Wednesday, January 19, 2005

In which the author has nothing to say...

In which the author has nothing to say but wastes 336 words saying it

There are days when you simply cannot be bothered to post to your weblog. You can think of nothing amusing nor interesting to say, and your archives of previously-written material remains resolutely unfunny. This, dear reader, is one of those days. And only your gift of love* can make a difference.

Some call it writer's block, others, cruelly, call it a lack of creativity. I call it a damned nuisance and a sign that the writing drugs have worn out again. Ah! Fluoxetine! You stopped me being mental, stole my sex drive, but powered my creativity like a radio in my head controlled by Dave Lee Travis.**

Indeed, it is at times like this that I consider, and dismiss many notions, including nd not limited to:

- Why rabbits say "Maloo"
- Yet another dull treatise on the raison d'etre of humour in weblogging
- My adventures in cross-dressing at the Rugby World Cup
- Lightly-oiled female celebrities
- The slow and painful death by a thousand dog-turds I'd like to visit on that lying workshy cunt of a builder who is clearly taking over my life
- An experiment in making a weblog post consisting entirely of the words "horse's jism"

...but that would be just repeating myself.

However, I like to think that I know my audience***. You want mirth, woe, quirky insights into modern living coupled with wry reminiscences of a wasted youth. But most of all, dear reader - for I can read you like a book**** - you want swearing. And nudity. Better still, naked people swearing. Where would we be without it? Ah.

* Cold, hard cash
** "And coming right up on the Hairy Cornflake - weblog darts"
*** In fact, you should pop round some time. Have a curry, a few drinks, and when you finally come round from your rohypnol-induced nightmare, I'll set you to work on my loft conversion.
**** "Inside the mind of a pervert" by S Duck, available from all good book stores NOW!


I haven't written anything truly manky for at least ...oooh... a week. This little number is about as manky as they come, without having to resort to actual penetration. Just don't come running to me when you've thrown up everywhere in disgust, slipped in the diced carrots and broken both your legs. You were warned.

The Wednesday vote-us

Damn you Boris Johnson and your asking-blog-readers-to-vote-for-a-story post. That's my turf, that is.

Just get over there and do as I do. This is our chance to change hearts and minds.

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