February 29, 2008

Windage, noun
Deflection of projectile by the wind

"You're a tosser," said Nipper.

"And you're an old fart."

February 28, 2008

I'm on mini-blog meet duty tonight, so - bizarrely - probably won't be around later for the greatest event on earth* (unless the need takes over).

Best of luck to everyone, and thanks to Paddy, Brad, Lynda and AJ for their sterling efforts, and our chums at BCUK for supporting it.

* Although last year's, and the year before that, were undoubtably better and lot less commercial. Ahem

February 28, 2008

I am just too good to you lot.

http://www.familyguyquotes.com/characters/stewie-griffin-quotes.html

And you'd better bloody remember that when you sending in your votes for The Bloscars tonight.

February 28, 2008

The Guardian reports that Mars is to bring back its famous "Work, rest and play" slogan - only it's now been updated by twats who without a doubt wear red socks and braces, and work hand-in-hand with a PR firm that will unquestionably have an obsure fruit as part of its incredibly cuntish title. You know, like Lizard And Pomegranate Mousse Blue Sky Thinking Envelope Pushing Solutions Dot Com.

The return of the famous strapline is a nostalgic nod to the days of the "A Mars a day helps you work, rest and play" jingle associated with the brand from the late 1950s through to the mid-1990s.

However, the new TV ad, created by ad agency AMV BBDO - too-many-initialled cunts! - has gone for the more modern sound of House of Pain's hip-hop anthem Jump Around to accompany the antics of the church bell-ringing monks.

The 30-second ad, which breaks on TV on Sunday, features a group of monks who are reinvigorated in their duties by having a quick energy boost from a Mars bar.

"We have decided to echo the iconic strapline because it is so fondly remembered and just as relevant now as it ever was," said Caroline Jary, the Mars Bar brand manager - who really should have just stopped there, but didn't.

"By shortening the line to simply 'Work, rest, play' it conveys a more contemporary message, reflecting the very modern interest in achieving a balanced lifestyle and approaching every aspect of our lives with a positive 'can do' attitude."

Contemporary message? Very modern interest? Balanced lifestyle? A positive fucking 'can do' attitude?

IT'S A FUCKING CHOCOLATE BARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

* FACT fans will be delighted to learn that this most iconic of phrases is NOT, as widely presumed, the work of former ad man-turned-crazed Formula One commentator Murray Walker.

Find out where it really came from:

http://pigpog.com/node/2436

February 28, 2008

Obreption, noun
Creeping up on

Nipper looked startled.

"Jesus!" he exclaimed. "What was that?"

"What was what?" asked Zeds, wearily.

"Just then. In the dark."

"Oh. That."

"Yes!"

"Old age, mate. Gets us all eventually."

February 27, 2008

Sorry guys - I'm hating this new system. I love the message system per se, but can't we go back to email notifications for private posts?

Or is it just me?

Because I'm old and grumpy?

Bah.

In that case: I didn't fight in the war for people like you to do perfectly nice things for me that I don't understand etc etc etc

February 27, 2008

Newspaper reporters tend to call it "every parent's nightmare" - and it's no cliche, because aside from death it very much is.

But I've just read the most incredible report about Lisa Hoodless and Charlene Lunnon, who were abducted and raped nine years ago, aged 10.

Have they crumbled? No. Instead, reports The Times, they found strength in each other to survive the four-day ordeal and, remarkably, to rebuild their lives.

It's written by a brilliant former colleague of mine who's now a mother herself. It doesn't pull any punches, and it's certainly quite upsetting, but - really - I've never quite read anything quite like it.

It's naturally difficult to expect or to seek anything inspirational in such dreadful subject matter as this, but it's right there in astonishing detail.

Please, go read:

http://women.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/women/article3438929.ece

February 27, 2008

Dear Fairy,

I just wanted to put on record how grateful I am to you this morning.

