Extraordinary Rendition

Somehow I managed to avoid serious unpleasantness at the airport, both on my part and that of the other victims. Despite repeated delays, an information blackout and being imprisoned in the same underwear for days, a kind of camaraderie arose between the passengers, even expanding to encompass the crew, who were often as in the dark and sleep deprived as us. By waiting patiently in the coffee shop I neatly sidestepped the scuffling and shoving aside of children that broke out in the hotel bus queue on the second day. Shame about missing the latter. No, there was very little nastiness, with people demonstrating a surprisingly keen intellect in determining that shouting would not change the weather. Instead I had to wait to get back to In-Gland before encountering a future stroke victim.

While trains in the Kingdom benefit from being a far more frequent occurrence than in Freedom, they suffer from the astronomical expense of a celebrity wedding combined with the comfort and splendour of an Austrian paedophile's basement. A significant problem with Dick Pickle's Virgin trains is the negligible room for luggage. Freedom trains have enough overhead storage for a three piece suite or one medium size soft drink from Wendy's. In the process of trying to find a place for mother dearest's case, I began to unload a luggage rack in the middle of the carriage. My thinking was that there was plenty of room in the rack, but mum's case was heavy and I shouldn't put it on top of the two canvas bags already there, in case I damaged someone else's property. It was at this point that I noticed an old man scowling at me from his seat just behind the luggage rack. Deciding to avoid further eye contact with this clearly constipated individual, I continued lifting bags out, and a nice lady helped by holding one while I slid my mum's case in, before replacing the other two bags on top. As I pushed the last one in, making sure it was at the back so it wouldn't fall out, I noticed that the old man was now standing next to me glowering.

"Really shoving them in there aren't you?" spat Mr Chuckle.

"Actually no, would you like me to?" Grinning at him didn't seem to improve his mood. "Look, really they're fine", I tried to reassure him by taking my hands away exposing his clearly unmolested holdall. He continued to seethe. I sighed. "Would you like me to take the case away and put things back as they were?"

"That would be good!" he snarled imperiously, with all the misplaced satisfaction of a successful self-appointed righter-of-wrongs. Then he added indignantly, "You're not the only person with luggage you know!" Obviously not, otherwise I would have no trouble finding somewhere for this case.

I undid my work and wandered down the carriage looking hopelessly for a home for the case and toying with idea of lodging it securely within the confines of the old guy's arse. Shortly, I was called back by my mother. Strangely a space had appeared on the floor by the rack. It was only later that I learned what happened. The nice lady who helped me by holding a bag, after witnessing my exchange with Miss Cheerful 2009, took a smaller pink case from the floor and rammed it in the rack, crushing the holdall from the side. Not much later a hulking figure, arms bursting from his t-shirt, came along and put his even larger case on top of the pile, crushing the holdall altogether. It is not clear whether our friend with throbbing veins missed these events or simply didn't fancy yelling at an old lady and a man twice his size. I spent about an hour of the journey laughing. The joy was reinforced when I overheard a conversation between two other passengers.

"Got any of those going spare?" enquired one, with regards to another's can of Carlsberg.

"Why, do you want one?"

"Please." Then after it was handed over, "Be my last for a while."

"Why's that?"

"Going into hospital."

"Why're you heading up North from London to go to hospital?"

"It's a special detox clinic for alcohol problems."

Snow

sucks when it delays your flight by three hours.

Near Life Experience

Scene 1: In which women ejaculate into their phones.

I am sitting in small provincial airport, waiting for my flight to larger transfer airport. The waiting room is very small, but even if it were as big as a cathedral I'm sure her voice would ricochet around and assault me wherever I sat. She is screeching a vast amount of nothing into her phone, but the other passengers seem unperturbed.

"HEE HEE HEE HEE, I am so sorry, we like both keep talking at the same time." Her laugh sounds like a blackboard being fed into a wood chipper.

Now her plane is leaving. It is going in the opposite direction to mine and I am grateful. Another woman becomes audible.

"And that's how you can tell. They really love you. Uhuh. Yeah." It slowly becomes clear, through her beneficence when it comes to sharing conversation, that she is talking about dogs.

Looking through the terminal window, I watch one of the pilots inspecting the nose cone of our worryingly small plane. Then he wanders idly over to one of the propellers and gives it a push to check it spins. It does, which is no doubt a relief.

When we eventually board our plane I am impressed by just how much it sounds like a lawn mower. My seat is singularly uncomfortable, perhaps because the cushion is supposed to be my buoyancy aid in case of the plane going for an unexpected swim.

Scene 2: At a bigger airport

This airport is a fairly major hub, so it is very busy and equally dirty. Classical music is piped throughout the terminal to keep everyone calm. Apparently this is not working, because one of the gate attendants is screaming instructions at the top of her lungs, even though the exterior door is shut so that we can't hear the planes outside. Her target passengers look nervously amused.

I visit the toilets. One of the urinals is blocked and floods the floor each time it automatically flushes. Complimentary wet shoes for all male passengers.

On the plane the camp attendant makes an announcement that is lost in a jumble of static and mincing. I hear only something about 'apologies for inconvenience' the word 'back' and the name of our departure airport. Obviously there is a problem and we are going to have to turn around. Less obviously, what has actually happened is that they forgot to take on drinks and so only diet coke and ginger beer are available. I hate diet coke.

