November 9, 2007

I've dragged my wretched, sweating, sodden, stinking frame of failing flesh and jutting bone, out of bed, into the shower, and in front of a mirror for a shave and everything.

That's because the inimitable Eggbod is in town and, despite our better judgement, we're going on the lash.

Expect mayhem. Expect ridiculous posts. Expect - depending on the extent of the leglessness (the more pissed = the more likely (whoever said I was shit at maths?)) - photographs.

ETA of catastrophic bloggers' collision: 1hr 30mins.

ETA of catastrophic bloggers' first call to A&E: 4hrs 20mins.

ETA of old woman's home being invaded by catastrophically out-of-their-faces bloggers: Any time after that.

Giddy up there, boy.

Wagons roll.

November 9, 2007

(Copyright: All channels and newspapers)

HUNDREDS of thousands of people were not affected in anyway whatsoever by what weather watchers dubbed "a bit of a high tide" last night.

Despite urgent appeals by media outlets across the nation, panic failed to set in among people who made their own decision to live near the coast in the first place.

There was widespread disappointment in Downing Street as Prime Minister Gordon Broooon - after chairing an emergency meeting of the emergency COBRA committee - grudgingly accepted he was missing out on a photocall involving riding a rubber dinghy while wearing wellington boots and an even more gloomy face than usual.

In a moment, we'll go to our meteorologist expert Blondie Groomed to find out exactly how we failed to put the fear of God into the residents of Britain's newly named "eastern seaboard".

But first, let's talk to our correspondent John F. Uckedoff, currently looking a bit windswept by a nondescript coast somewhere not in London. John?

"Yes, thanks, and you're right - the news is worse than we thought. No floods, no deaths, no missing lifeboatmen, not so much as a smashed up fishing boat. We haven't even got a dog that had to be rescued. Frankly, nothing has happened. It's a disaster, and there are already calls at high levels of the media for an independent inquiry into this lack of recordable tragedy. In short, there's nothing to see here, apart from me, so please move along. Back to you."

Thanks, John. I'm afraid we can't reach Blondie right now - there is some suggestion she's downsizing her hair from "wet and frazzled" to "self-assured and studio-based" - but if we can get her before the end of this bulletin, we won't.

And now it's time for the news in your area, in this case the North West. Flat Cap Harry?

"Yes, thanks. We're not arsed, frankly. But we do like chips. Back to you."

Thanks, Harry, and now for the weather from our Serious And Actually Qualified Older Man Dragged Out Of Cupboard To Save Station's Face, Windy Miller. Windy?

"Yes, thanks. Tonight should see a slight tightening of the isobars with a resulting high pressure across the north of Scotland-"

Scotland's a no-no, Windy.

"Ah, well, the north east of England is experiencing an interesting micro-climate brought on by-"

Windy? Can we move it on?

"Erm, in Ireland-"

Cough.

"The Midl-"

Not arsed.

"Cornwall and the south-we-"

Yawn. Couldn't care less. London?

"London will be fine."

Great. So what's the overall outlook?

"Er, it'll be cold, and windy, and it'll rain, everywhere, for the next three months. We call it winter."

Thank you. Coming up next, how something Ken Livingstone said has absolutely no effect whatsoever on 95 per cent of our loyal viewers. Join us after the break.

November 9, 2007

November 9, 2007

November 9, 2007

Fetor, noun
Stench

"Are you still in bed?" asked Nipper.

"Yes," said Zeds.

"Urgh. You're like the oldsters in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory."

November 9, 2007

So, you thought this was bad. I didn't. I loved it Despite the hairy underarms. Then again, I was about 12, so I probably thought that was quite, erm, different then.

And you no doubt thought this was terrible. Personally, I think I've just redeemed myself slightly. (A lot, actually - I was Suggs when I was a kid - wraparounds and everything).

Naff, though, for a brief period, wasn't always my middle name. Man. Although I don't remember the video for such an iconic song being so camp, admittedly. Thanks, however, to mum, for buying me the LP (if only to stop me making that annoying flicking noises with my fingers like I was in the hood or something.) Pity it didn't work on other levels, but, ahem, there you are...

So, redeemed?

Well.

Justin, really? Nooooooo.......

NB: No radios existed after the year of 1985. MTV is an illusion. And a snow patrol is what Homer failed abysmally at. Get over it. Bloody kids.

PS. I am sick right now, so please bear that in mind.

November 9, 2007

Great!

Gales and hail!

Hurrah!

It's like the Four Horses of the Apocalypse are using my roof - four feet above my head - as a paddock to prounce around in before the big race!

I feel like shit, dammit!

I'm ill!

Argh!

November 8, 2007

I just watched The Street, and realised that if I had a thimbleful of McGovern's talent for writing about humanity, frailness, retribution, forgiveness and reality, I'd die a happy man tomorrow.

After collecting a thimbleful of Bafta, obviously.

Very, very well done.

And great acting to boot.