You see, Wednesday mornings are a source of slight pride to me and our team here at Bugle Weekly, as it is the very day our newspaper "hits the streets", so to speak - or "gets dumped en masse in the bins at the back of Asda", as others like to say.

Luckily, you've contrived to produce an overnight earthquake which has thus rendered anything that our esteemed organ might have had of any remote interest to the round file or the budgie cage even quicker than it would do normally, and thus I could have spent the entire last seven working days learning how to carve soap figurines, for instance, rather than completely wasting my time.

Thanks, also, for making sure it happened in the early hours of Wednesday: If had been the early hours of Tuesday, I could perhaps have garnered local reaction along the lines of "did the earth move for you?" (copyright: all newspapers tomorrow) in a tenuous but typical attempt to drag a national event into our local domain.

But no.

That would have been too helpful, wouldn't it?

Luckily, I have never been known to get even slightly irritated by something, so all's well with the world.

Feel free to peruse our cracking investigation on the dog dirt/litter curse that is blighting our etc etc etc

Yours,

B. L. Azingballoffire

February 27, 2008

Kerasine, adj
Horny

"Erm, Nipper?"

"Yeah?"

"It means like a rhino, or a stag, or a unicorn or something."

"Ah. I see. Oh."

"Exactly. So stop rubbing your thighs."

February 27, 2008

I. You have to look up page 123 in the nearest book to you.
II. Look for the fifth sentence.
III. Then post the three sentences that follow the fifth sentence
IV. Tag five people to do the same.

"Sometimes, just the thought of getting into the car and venturing into the dangerous world was intolerable. Then he settled into his La-Z-Boy and waited for the natural disaster that would soon scrub him off the earth as though he had never existed. This morning, only his love for his sister, Agnes, gave him the courage to drive and to become the pie man."

I tag Heppurnboy, Esspee, Walrus, Emsbabee and Discobod.

February 27, 2008

In the US, they either leap beneath tables and thus die; scream and run down the street; loot a "drug store"; or make a movie about it in which a Brit is portrayed as weak, evil, and frankly, a bit shit, while an obtuse Yank saves the world with the benefit of a quizzical eyebrow.

In the Far East, they just die: In their hundreds, sometimes thousands.

In South America, ancient ruins tremble, then crumble. And then appear on Newsnight.

And in continental Europe, they inspire a swathe of gypsies to produce rather shit tourist paraphenalia about "The Great...." of 2008.

Not in good old Blighty, however.

No. Here, in the land of all things stiff upper lip, we merely blog.

Gawd bless us and save us...

February 27, 2008

I can't sleep.

And not least because Cap'n Redleader and I are supposed to be brushing our respective selves down later on this evening, and going to a swanky event here - hosted by the owner himself.

Will we go?

Of course.

Same day the devil skates to work.

February 26, 2008

My all-singing all-dancing dual core Dell at work does everything but the only thing I want it for: accessing this very site.

Because of it's apparent susceptibility to "spyware/malware" - which I'm sure is bollocks - I can't directly access BCUK anymore the office *gibber*.

(Though I intend to have that lifted, obs.)

So I go through http://browseatwork.com - courtesy of the ever helpful AJ - to get to it.

Yet this throws up problems: I can't see any pictures, I can't upload pictures, I can't even post hidden links. And it's so slow it's an unbelievable bind just to try to read people's blogs.

Anyhoo: That's just a whinge. I'm not there now, and I wanted to write *something*.

So, The Bloscars.

This is no indication of my votes, but I have a few tips for The Bloscars: RTB, Emsbabee, Soy, Phoenix, Rubychoo and Eggbod.

That dodgy feeling in my old man's water says I think it's a year for funny girls, then.

And if Hells was still here *hint*, she'd be in there, too.

Good luck to all....

February 26, 2008

Ventage, noun
Finger hole in a wind instrument

"That's it!" thundered Nipper. "I'm never buying cheap toilet roll again."