Scene 3: Destination Unloved

It is dark by the time we land, so I have no idea what manner of place I am in; leaving the airport in a taxi all I can see are tail lights and neon signs for tattoo parlours and adult stores. When I arrive at the lab I have to show my identification to the police officer at the main gate. As soon as I have been handed my visitor's badge the taxi driver puts his foot down, nearly taking the officer's arm off as he tries to reach through the window to give me a map of the site.

The site is large and covered in signs telling me to stay to the paved areas if I want to remain free of ticks. I have been told that the only place to find food on site at this time is at the staff bar. When I finally find it, the 'waitress' ignores me for several minutes so that she can finish her conversation with the 'chef', who is leaning on the bar and feeding her gossip. Eventually I manage to order a burger. It tastes so terrible that it reminds me of pub food back home.

Daylight makes apparent the full horror of my surroundings. The cafeteria is housed in some sort of fallout shelter while the department I am visiting has tiny monastic rooms, situated off corridors that reek of man. Someone drives around the site in a car with license plates that read 'LADY DI'.

Scene 4: Beating a Retreat

My first flight is delayed and I am forced to endure more people shrieking into their phones. Unusually there is also a man yelling into a payphone at the far end of the waiting room. The person next to me detonates their bag of snacks while trying to open it and I am maimed by artificial cheese shrapnel.

Looking out the window as we are about to land at the big airport, I can't help but feel that we are very close to the water. And to those trees. Very close indeed. Just before we decapitate some squirrels the engines roar and the plane makes a desperate bid for redemption, leaping upwards before falling again, slamming into the tarmac and veering to the right. Then the left wheel hits the ground and we straighten up.

While waiting in the airport for my final flight, I wander into a newsagent. Inside there is a leash, on one end of which is a woman examining magazines. On the other end there is a dachshund, wearing a jacket of the type often seen on guide dogs. The jacket, in large letters, bears the words 'Therapy Dog'. I decide to go and find some lunch.

After battling with the sandwich wrapper for ten minutes I give up and begin to chew through the packaging. The girl opposite is watching me with a simultaneously amused and concerned expression.
Fuck you girl. Fuck you.

To my left a large woman is complaining to her phone.

"I told her, if they're so busy that they haven't got a free slot for weeks then they should be charging more. Seriously, if they're run off their feet like that, that's what I said."

If there is someone on the receiving end of the call then they aren't saying much.

"I mean at least charge more to the senior people and those who can afford it. I don't mind paying a bit extra, but if I'm going to have to wait weeks I'll start going to another hairdresser."

Behind me, a young lady from the subcontinent takes a seat, closely followed by a greying American. He starts conversation with her by, quite naturally, offering her "a drink of water" from his bottle. She politely declines. Undeterred he fights on, charity incarnate.

"How about a snack, would you like something to eat?"

"No thank you."

"How about a nut? A healthy nut?"

Epilogue

As I cross the arrivals/departures lounge at my home airport, I spy affixed to a column a small sign that had previously escaped my notice:
'Please ask an attendant if you need to use the pet rest area.'

A millenium of horse porn

I spent the evening after thanksgiving in the wilds. By the wilds, I mean where there is no mobile phone coverage, but people still have houses there, although they don't bother to look their doors. It's ok to come home to find deer and bears sitting on the couch and knocking back some cold ones while they take turns playing guitar hero on your xbox. Still, without opposable thumbs at least they can't molest your daughter. Or something.

I went because the wilds are not very far away and because some of my acquaintances, (the Phriday Night Phun Phirst Team) come from there originally and were 'hanging out' with their highschool 'buddies'. Or at least that's what I thought. Being driven there by Not Friends, I remarked that I really had no idea where we were going and that more to the point, I hadn't told anyone else that I was going anywhere or with whom. Not Friends informed me that "that was the plan". She said we were going to meet the other acquaintance in the middle of nowhere, where they would kill me and hide the body. Then she screamed something about lights in the sky and tried to drive us off the road.

Apparently there was a meteorite and it was 'huge'. And green. It may even have been a yoofoe, but to my knowledge we escaped being probed. Though what about the missing time? And the dreams? That strange grey face hanging over me, and the sensation of being defiled. Maybe Jacko isn't really dead.

Upon arrival we witnessed music in a cafe that was also some sort of store, and saw a man who might have been a drug user, but might also just have been the victim of racial stereotyping. And drug abuse. Once bored with trying to hear the band through all the chatter of the people who had arrived late and decided to make up for not listening by clapping and whooping at the end of songs, we went to someone's house to spend quality time in their cabin. The journey from the house to the cabin involved riding in the back of a pickup and also some unnecessary posturing by the residents with a shotgun.

"Is it loaded?"

"Just with buckshot".

Once we'd reached the cabin and in the process succeeded in not getting perforated by lead pellets or being thrown from the back of a speeding vehicle ("hang on here it gets bumpy" is advice you should always take), we started setting fire to things. So as to be warm. Because it was bloody freezing. Apparently black widows like to hang out in log piles, which is something you might like to know before you help people to carry firewood in Freedom. Then some of us wandered away from the cabin and engaged in scent marking amongst the trees, before coming back to refuel.

