Mjohnson's Glorious Fighting Girls Travel Game
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From the Daily Mail 17 October 2007
Half of Britons will be obese by 2050
Modern life - with the easy availability of cheap unhealthy food and families relying on their cars - means it is almost impossible for many to avoid putting on weight.
If current trends continue, by 2050 about 60 per cent of men, 50 per cent of women and 25 per cent of children in the UK will be clinically obese - so fat that their health is in danger. At present around a quarter of adults are obese.
8 Months Later
From the Daily Mail 07 June 2008
'Nine Meals from Anarchy'
Oil prices are spiralling - $120 a barrel this week, up 23 per cent since the start of the year - and the cost is being felt not only by drivers but by each and every one of us who has seen our food bills soaring.
Sue Bott, director of the National Centre for Independent Living, said: 'The shocking reality is that people are being forced to choose between eating properly and using vital care services.' So much for our civilised society.
Is that a prospect that now lies ahead of us - a life of rationing similar to the one my parents lived in the years immediately following the war, when we eked out tiny rations of orange juice, and a banana was an almost unheard of treat?
It’s quite clear what will happen. The thin people will start to get hungry first and go looking for the fat people; the fat people can’t run fast enough. Oh Lord, the humanity! Why?
Dear Loreal
I saw your advert for Loreal Men Expert Double Action Vita Lift For Men (wft) moisturiser and I don't want to buy your product. I thought I'd let you know as I feel that you need to do some serious thinking about your ad strategy. There's a lot to cover but I want to get straight to the bones of this problem:it's got PierceBrosnan in it. What were you thinking. Pierce Brosnan talking about his charity work, Pierce Brosnan riding a horse on a beach, Pierce Brosnan playing pool. Almost every scene in the advert has Pierce Brosnan in it.
Look I think I know what you're going for. You think we, us men, aspire to be like Pierce Brosnan. Let me tell you something about men, we don't aspire to be Pierce Brosnan. We're quite happy being ourselves. We'd just like to be ourselves, having sex with more women, so if you want to sell something to men you need to say, not, this will make you more like Pierce Brosnan playing pool with actors pretending to be his friend, but this will make women want to have sex with you.
I'll use an example from everyday life. Last night I was out with a friend and she told me that the smell of my hair reminded her of the time she ran over a badger corpse with her car, wash your hair or no one will have sex with you. Do I give a shit that my head smells like week old road kill? No, do I give a shit that women don't want to have sex with men whose hair smells like rotting flesh? Yes, and what did I do this morning? I used my flatmates shampoo. That's right I used products. O.K. I didn't pay for it and I don't know what brand it was, but I'm in the market now. Do you think I'm going to go round with the kind of stench coming from my head that makes your eyes water? No, I'm as insecure as the next man. I'm loosing my hair, these are the twilight years, I want a woman to run her hands through my hair without using disinfectant. From now on I'll be using shampoo up to once a week. What brand will I choose? The brand that makes women want to have sex with me of course, not the brand that is endorsed by a middle-aged, smarmy, soft-focus, cunt.
Who are those guys he's riding down the beach with?
Has Pierce Brosnan even had sex?
I pity Pierce Brosnan!
(Oh and don't get me started about Mathew Fox.)
I got this forward recently, a pretty generic George Bush basher. (Yes George Bush is no Einstein, we established that some time ago, just around the time when we caught him trying to wee in his own mouth.) So I changed it.
Yer it's a bit out there isn't it. Still there's irony in there. I'm sure Stephen would see it, maybe have a chuckle. If he could laugh, which tragically he cannot. Sad face.
Is this a good reason to leave my job? Every time someone else leaves there is a collection. I put a pound in and we buy them a present. When I leave they’ll be a collection and I’ll get approximately a pound from everyone. The problem is I’ve been here so long that I may not be able to recoup all those pounds. If more people have left during my time here than are working here when my collection goes round I could register a net loss. What happens if the office downsizes.
If there’s voluntary redundancy to be had I’m taking it. I’ve got close to fifty quid at stake here!
