see his own words: "As if, for a moment, under the hot Sydney sun, I was only an idea of a person and not a real person at all"

Funnily enough - and you're not going to believe this - EXACTLY the same thing's happened to me as well, although, truth be told, not outside a comic shop in Sydney.


What, I ask, are the chances of that happening?