In summary I had a great time and saw an outstanding shirt.

On distant shores

He awoke in the dead of night, body and mind still heavy with sleep. At first he lay staring into the deep blackness above the bed, wondering what had disturbed his repose. Certainly not his wife, whose gentle breathing indicated that she was still asleep.
Then the noise came again. Then again. He sat bolt upright and in a moment was pulling his clothes on, at the same time rousing his wife and telling her to gather the children and wait with them under the heavy table in the kitchen. In the dark he could barely make out her perplexed expression, her mouth open to question him, when she heard it too. At once she leapt from the bed and went to the children. After donning his coat, he took the small lamp from beside the door and lit it, before lifting the wooden latch and stepping out of the small cabin.

Outside some of the other settlers were emerging from their homes, lamps, candles and burning torches in hand. The noise was louder now and more frequent. The settlers looked at each other with increasing alarm as it became clear that there was not one source but many. Eventually all the men of the village were awake and outside, with the heads of curious women and children poking from behind cabin doors. Still everyone was too frightened to talk, let alone move towards the forested boundary of the encampment and investigate the noises. Just as it seemed the cause of the noise was about to move into the dim circle of light thrown by the assembled colonists' flames, it stopped.

For what seemed like an age, they stood hushed, waiting. A light breeze came up out of the trees and blew a strange and disconcerting scent into the settlement. Finally, his patience exhausted, one of the colonists muttered under his breath and began to walk cautiously towards the forest, his torch held in front of him.

As he disappeared into the gloom there was a sudden burst of motion and a stifled cry. As one the colonists recoiled and drew back towards the houses, their terror barely checked. But now there was movement in the trees all around. Slowly, ever so slowly, the hideous beasts advanced into view.

The men groaned and the women and children wailed from behind the cracked open cabin doors. As the creatures clawed their way forward it became evident that there were hundreds of them, too many for there to be any hope, for they surrounded the village in its entirety. Most dismaying of all was their ungodly appearance. The swinging growths attached to their malformed fleshy faces were especially disturbing to the pious colonists.

They stopped again and stood scratching at the ground. One of them fixed the closest settler with its beady eye and flicked its head to the side.

"Gobble" it said. "Gobble, gobble."

There was panic. The settlers dove for their homes as the monsters beat their great wings and and ran amongst them. Screams and indiscriminate pecking rang out across village. When it seemed that all was lost, a great yell arose from the woods and a band of natives burst into the clearing, clad in paint and animal skins, and wielding enormous pots of baked sweet potato topped with marshmallows. Swiftly they set about the beasts with their potent concoction, its unnatural content overwhelming them and driving them back into the woods, until all that was left to mark their presence were piles of discarded feathers.

The settler leaned shakily against the door of his cabin, his clothing torn and filthy where he had fallen in his flight, and surveyed his rescuers.

One of the savages stood ahead of the rest, a magnificent crown fashioned from feathers of the terrible birds atop his head. The settler recognized him as the leader of the band, and stumbled forwards, before falling to his knees before him in gratitude and supplication. Lifting his head to look up at his saviour, he tearfully begged him, "How can we ever repay you?"

"Casinos and small pox," the savage replied.

Death from Above

Materialmas is here in force. If you want a card from me then email me with the address of your current squat soon. Definitely before Friday. Awright.

National Labia

I've finally got back from my three days of flying and speaking terror. The lab I visited was strongly reminiscent of Chernobyl, without the charm of having been abandoned to the forces of nature. It is situated in what I can honestly say is the most soulless and bleak place I have ever had the misfortune to visit. A fatal cancer of freeway, roadside litter and strip mall, on a scale that totally dwarfs the miserable ex coal mining towns in the Welsh valleys (which at least are in beautiful surroundings), or the tedious concrete commuter hubs of the home counties.

Will write more soon,

hugs,

Latifah.

Public Freaking

Something I don't much like about my chosen vocation is the need to occasionally go hurtling through the upper troposhere with a magnificent man in his flying machine. Something else about it, that I like even less, is the need to engage in public speaking.

I like to think I compensated for the disgusting luxury of my childhood by developing completely unnecessary neuroses that with much careful nurturing blossomed into beautiful psychoses. As a very small child I was what is probably best referred to as 'rambunctious', because 'gay' has diverged appreciably from its original meaning. Somehow by the time I got to twelve I was terrified of everything. As an example, at secondary school I was particularly stricken by the idea of forgetting to bring the right books, so I'd check I'd packed my bag correctly twice the night before and then twice in the morning again before leaving to catch the bus. I thought I'd got over that, but what actually happened is I became 16 and at that age 'learning' is all about ring binders, so I just had to leave one of those in my bag. I would also 'phone a friend' every night to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything. Amazingly he is still my friend and even more amazingly my parents didn't have me medicated.

Things calmed down a bit at university and after some effort I became capable of answering the telephone and looking at people when I spoke to them (sometimes). Plus the internet came along and I could buy things and find stuff out without having to deal with people. That really took the pressure off. Then I became a grad student, dallied with alcohol, started initiating the occasional conversation with a stranger and believed I was finally free.