This is a neat little toy - you put a bunch of text in and it gives you you're own word cloud, which you can post in your blog as a really ting picture. They should work on the tinyness, I'd say bigger would be better here. Click on it for a larger version, it's my Odourless Colourless Gel post.
Update: I should have worked this out, but the size of the words are based on the number of the times they occur in the text. The biggest word is Piss. I like that.
The latest thing that I love on the net is The Big Picture. Everyday they post another set of hi res BIG detailed gorgeous photos about a current news event. It is a bit US centric, but then it is produced by a US paper.
For other things I love check out the my del.icio.us links in the sidebar and there’s a new ‘Communist of the week’ Check my Flickr stream in the sidebar for this week’s and all past Communist of the weeks!
So the Isle of Wight festival was great, it didn't rain, these bands were great:
Kaiser Chiefs (Friday)
Iggy and the Stooges (Saturday)
Newton Faulkner (Sunday)
Feeder (Sunday)
But certainly the funniest thing that happened was this:
Earlier in the week my mate Joe told his fiancé she had a present for the festival and it was going to be a surprise. A surprise, how exciting, could it be new sunglasses, a crazy hat, her mind boggled. Unfortunately the gift didn't turn out to be as exciting as she hoped because it turned out to be, Travel Johns
The Travel John disposable unisex urinal is convenient, sanitary, compact and discreet. . . They offer peace of mind for long journeys, traffic jams and those with limited mobility.
So Joe thinks he's being both helpful and pragmatic, after all festival toilets are notoriously unpleasant, and perhaps he is, but his fiancé is less than impressed with the idea of peeing in an elongated plastic trough regardless of how compact and discreet they claim it to be. We're all having a fun time so we take the piss-bag out of Joe and his piss bags and get a good laugh. Joe however is undeterred and more determined than ever to prove us all wrong, he gives us all a disposable unisex urinal, sure that when the time comes and we're stuck in a crowd with 'limited mobility' we'll be thankful that we know a guy like Joe with his remarkable 'peace of mind'.
Rather inevitably things didn't quite turn out like that. No one used their piss bags, so during the last band of the night, Joe decides it's time for a demonstration and that's when all hell breaks loose. Joe's girlfriend moves back, presumably to give him space, perhaps just to distance herself. The person she happened to bump into was surely on Crack. If there is such a thing as road rage then there must be such a thing as festival rage and this miniature permed dervish had a pathological case of it. "Don't push me" she started.
"I'm just moving back because he's having a piss?" was the reply.
"YOU FUCKING CUNT! YOU'RE PISSING, YOU FUCKING DIRTY CUNT, YOU'RE PISSING, YOU FUCKING CUNT, YOU'RE FUCKING DISGUSTING YOU'RE FUCKING FILTHY PISSING CUNT, HE'S A FILTHY FILTHY PISSING CUNT, YOU FUCKER, YOU DIRTY CUNT!"
It was as though Joe had just pepper sprayed her. I think we all just stood round slightly stunned by the pure rage just thrown at us by a very small, slightly overweight, curly haired woman. Then Joe started trying to explain to her what he was doing and we all realised just how absurd this was. Try telling someone about five times angrier than the angriest wasp that ever chased you through a field, that the thing that she thought you were doing to make her angry, you were doing, but not in the way she thought you were doing it, no, in a way about five times more weird.
She was small, she was way too angry, we were bigger than her, and Joe's explanation had tailed off about half way through due to it being woefully inadequate and utterly absurd. All we could do was laugh, so we did, allot. Oddly this didn't stop her from being angry. It made her go get her boyfriend, screaming the whole way. The boyfriend wasn't as vocal in his anger, but he was considerably more menacing. We outnumbered him five to one so I wasn't particularly scared, but it was the first night and the last thing I wanted was a brawl, especially a brawl with a bag of piss flying around. I was nearest to him as he approached, so I did the first thing I could think of. I pulled my piss bag out of my pocket and waved it at this guy shouting:
"He's pissing in a bag. I know who brings a piss bag to a festival? This guy, no one else, but this guy does. The piss turns into an, odourless colourless gel, it's an ODOURLESS COLOURLESS GEL!"