February 25, 2008

With the greatest of respect to my previous Blog Meetees, I have to say I'm extraordinarily chuffed about the role-call for this week's unexpected but nevertheless impending Mini Meet.

There will be - in absolute order of importance - me, and everyone else: the ever-delightful Snail, the marvellous Rubychoo, the heralded Lady Eggbod (the girls share rank, incidentally) and that other fella, Redleader.

It's a curse, you know:

You try not to be cool - but they just keep on coming at you.

Darn

February 25, 2008

"So," I asked. "What did you have for your tea last night?"

"A nice steak," he said, which was a remarkable leap up from cat ham or turkey twizzlers. "And roast potatoes."

"Roasties? With steak? Random, I suppose, but not completely mad. For you. Anything else?"

"Peas. And gravy. And some Polish mustard."

*sound of Zeds' palm slapping firmly against his own forehead*

Truttaceous, adj
Pertaining to or like trout

"What's Kate Thornton up to these days?" asked Nipper.

"No idea."

February 23, 2008

It's not even a joke; it's just plain disgraceful.

Wankers R Us.

February 23, 2008

Colman's English Mustard: You either love it - and by "love", I mean hopeless adoration, an aching loss when it's not there, a genuine belief that this feeling will last forever, contented whistling when alone walking down the street, a sudden joy at the eyes of other people's children, a desire to reconnect with one's own parents, a double-take at the PEPS posters in Abbey National, no longer minding a slight upper-lip moustache on the lady of the house, actually considering picking up some tampons while you're out shopping - a miracle itself - and a remarkable ability to want to be constantly around it without necessarily inserting yourself into it (which is handy, given the dangerously hot fire content) but still prepared to on demand, if even slightly necessary - or, alternately: Frankly, you're completely insane.

That, however, was what was splodged and smeared across four grotesquely thick pork sausages, grilled brown, stuffed into cheesy mash, and then soaked in a gravy that left fronds of onions draping over the potato squash much like the cheeky bangs of an as-yet unflowered American sophomore.

With lashings - yes, lashings - of wine.

Given, naturally, to me.

Enjoy your Saturday night, fact fans - and don't forget Post Secret tomorrow.

x

February 23, 2008

Not seen her on here for a while, but Happy Birthday to Ozzzy nonetheless.

x

February 23, 2008

Do they exist, I wonder?

Are there really actual non-mentally challenged individuals who walk among us otherwise genteel Brits who are covert, and clearly distinctly odd, members of this?

I think it's time we flushed them out.

February 23, 2008

Dehiscent, adj
Gaping; discharging contents

"So, this food poisoning malarkey," said Nipper. "Exactly how did it manifest itself?"

"Hang on," said Zeds. "I just need the toilet."

February 22, 2008

When your defence is that you "only" defiled the still-warm body of a murdered girl, who when alive was a vulnerable and upset teenager, I think, personally, that you're skating on pur-retty thin ice with any jury anywhere.

Which of course, means he is now his own prison accident waiting to happen.

I hope, should I actually sleep tonight, that I hear his screams in the Scrubs from here.

RIP.

February 22, 2008

Braddles?

Buy this.

February 22, 2008

There's a week to go, and at least half of my fans you bastards haven't voted yet.

But it's so easy!

Go here for your voting form.

Remember: This is not life and death, but a bit of fun to promote the talents of BCUK members.

So.

You love to blog.

And you love to write.

Click on that link, then. It might help you explain why.

February 22, 2008

1. Drink wine.

2. Meet friend.

3. Drink more wine.

4. Retire to friend's abode.

5. Buy fish from fish and chip emporium.

6. Half-heartedly east fish-flavoured solids.

7. With wine.

8. Go to bed.

9. Develop wrenching stomach cramps.

10. Develop shrieking kidneys.

11. Twist upper body towards knees.

12. Feel head start to pound.

13. Grow apparent ulcer inside belly.

14. Get pressing, painful fist into bladder that refuses to release liquid.

15. Groan.

16. Spend all night either dreaming of weeing, or trying to wee but unable to do so.

17. Think: This is like doing drugs from dim and distant past.

18. On sunrise, realise one can no longer ever walk. Curl up in a ball for moments, before recurling on another side, because nowhere is comfortable.