But really the mania had only been biding it's time.

The day of the talk doesn't really begin, it just sort of fades in from the sleepless night before. Then the cramping starts and the intermittent sweating. By the time of the actual talk it takes everything I have to avoid visibly shaking. The absurdity of getting so worried isn't entirely lost on me, but it is apparently lost on whatever part of me is in charge of basic bodily functions. Most of giving a good talk is in the assertiveness of the speaker, and short of kicking off the proceedings by pulling my balls out and staring wildly at any member of the audience who so much as dares to look disapproving, I'm not sure how to build that kind of confidence.

Worse still, than any self imposed dementia, is the externally imposed condition that the speaker must appear enthusiastic. In the past, my suggestion that I wouldn't be putting myself through this shit if I wasn't enthusiastic about it, has generally met with disapproval. As far as I can tell, 'enthusiasm' as defined by other people is all about the grinning, shouting and waving hands animatedly, somewhat akin to a sadist watching a fire spread from the animal sanctuary to the orphanage. I didn't sign on for looking like a prat; if I had wanted to work in children's entertainment I would have become a politician.

I have a bit of a break now to refine my talk and practise by talking to walls and working the zip, before my actual interview. I will go to thanksgiving dinner and report back.

Keep an eye out for coons.

Unremarkable

Powered by the knowledge that I have to give a talk in two weeks time, I've been more productive this week than I have for, well quite a long time really. I almost feel as competent as I did when I was an undergraduate (which wasn't very). But is being motivated by fear any kind of way to live a life? Of course it is. It is sensible, realistic and honest. I quite like it.

I've noticed that with the unnatural and depraved birth of 'social' websites the amount of data dedicated to pictures of drunk people has increased exponentially. Soon it will come to rival the amount of data dedicated to pictures of naked people, and what will that say about society? It is especially worrying as some of the pictures of drunk people include me and may show me in bad light. I don't believe any of the pictures of naked people include me, but I haven't checked them all yet.

As I still haven't had time to write anything clever I'll just leave you with some things I've overheard while scurrying through the dark unseen places under floors and in hollow walls, along gutters and deep in storm drains, avoiding the notice of the great and the good.

In a coffee shop:
"Yeah it's really hard, sometimes I have to do reading for arts and crafts and it takes me, like, two whole days."

Outside a church:
"Well we could do dinner and hair tonight, would you like that?"

Unupdate

Many apologies for not shining a ray of darkness on the gleaming jewel of your lives recently. I am busily preparing myself for full on panic with an interview coming up. This means that I haven't had time to prepare a fitting description of music 'journalism', my current chosen subject.

In the meantime, to tide you over here is a review of every book by Cormac McCarthy (who wrote 'No Country for Old Men'):

AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND AND you get used to it after a while. Then it's about desert and horses.

Disjointed

Its been a momentous vague period of time since I last wrote something here. For starters there was Halloween, or 'girls dress as sluts', as it's called here. By girls.

I didn't dress as anything, but passed as a shambolic vagrant anyway, and attended some parties with friends where I bathed in the delights of 'flip-cup', kegs, girls dressed sluttily*, budlite (idle and foolish curiosity, kills cats and very nearly me too) and that party-in-freedom stalwart, bad hip-hop for rich kids, straight outta mp3 via driveby laptop. Yo.
In reality I spent most of my time accusing people of being racist if they tried to impersonate my accent. Halloween unsafely negotiated, we reach 'sport'.

Through nefarious and dark magicks beyond the reckonings of my innocent mind, I got roped into playing what they call football here. Even though there was no tackling (and for my part almost no catching either) I still managed to walk away with a sprained finger (swollen to the point that it wouldn't bend, which pretty much defeats the purpose of a finger), a dead arm and legs so weak that it was something of a miracle that I walked away at all. Four days later, I have just about stopped limping like a beneficiary of a visit from the colonauts. I was going to tell a joke about Uranus here, but have thought better of it.

Most excitingly of all, I went to see a roller derby match. Girls in shorts skirts, hot pants, or possibly just their underwear, skate round in a circle in a sort of tactical race, while trying to shove members of the opposing team into the ground, or for superior effect, into the crowd. Don't sit in the front row unless you occasionally want a face full of sweaty woman, or, when one of the referees trips up, man. The women are true athletes, having to engage in fast paced tactical play all the while suffering under the terrible burden of 'names' like Violetator, Ruth Less, Naslasher, Terrinator and Cathy Ter. Maybe not that last one. It is a family friendly sport, plenty of mothers had come along to cheer and lots of children were present in the hope of catching a flying skate in the face. We were profusely told to 'give it up', by some daft cow who should never have been allowed near a microphone: "It's ok to laugh, I'm a bit of a joker". She also was charged with waving a giant stars and stripes during the opening ceremony, and we all tried to show due respect as she struggled not to drop it.

Roller derby has the foul smelling taint of 'girl power', but not the full nauseating stench of the Spice Girls, the rules are simple and there's casual violence and purposefully misapplied eyeshadow. I sure hope it goes professional soon.

On the way back from lunch one day, I fulfilled my weekly 'getting back to nature' requirement, when I was nearly hit in the knees by a low flying hawk with a still fighting squirrel in its beak.