I was Larry David this was an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm. There I was in a crowd of hip-kids waving a plastic incontinence bag in some angry guy's face shouting about odourless colourless gel. It worked though; he was now more baffled than angry.
At this point I remember looking around to see if I had the crowd. If avoiding eye contact means you have the crowd, well then I had the crowd (I didn't have the crowd). The boyfriend shouted one more line of abuse and walked off with his satanic girlfriend, hair frizzy from the heat of the fire and brimstone that literally fizzed off her behind him, presumably to smoke more Crack. We laughed, out loud, a lot, and 'Odourless Colourless Gel' got repeated at every opportunity for the rest of the weekend.
Moral unknown.
A couple of months ago one of my oldest and best mates called to ask if I wanted to go to the Isle of Wight festival. I said*: “I’d love to go to a festival with you mate, but the Isle of Wight festival is in June, it rains in June and that means it is a terrible time to have a festival.” I went on “You’re in the right area, the Isle of Wight has better weather than the mainland and it is on the south coast so win, win, but not June. If you look at the records for average rainfall statistics from 1971 to 2000 from the local weather station: April and May; July and August; and in more recent years even September, have less rain on average than June. June is just asking for trouble it rains in June. Why do people even have festivals in June? Look at these maps displaying average rainfall 1971 to 2000.”
“What, we’re on the phone (?)”
“That’s hard core stats baby, June is bad idea. I don’t want to be stood in a field with you, up to my ankles in mud, soaked to the skin, drinking warm lager, eating overpriced food off a soggy paper plate, surrounded by the stench of overflowing porta loos and my own BO telling you, ‘I told you not to go to a festival in June’. Let’s go to a different festival it’ll be ace. Let me pick it, I’ll get on to the Met office, I’ll get the long term forecast, I’m your man, come on. Have you considered Spain?”
“Look” he said “I’m didn’t call you for one of your weather rants, I’m asking if you want to come to the Isle of Wight Festival. I was looking for a simple yes or no. I’m kind of reconsidering the invite. Are you coming, actually are you mental?”
“Er . . . yes”
“What, yes you are mental, or yes you are coming.”
“Oh, yer, yes I am coming”.
P.S. Joe – I told you so:
Update: It didn't rain. I was wrong.
*This is not a 100% accurate transcript of what I said. I did say June is a bad month for a festival, but maybe not in these exact words.
This weekend I suffered a loss, my trusty phone died. It was a great phone probably the best phone I’ve ever owned. It was nearly a year old and it had never even malfunctioned before. I don’t think it even ran out of batteries at an inopportune moment, it had a great battery life, such a waste.
It died, like all phones that have the misfortune to be mine in tragically unnecessary circumstances. This weekend in Clissold Park there was a free festival. Now I had been down to the park earlier in the day and noticed this event was going on, so I arranged to meet a friend there later in the day, using, my phone of course. It’s not far from my house so I’d been home in the interim and on the way back I passed a steady stream of people heading in the opposite direction. It seemed like the festival was emptying out, but the music was still going strong. When I got to the park I headed against the stream of people leaving into the festival. That’s when I was stopped in my track by a young policeman. “Who are you then, one of the performers” he asked me.
“No” I replied in my most petulant voice. OK so it was clear at this stage that I was trying to go in the exit, but this was an honest mistake, which the policeman was happy to clear up in his most patronising voice.
So he pissed me off, “I’m not going to the other end of the park” I thought “I’ll just climb over the fence right here, right were he can see me” Of course this was a completely futile gesture as the policeman was too thoroughly involved in the difficult task of controlling a massive crowd of would-be performers trying to get in the exit to pay any attention to my defiant gesture, but I did it anyway. Before I jumped the fence myself I dropped my bag over it. This was when one of the 70 pence cans of Carling I was carrying in the bag, along with a library book and my beloved mobile phone decided to burst and soak my trusty phone in cheap lager.