19. Spend day hearing phone blip and beep in another room I can't get to.

20. Press hand against aching belly, achieving nothing but more pain.

21. Sun goes down again. Liver, kidneys, still screaming.

22. Drink ninth pint of water for internal flushing. Doesn't work.

23. Later than later; maybe midnight. Stagger, bent over, to toilet for fairly unproductive wee. Kidneys yell out as toxins pass through.

24. Awake all night, again.

25. Finally sleep again, briefly.

26. Vow never to eat fish again.

27. Vow again, never to eat fish again.

28. Take half-hour bath, still needing wee.

29. Dress, go out, and almost throw up in street.

30. Still awful. Shaky; sketchy; detatched.

31. Number of songs in Nick Hornby's book.

February 22, 2008

With thanks to Snail.

February 21, 2008

Fussock, noun
A big, fat woman

"Ow!" said Zeds, who was sat on the floor holding his blooded nose. "All I wanted," he said, to the ruddy-cheeked big-boned lady behind the bakery counter, "was a big fuck off pudding."

February 20, 2008

1. Four up(ish)market and thus too-expensive-for-what-they-are fishfingers, with just-right crunchy breadcrumbs smothering the thick lumps of piping hot white flesh fillets, roughly sliced from the slippery torsos of highly endangered cod. Marinated in chip shop vinegar and smothered in a blizzard of Maldon Sea Salt. Tomato sauce optional.

2. Failing that, the failsafe Sainsbury's Local bargain that is a 95p Admiral's Pie by those microwave maestros that are Young's; all grey meat, clotted mash and fake cheese, lurking craftily beneath a shifting sand dune of sneeze-inducing white pepper.

3. A cheese and onion pasty, but only if it is uncomfortably *ouch* to hold, full of scalding white-hot goo that laughs heartily as it sears off the roof of my mouth, and leaves a vapour trail of flakes across the office.

4. Two perfectly poached eggs, with tender but firm whites and swollen yolks the temperature of molten gold, hacked apart like murder victims to then mush nicely into pliant toast. Stick your Worcestershire Sauce up your arse - I'm on the Tabasco.

5. Remove the Worcestershire Sauce from up your arse, and hand it to me - it's needed to apply raucous splashes of colour and flavour and, frankly, camoflage to the gastronomic catarrh that is tinned Heinz Macaroni Cheese. Yes, it's wrong on each and every level, and yes, it's a disgrace to the very idea of humanity, but lordy, it's fine and dandy when sat under a quilt watching Diagnosis Murder having thrown a sickie due to hangover of heroic proportions.

6. Ice-cold dandelion and burdock pop. Out of those purple and turquoise-ish cans. Complete with necessary subsequent dandelion and burdock burps, too.

7. Lemon sorbet. With a plastic spoon.

8. Brannigan's Roast Beef and Mustard crisps, which were, of course, essentially a raging forest fire in a bag, all heat and tasting of trees, and apparently no longer on sale, but nonetheless the perfect company on a wintry night in a pub-with-log-fire...

9. ...to a slow-poured pint of the finest Black Soup that man can ever be blessed with, more precious and more poignant than his first born, sitting smugly in its glass just knowing its a handsome bastard. Preferably served by an Irish wench with a comely manner. Anywhere but Birkenhead.

10. Indian food*. Chunks of ghee-clogged chicken with gloopy hot sauce, snapped poppadums and those red onion things that always fall off. And lime pickle. And raita. And Cobra beer. And furry wallpaper. And a Bangladeshi in the kitchen.

* At precisely 12.30 today, I'm having an Indian. Which was the whole point of this pointless post. Just so you know.