Eppylog

For some reason, possibly because I was now the only person left after the ADD sufferer who worked in a call center had got off at the last stop, the bus driver wanted to talk to me. Continuing her theme from the previous conversation, she asked where I worked. I explained that I worked at the university, in the science department, but didn't feel it was necessary to tell her about any of my socially detrimental medical conditions while I was at it.
"Do you teach the students then?"
"No I just do research."
"Oh, like that guy who murdered that Asian girl and hid her body in a wall?"
Yes, just like that.

*As far as I understand it, this means wearing less than the girl making the accusation.

El Marmoté's last stand

Long he rode the verdant land,
The noble bandit, with his band,
Arrogant flowers were his prey,
The rodent hero, El Marmoté,

When the gardeners came to toil,
He lurked beneath them, in the soil,
We haven't seen him yet they'd say,
the brown-faced one, El Marmoté,

Oh so glorious was his reign,
He freely roamed the sunny plain,
Without check, until the day,
The law came for, El Marmoté,

To the last, defiant and brave,
He stood his ground upon his grave,
And met his end, so now we pray,
For the soul of, El Marmoté.

Yes that's right, I've written an awful poem about a marmot. It seems that my favourite, and certainly least offensive neighbour, has met his demise. His burrow has been filled with dirt and some bricks. What a terrible thing is war.

Slightly concerned about the brown-faced bit. Does it qualify as a hate crime? I didn't mean it that way, but now the BNP have been allowed on the BBC my mind has almost certainly been affected, because I'm a simpleton who thinks everything is dignified by being on tv. Paris Hilton for example.

Apparently the problem with the BNP is that they are too poor and working class to afford a 'moral compass', whatever that is. Maybe the other parties should band together and get them one for Christmas. Considering that Question Time's core audience are the elite and educated who like to sit through a tedious political discussion program on a Thursday night, rather than the BNP's orthogonal core demographic of the disaffected with low income who like to go out on a Thursday night, I'm not sure why the appearance should lead to more racism. I would prefer it if the program hadn't gone out though - there's not much more disgusting than hearing one politician refer to another as 'thoroughly deceptive', probably enviously.

Finger-licking good? Cheerleaders

A large amount of Saturday was spent in my office in just my underwear. This is not how I normally use my time on weekends, it being instead an unfortunate result of getting soaking wet while watching cheerleaders. Somewhere behind them was a football game, which I had stopped watching when I realised I couldn't even see the ball. And when it became apparent that the home side couldn't either.

The local cheerleaders were immensely disappointing, pathetically capitulating to the pouring rain by wearing full tracksuits. They shouted a lot and jumped around.
Admirably, the visiting cheerleaders stuck to their guns by wearing transparent ponchos over their tiny skirts. They shouted a lot and jumped around. The visiting cheerleaders proved to be a hit with local law enforcement, who focused their attentions on protecting this valuable target rather than the game itself. Sensible really, as 300 pound men in body armour can probably look after themselves.

Almost a quarter of the crowd in the stadium was made up of the bands from the two universities. During the frequent breaks in play, one of the bands would play something suitably rousing, signalling the corresponding cheerleaders to shout and jump around, doing some rousing of their own. Then the huge screen would show some important messages about how we should spend our money.

Probably the only thing funnier than a cheerleader is a male cheerleader. They also shout, but jump around less, instead crossing their arms and shaking their shoulders before throwing in some chin thrusts and a synchronised jumping fist bump to finish. Not only are they absurd, but they have to hang around with shallow, mentally deficient and beautiful women all day. It is difficult to see what their motivation could be.

The other bit of the title refers to a conversation earlier in the week during a meeting of the fellowship of the drink. Our token female member asked, "is it normal to be creeped out when someone licks your fingers?" As always, serious and considered discussion followed. Our conclusion was that it is highly context dependent, for example if there is something tasty on your fingers, or if 'someone' happens to be a dog.

Hoping Pouch

Salutations Homogenites!

I'm sure you've noticed that since I began writing my "logontheweb" TM about living in the land of the stimulus billed obama, it has gone through several transitions. The log, not the Obama - he is a constant and unflagging bastion of hope against which the waves of ignorance and despair crash ineffectually. I have a picture of him on my underwear. On the inside.

So anyway, the log has changed; from the early short-but-powerfully-demented pieces, to the pedantically descriptive metaphor laden trash of today, we've travelled together through the minefields of preachy shit, art criticism and awkward sexual fantasy. All that and of course the momentous happenings of mothergate, when the whole thing nearly got stopped altogether.

One has tried to maintain quality throughout, however, with only one's own opinion to go on, this is at best impossible and at worst an invitation to outrageous pomposity such as referring to oneself in the third person. Not being one to solicit praise, far less someone who knows what to do with it (unless it's a certificate in which case I give it to mother so that she can frame it and nail it to the wall of her downstairs toilet) I ain't gonna ask you to write comments telling me just how awesome I am. I know that anyway. My vast arrogance dates back to the time my GCSE chemistry teacher told me that I "should really think more of myself". I have thought of little else since. Meat. That's something else I have thought of.