I realised almost immediately, rescued the phone from the puddle of lager in the bottom of my bag and tried to dry it on my shirt. Much later I discovered that when your phone gets wet the correct course of action is to turn it off and let it dry out completely before trying to make it work. I did the opposite; it appeared to still be working so I started testing all the functions on the damp phone, until it short circuited and stopped working. One day later, after a stint stuffed inside a dehumidifier and an afternoon on a windowsill in a heat wave, it is thoroughly dried out, but also thoroughly dead. At 6pm this evening I pulled the plug on it and let it make the journey to the other side. This ride is over baby, you were a good servant, thanks for all the good times.
Pictures taken on my phone:
Next stop Oxfam - hopefully they can recylcle it.
Update: So my phone was in lager for thirty seconds and died and this guys watch was in mud and seawater for nearly 70 years and it still works perfectly. I think I’m getting my next phone from Switzerland.
If you guys know me you’ll know I’ve got something of an odd relationship with squirrels. I love them so much that it scares me and this leads to fear and I hate them, and then I try to kill them, and then I end up loving them again, and through this love I learn to love all of creation at the same time.
Yes it’s complicated, so can you imagine the feelings that rushed through me when I stumbled upon this little guy. Her name is Sugar Bush Squirrel and what makes her special is that she is alive. Check ebay and you’ll find lots of squirrels on motorbikes, in canoes, my friend even bought one in a race car as a present and it was excellent. Stuffed squirrels in little human clothes pretending to operate human vehicles are hilarious, but a real live squirrel dressed up in little clothes and even making political commentary, that’s something really special.
LINK to Sugar Bush's home page.
If you go to Sugar Bush’s home page you can see her in a variety of outfits, buy her calendar and even get her views on politics and religion. In fact this squirrel even runs a church. I don’t know if I’m doomed or saved. Here is Sugar Bush Squirrel on prayer in school:
“Dear President Bush . . . I, Sugar Bush Squirrel of the United States of America, am requesting that you lift the prohibition of discussing religion and prayer in schools. As the pledge of our great country states, we are to be "One nation, under God." Please allow teachers to discuss prayer and religion with students for open discussion."
See also squirrel taxidermy museum.
From this blog:
Killing Squirrels With a Gun Road Trip 2008:
Introduction
Update 1
Update 2
The Legal Case for the War in Squirraq
No Squirrels Were Harmed in the Making of my Holiday
More Squirrel Posts:
Brendan's Stag Do and the Legend of the Squirrat
Sugar Bush Squirrel via Clusterflock
I’ve been watching The Apprentice religiously this season and tonight is the penultimate show. Instead of being set tasks to prove their worth, this week the contestants have to sit in interviews, so there’s no hiding. The interview I’m most looking forward to is with Lee ‘that’s what I’m talking about’ McQueen. I’m guessing his interview will go alot like this:
“Lee if you had to describe yourself using only one word what would that word be?”
“That’s what I’m talking about!”
“What are you talking about Lee?”
“That’s what I’m talking about!”
“What is ‘that’ word Lee?”
“That’s what I’m talking about!”
“So the word you are choosing to describe yourself is – that?”
That’s what I’m talking about”
“Thank you Lee.”
“So did I get the job?”
“Yes Lee everyone else is a total cunt.”
“That’s what I’m talking abouuuutttttt!!!!”
The BBC has highlights of the 1988 European Championships final up.
It's a nine minute long clip and half way through you get to see Marco Van Basten's wonder GOAL. I remember this final really well. I was seven nearly eight at the time. In fact my memories of the goal were actually better than the real thing. In my memory he’s pretty much on the by line. I lost interest in football soon after, because I have no memories of the 1992 Euro, or really the 1990 World Cup other than the semi final and Gazza crying. I only really got back into it when Skinner and Baddiel started doing Fantasy Football in the mid nineties.
And for the girls, here’s a picture of a man with a massive cock.
In 1992 Dulwich borough council initiated a performance based scheme for occupational therapists. The number of job seekers advised that went on to find work in the sector recommended to by the councillors directly influenced the size of the department’s budget. The idea of the scheme was to provide an incentive to the therapists to be more pragmatic. The truth of it was that not everyone could be an astronaut. Back then no one from Peckham could be an astronaut, no matter how Spaced they got themselves.
