A bush that looks like Mario Balotelli

I repeat: A BUSH THAT LOOKS LIKE MARIO BALOTELLI

Or Sloth from The Goonies. Your mileage may vary.

That is all.

A Day Out in Basingstoke

To the Transport Festival in Basingstoke – bustling south-central metropolis that brought the world Liz Hurley, Burberry and ...err.. some other famous stuff in Basingstoke.

We arrived in this little beauty, a supremely rare Austin Seven Speedy. And I can tell you what it's like driving in one of these things on a beautiful sunny morning: Bloody freezing.

However, it wasn't terribly wrong before things took a turn for the weird.

I spy with my little eye something beginning with bollocks.

Then, once the kid's been suffocated, you beat the hell out of it with the cricket bats provided.

And with little else to do, the locals dressed a meerkat up as Lawrence of Arabia, then lynched the bastard.

It's all fun and games until somebody loses an eye.

Then it rained and we went home. What's it like to ride the Speedy in the rain? Wet and bloody freezing.

On Short Term Memory ...Err... Thingy

I've joined the gym.

I've paid out forty of your Earth pounds for the privelege of using torture equipment so that - one day - I won't be a fat bastard.

For those of you with a gym contract, that's forty quid for the year. The. Year.

My gym is the work place gym, and my place of work is excellent.

So, I'm still keen, and only just getting to grips how dull twenty minutes on an exercise bike can be.

However, this is not the point of this post. Oh no, it is about short-term memory loss, for one of my trips to the gym resulted in this: woe.

Twenty minutes on the bike. Half a mile on the rowing machine, some half-hearted posing with the weights and I was done.

Then, showered, dressed, and leave.

I was halfway to the car with my gym kit in my Co-op shopping bag when I got the sneaking feeling that I had forgotten something.

It was only when I  went to put my hand in my pocket for my keys that I realised what it was.

For there was no pocket.

Trousers.

I was in public, in my place of work, sans pantaloons. Shoes, but no trousers.

NO TROUSERS.

Then I didn't wake up and my pillow wasn't gone BECAUSE IT WAS ACTUALLY REAL.

The end.

Weekend Video: Daft Punk - Get Lucky

Holy crap - new album Random Access Memories is out on Monday.

You have my permission to get vaguely excited.

And while I have your vaguely excited attention, you may sometimes find me here writing for the esteemed chaps Socked Journal

On early mornings and having nice legs

BAD JOKE ALERT: The first sign of Madness is Suggs walking up your drive.

This is a lie. I am not mad, and we've got a communal car park.

However, I have to question my own sanity when driving to work for the early-early-early shift. That's the one that means I have to get up at 5am to make the office at 0630. Let me tell you something - you never feel more alive at that time in the morning.

Unfortunately, the early starts are not good for the brain, and you eventually end up having conversations with yourself. It was during one of these in-car exchanges with myself that I caught myself saying the following:

"I've got nice legs."

I don't even know what the context of this outburst was and why I told myself I have nice legs. I caught myself saying -for no reason at all - that I have nice legs.

But it's true. My legs are excellent.

A VICTORY DAY MIRACLE

Who knows where lost things go?

I was heading for a meeting the last Thursday, when something familiar caught my eye on top of the small stationery cupboards at work.

Bang! Only my bicicycle repair kit wrapped in a Soviet hammer and sickle, lost a good five years previously.

It being Victory Day in Russia, a celebration of the defeat of the Nazis in 1945, I can only see this as a sign from Josef Stalin himself.

Or somebody just found a bundle of rags and left it on top of a cupboard.

LONG LIVE JOE STALIN*

*Thank shit you're dead Joe Stalin

You know it's time to change doctor when...

You know it's time to change doctor when...

• You go along to the surgery with a long standing foot injury, and you don't even get your shoe off in the consultation

• When you wait two weeks for an appointment and you're back in reception within two minutes wandering why Dr Spaceman has a revolving door on his consulting room, asking yourself if he even actually listened

But most of all...

• Getting the locum, who asks "Did Dr Spaceman give you the result of your blood test?"

"Yes he did, he gave me the all clear"

She sighs, and points to the rash of bold red text on her computer screen.

"So he didn't tell you that your cholesterol is sky high and you're a borderline diabetic?"

No, he had not.

Goodbye Dr Spaceman, slowly coasting your way to retirement. Hello low fat diet and fitness regime.

And Dr Masood, I think I love you. In a purely professional manner, of course.

On Conspiracy Theories and Chemtrails, Again

Apropos of last week's piece about conspiracy theories and the kind of nut-laden fruitcake who thinks passenger airliners are spraying us with mind-control drugs, reader Paul sends me this photograph which proves EVERYTHING:

Not only are chemtrails real, but they appear to be the work of Gandalf.

Or the Flying Spaghetti Monster (All hail His Noodly Appendage)

Or an owl.

WAKE UP SHEEPLE.

In praise of Crimer Show

In the entire history of the internet, there has never been anything quite as ridiculous, mystifying and downright hilarious as Crimer Show.

For those of you that don't have the Twitters, Crimer Show is a blow-by-badly-spelled-blow account of a TV cop prgramme, in which exactly one criminal (the eponymous Crimer) pits his wits against exactly one detective (The forever on the edge of a nervous breakdown Detetcive).

In his own words: "Im do crimes . Crimeing. Detetcive cant stopme."

Crimer is coole, has an endless supply of sunglasies, is pubil enemy numper 1, and has a habit of talking directly to camera

 Detetcive, on the other hand, faints at the drop of a hat, has terbil draems, and is addicted to melk, which comes out of cows. He is not coole and say "CrimERRRR!" a lot

Chief says "Heckit!" a lot.

Pupey says "Wuf"

VOISEOVER: This is true.

You're right. Crimer Show makes no sense at all out of context, but put it all together it makes perfect sense. It is every TV cop show and police action movie you've ever seen, written by somebody with only the merest graps of the English language. All it's missing is Detetcive's ageing partner just one week away from retiring and that would be a complete set of cliches.

The work of Irish comic writer @AstonishingSod, Crimer started as a show-within-a-show for his already cult FrientsShow feed. The difference between the two being that you need some knowledge of Friends for it to make sense. Everybody, on the other hand, knows where Crimer is coming from and understands Detetcive's slide into insanity. Read this stuff long enough and you'd probably join him.

Mr A Sod has now gone out and expanded the franchise. Fans of angsty west cost comedy can now follow @FrasserShow wit the Frasser, Kniles, Mortoin, Dampy, Razz an Edy

Crimer Show certainly needs to be celebrated. While Jane won't let us have a Crimer-themed wedding later this year, I am already pressing the local authorities to change the name of the venue for us. What was once Heckfield WILL become Heckit-field by the end of the year, even if we have to (puts on sunglasses) DO CRIMES

VOISEOVER: This is true.

If you don't have the Twitters, every Eppasod is available on the Crimer Show website

Alternatively, just type the words "I don't get it" in the comments and agree to be mocked.

Weekend Dog

Small dog is small.

Small dog is also loud.

But mostly small.