For all I know, you continue to read this stuff only from a combined sense of pity and guilt or possibly as some kind of psychoanalytic research project, rather than because you find it enjoyable. As an example, I thought the review of "my little pony" was a fat steaming turd, but when I was back in the Carpeted Teapot Kingdom over the summer some of you told me you liked it. So just remember to tell me every so often, in passing, if you thought something was of entertainment value or if you like turd. Admittedly, some of you have shown your appreciation before, and to you I convey the thanks of a grateful nation with this image of everyone's favourite Oxford based Waterboys tribute band, when they appear on "Later with Jools Holland" next month.



Yours,

Needy.

Novocaned

Today was temporary crown day at the dentist. As a final punishment for all my crimes, the anaesthetic didn't work properly the first time, so I had to have a second injection which didn't do much either. Instead my face became completely numb more than an hour later, long after I'd finished squirming around in the chair and trying not to yell while the dentist just got on with it.

Now, after the injections, drilling and being forced open for an hour, my jaw feels like I tried to fellate a horse. Not that I'd know anything about that; I'm just using my imagination, though I wish I wasn't.

On second thoughts, that suggests I'd rather have real experience of the aforementioned and that's worse. I'm glad I'm using my imagination, I just wish it wasn't so vivid. He's got a lovely glossy coat though, and such pretty eyes.

I'm still trying to think of reasons why people should employ me. In the end it always comes down to my award winning personality and the awesome shapes I pull on the dance floor. Neither of these are relevant to my job, so I must be in the wrong line of work.

PS. the blogspot.com spellcheck doesn't recognise the word 'fellate'. Curious, considering how many blogs either suck or blow.

100,000 BC

I'm in the midst of job application frenzy, just about to bombard the innocent with my cv before coming about and sailing for the neutral harbour of Desperate Hope. Still if no one is willing to employ me I can always look forward to the Nobel peace prize next year. Hell, we all can.

I haven't let terror of future unemployment completely phase me though. I'm far too used to terror for that, having lived in a perpetual state of it since I was cut out and slapped on the arse. Instead I've bin out drinkin I av. As usual, by the end of the evening it was just me and my two faithful Friday friends, our other companion having left on a self admitted "weird date kind of thing". At 11pm. Make of that what you will.

What a fantastically redundant phrase.

So we're in this bar right? Yes that's right. It happens to be the 'gay friendly' bar. I'm not really sure what this means, as I haven't seen any signs up in the other bars with little rainbows in a circle and a cross through them. Perhaps it means 'gay stereotype friendly' as amongst the crowd were muscular women with short hair and tattoos; buff bartenders in skin tight shirts; old gentlemen with high pitched voices and delicate hands; and effeminate young men wearing tiny tennis shorts. In the window there was a sign advertising something called 'sausage fest'.

Unusually I'd say, though I'm not an expert on 'gay friendly' bars, there was also a very large dog, sitting by one of the tables while its owners had a drink. We discussed whether state law allowed dogs in bars or not, and I honestly can't remember what the answer was. I mean you're allowed guns (as long as they're not concealed) so why not German Shepherds?

The female member of our holy trinity of weekend alcoholism remarked that "the guy over there sitting on his own watching people creeps me out". Predictably we all turned to look at him just as his gaze swept over us. Our attempt at nonchalance turned out to be unsuccessful. Seeking escape and an empty bladder, I headed to the toilets. On my way back I got some more drinks and while ordering the bartender put his hand on my shoulder - 'swoon'.

I'd just sat down again when a yelp erupted from the front of the bar, followed rapidly by snarling and then the kind of growl a dog makes when it's got hold of something it intends to keep hold of. It seems that the young blond in tennis shorts had stepped on the dog - no mean feat when it was waist high - and the dog had exercised its constitutional right to defend itself. With some help from the owners, tennis shorts managed to extricate his leg and then spent a gratuitous length of time examining his calf for wounds. The dog hadn't drawn blood and as far as I could see there wasn't even a mark. Still this was great entertainment and we got down to the critical business of laughing about it at once.

A figure loomed over our table.

"Hi guys. I like to say hello whenever people notice me. Most people don't."

Mr Creepy had come over to share pleasantries. This was as clear and present a danger as any of us had ever experienced. We sat stunned, until a flash of inspiration from one of our party delivered us from the brink of mortal embarrassment: "Did you see what happened with the dog?"

Creepy apparently had.

"The little gay boy tripped over the dog and it got him by the leg. Then he was all worried about the damage. There wasn't even blood."

We nodded manically as he went on.

"He's just whining and complaining that they shouldn't have a dog in the bar. It was nothing."

It was at this point that his nasal rant turned peculiar: "I mean think about the cavemen."

We thought about the cavemen, but enlightenment was not forthcoming. Fortunately creepy continued without waiting for us to catch up.

"They didn't give a shit about things likes this. That's why I'm bisexual."

One of humanity's greatest thinkers dwells in this very town and it is to our shame, nay the shame of the entire human race, that we will never understand him. Born before his time he is destined to wonder 'gay friendly' bars with his wisdom falling on deaf ears.