For a long time the department operated as normal right up until one of the therapists became disillusioned with guiding others into jobs and instead decided to guide him self into a role in the circus making the candy floss. A couple of days later a young man walked through the door with an interesting profile, good listener, box ticking acumen, well presented, excellent knowledge of the job seeking bureaucracy. “This man should be an occupational therapist” the occupational therapist thought. “Can you start next week?” And start he did. This was the first time the department had managed to successfully place a client in a role as recommended by their trained councillors ever. Buoyed by their success they decided at their next departmental meeting to use their newly inflated budget to create a new role for an occupational therapist. This department was expanding, this department was a success.
That week they were able to recruit another occupational therapist. Once again from a client who ticked all the boxes, another success. Not content to stop there they expanded again, and again, and again, until the occupational therapist department was one of the biggest departments in the whole council and their department head was the biggest cheese in the whole place. At the next meeting of department heads the top occupational therapist started to throw his weight around “I’ve got the biggest budget in this whole place” he declared. “I have single handedly created full employment in the borough of Dulwich for the first time since the war, If you chumps don’t double my departments employment success incentive I’m taking my staff out on strike, how do you expect this council to operate with 70% of it’s staff out on strike?”.
The council saw sense and doubled the department heads incentives. They had to put up tax up to pay for it, but the borough of Dulwich had become one of the most prosperous boroughs in London and it’s ultra low unemployment was the envy of every other London borough. The council’s occupational therapist department ballooned in size exponentially. Soon it was the country’s fifth biggest employer and had money pouring out of its windows. It offered the best package in the whole of the civil service and all the top people wanted to work there, but the department head wasn’t happy. He’d achieved allot in little Dulwich, but you know what; all he ever really wanted to be was an astronaut. Luckily he had quite allot of cash spare in the budget so he started a space programme.
And that’s the story of how the kids from Peckham fulfilled their dream of becoming astronauts, all thanks to the good work of the occupational therapists, ticking boxes on the moon since 1992.
My little vegetarian escapade that I was making a big deal about a while back, well, I had a lamb steak and during the weekend I had a little bit of Sea Bass. I thought I should come clean. In my defence the lamb was going to go off and the Sea Bass was left overs at a BBQ and it was about to go in a bin, so I was reducing waste, oh who am I kidding I am a sham of a man!
I wasn’t entirely clear on the reasoning behind my decision to do the Vegetarian thing, so while I’m flailing about looking for excuses I shall try and clarify my position. Basically it was a green thing, reducing the carbon footprint. There are six billion people in the world; if all the peoples of the world ate a Western diet, which they can’t for obvious reasons – i.e. lack of a reliable supply of pot noodles – then the whole world would get fat. This is known as an obesity epidemic. As the witch Gillian McKeith made abundantly clear on her shit-sniffing television show fat people tend to die because their poo is the wrong colour, so ultimately the world would return to a state of equilibrium. Why don’t we sit it out then? No, because during the interim period the number of people required to jump of a chair at the same time in China to cause an earthquake would be drastically reduced, up to the point when it becomes statistically inevitable that a natural disaster of this type will occur by pure chance. (For a more detailed explanation of these arguments watch this video, with slides!)
I have experienced some considerable scorn for my stance. This hasn’t been helped by the fact that I am quote: “The shittest vegetarian ever”. The argument that I am reducing the amount of meat I am eating for environmental reasons is not as compelling as, I’m not eating any meat because I don’t want animals to die. Mainly because there is no doubting the fact that eating the flesh of animals causes animals to die, though apparently even this point can be fractious among the vegetarian community. When PETA recently offered a million dollar prize for the first person to produce chicken flesh in a laboratory without the need for killing chickens it caused a rift in the organisation with large parts of the organisation claiming to be against this sort of thing. A strangely hypothetical argument to be having since no one can produce chicken flesh in a laboratory anyway. My point being that this kind of thing is rather a hot topic, so perhaps not the kind of thing that needs the ‘Shittest Vegetarian in the World’ as its poster boy. Having said that it’s still worth watching Mark Bittman’s TED talk.
This week Che Guevara!