Crowning Achievement

Presently I came upon the establishment I had been seeking and setting my bicycle against a wall proceeded to curse vigorously and freely at the lock. Several sharp blows against the wall later the key deigned to turn and I was able to secure my transport against tea-leaves, ne'er-do-wells, liberals and otherwise untoward types.
I allowed myself a few moments to regain composure then, after brushing the dust from my coat tails, thrust my thumb into the buttonhole of my lapel and strode manfully through the door, chest thrust out.
Once acclimatised to the abject misery of the waiting room I conveyed myself to the receptionist's desk. Considering how far removed I was from the groaning peasant land of my lunged for home, imagine my surprise at discovering the receptionist was a native of Luton! Imagine it.
The paperwork dealt with, I was directed to seat myself and wait until such time as I was called for. In the interim I amused myself by viewing the educational reel playing in the corner. Through strained metaphor involving a carpenter's workshop and joinery, a self proclaimed expert explained how various remedial procedures were performed. I'm sure the reader will understand when I say that the presence of so many rows of mallets and large saws in the background was not conducive to a tranquil state of mind.
A short while later an internal door opened and I was beckoned within. Like many a fool before me, I was led by a charming young lady, though on this occasion it was merely to an overstuffed recliner. Curiously, her smock bore a decorative pattern consisting of small images of seasonal squashes, each with a hideous glowing visage and maniacal grin. Alas I had no chance to inquire into the nature of this bizarre garment as suddenly the proprietor was upon me, shaking me enthusiastically by the hand and announcing how delighted he was at our meeting.
Immediately he embarked on the examination, wielding his probe confidently and tilting the recliner up and down as if simulating a passage round the Horn. I must admit that I was somewhat perturbed when he asked me to stick out my tongue, before grabbing it and pulling it this way and that. Swiftly ascertaining the problem he proceeded to sketch a diagram for my edification and explicated the required measures. I informed him that I had already conferred with the great and mysterious oracle of Www and that unusually, instead of predicting my imminent passing, it had also told me that I would need a crown on my tooth.

So I've got to go back next week for some drilling. God alone knows what all this was about. I can only imagine that my efforts here are continuing to please, as the number of followers has reached into three figures (base two).

Cavities I have known and loved

Happily a large piece of one of my teeth has broken off. This is probably because it was weakened earlier in the year by an enormous filling. I'm excited about the prospect of meeting an American dentist and having him tell me to piss off back to the Kingdom with my disgusting NHS teeth.

I went to Blockbluster in the not too distant past so that I could watch something that didn't crawl under my front door and hop about chirping. It's run by cheerful but oily types and generally there's at least one of the baseball capped wandering around with their attendant pneumatic waxed primate squeaking away beside them.

While browsing I noticed that every other film in the 'comedy' section features a box cover that shows a rear view of a woman (possibly ladyman) from the waist down. The woman is wearing either a tiny skirt, a thong, bikini bottoms, hotpants, jodhpurs, a thin covering of scales or something similarly unsuitable for cold weather or a family occasion. Hands on hips, she stands with her feet wide apart while a group of leering 'oddball' stereotypes looks through the resulting triangular space at the viewer. Most of these films also turn out to have a sequel. Frankly I'm disgusted by this juvenile and sexist attempt to manipulate the audience and because Blocklustre apparently won't let you rent fifty dvds at once.

Instead I went for the selection below.

"Apocalypto" is a film by Mel "What are you lookin at sugartits?" Gibson. Initially some injuns enjoy running about in their disease free ecoharmony until the Mayans turn up without chocolate and murder or enslave them. The hero escapes rudimentary open heart surgery because of a suspiciously timed eclipse and runs home to rescue his wife who he hid in a pit that is filling with water. For safety. She is also heavily pregnant and the protagonist arrives just in time to save her and the newly born baby, shown hanging from her by umbilical cord in an underwater shot as delightful as the opening of "Finding Nemo".

In "The Prestige", Michael Caine reprises his role as Michael Caine while Huge Jackman and Christian Baleful play Victorians with amusing beards. Deeply weird David Bowie is in it too as deeply weird Nikolai Tesla. Clearly it's a winning formula, but unfortunately the 'twist' is dead obvious, so enjoyment of the second half of the film is limited to guessing what facial hair will turn up next.

"The Kingdom" is about the awkward coexistence of Western oil industry families and Islamic hardliners in Saudi Arabia. It is also about guns, explosions and a general dislike of baseball. It was during this dvd that I realised I now giggle every time someone gets shot in a film.

Engaging with emerging emergencies via modules

Link

I have included the above link to the occasionally amusing overcompensating.com because it is relevant. And relevant is what we need if we're gonna pull this shit off and not look like amateurs who right da illest structurd stream of consciouspiss.

As part of its continuing mission to keep us all alive and gleaming, the power that bees has decreed, once again, that state drones like me complete an online module. Previously via modules I have been learned not to be racist or sexist, thanks to what amounts to a powerpoint presentation followed by multiple-guess tests. Apparently I am 100 percent not racist and 93 percent not sexist. Hell, no one's perfect. The latest module was on terrorism and security awareness orientation. Primarily it has taught me that when the shit hits the fan, managementspeak will be there to meet it head on. A position I'm sure no one else would want, for obvious hygiene reasons. Anyway a loose knit band of heroic planning committees, acronyms and reports will rise up and take that marauding mutant sea beast dowwwwwn.

I have also learnt that I should:

• Use common sense
• Stay where I am if it is safe
• Not stay where I am if it is not safe
• Follow any instructions given by the emergency services
• Report suspicious behaviour
• Print out the list of emergencies and phone numbers (if your emergency is not with you within thirty minutes, you get it for free)

Furthermore I was reliably informed that not all terrorists are foreign. However the most important instruction was to stay aware. At any time Kanye West could burst from nowhere and interrupt what you are doing to tell you that "I'ma let you finish but this an emergency". Otherwise we should stay posted via the University's various non-rap communication pipes.

WHOOP WHOOP dats da sound o' da poleese! No KRS-One, you big silly, it is actually the sound of the university siren system warning us once a month that the university siren system is being tested. Real emergencies will be marked by a lack of the bellowed 'this is a test' message, don't occur with the same soul crushing regularity and will probably be accompanied by an ominous cloud. Then the sky will turn the colour of blood, the dead will walk the Earth and the football team will actually win a game.

Duck and cover. Twice.

Salutations,

Lacy Jim.

Gnus

Sirs, I humbly submit my choice for article of the day: "Honor [sic] considers new definition of plagiarism".
I didn't really want to read any further than that, so I didn't, did I? I mean I don't need to be pushing myself around, I'm my own man, at least until the tests come back and show me to be hiding a conjoined twin amongst the rusty iron in my appendix.
As I understand it, without actually bothering to educate myself at all, and with none of the facts at hand, the Honor [sic] council decides what's wrong and what's right for our morally deficient friends, the student body. There are draconian penalties for infractions, but a fairly low conviction rate, possibly because the jurists are themselves drawn from the student body. This is wild speculation though. Wild like a tiger without a cereal advertising deal.
I suppose with funding cutbacks it's only sensible that Honor [sic] diversify its holdings and explore other sectors in an increasingly dynamic marketplace. I am surprised though, that they have chosen the well established and heavily saturated dictionary market, especially with their meagre offering of just one word. Maybe their redefinition is gonna be awesome enough to carry the thing off.

Si si si,
Senor Wuff-Wuff, Crufts 3rd place.

Foooooooooooooootball!

It is an unassailable truth that all sports are equally absurd, excepting those that might be relevant for survival.

For example, establishing who is the best with a bow might be useful to a tribe of bushmen when dinner is proving reluctant to marinade itself, walk right up to camp and do the decent thing by rubbing its throat on a sharp knife next to the cooking pot. In contrast, knowing who is best at archery amongst under twelves in Surrey is less informative, unless the police are making inquiries into the distance skewering of several cats in Woking.
It is difficult to imagine a situation where Usain Bolt's phenomenal turn of speed over short distances could be truly practical, unless he is one of several people who have simultaneously contracted dysentery in the vicinity of a lone toilet, in which case the other sufferers can disregard any notion of reaching it first and start worrying about where they're going to find a new pair of trousers.

There is nothing intrinsically more important about knocking a ball about with an oddly shaped club than there is about launching sausages from a cannon at the moon. The latter at least has the potential to upset Jewish astronauts. Possibly the former might upset the sort of person who is liable to accuse anything of being 'phallic' (skyscrapers, balloons, vegetables, penises) and a symbol of male dominance, but such people shouldn't be taunted, because they are psychotic.

Sport for sport's sake then is only worth its weight in entertainment. Some sports are so entertaining that people are willing to stop killing each other long enough to play them, at least until there is a disagreement over the game itself, in which case it is acceptable to threaten to kill the line judge instead. Other sports are of debatable entertainment value, unless you don't have cable and you really hate geese.

Most people, being witless consumers who have long forgotten their own aspirations, are content to simply watch others play sport. It is important however that they choose to support a specific competitor or 'side' as otherwise the entertainment value is nil. Initially it may be difficult to understand why humans should get so excited about some other humans they have never met, doing something that doesn't make sense, but actually figuring it out doesn't require much thought. Not even for you. The average person leads such a pathetic existence that living vicariously is their only hope, hence the need for celebrity gossip magazines, soap operas, sport and the news. Without the achievements and experiences of others they would just be left with their superfluous administrative job, housework, package holidays and breeding the next in line to the monotony throne.

Team allegiances follow the same sort of bastard logic as bank accounts and religions. A person is either born into one or, if not damned by their parents, chooses just once and then stops thinking about why. The choice is then sacred and is to be defended to the death (possibly not when it comes to bank accounts). When their team wins, the parasitic fan achieves greatness by proxy. Chances are this is the only greatness they will ever achieve.

Often people argue in favour of sport by claiming that it is healthy. This has now been revealed to be a viral marketing campaign payed for jointly by Nike, Apple's ipod division and men who like to see girls in shorts. Together that's a lot of purchasing power, so it's been a very persuasive and successful campaign.

My favourite sport is watching other people watch sport. This is best done at sports bars, where entry is free and there is a good chance of finding supporters of both sides in any engagement. However a suitable lounge with a 40 inch plasma screen will do at a pinch. Once the location has been settled on, it's time to choose a side of supporters to observe. It is unnecessary for me to watch the game myself, but I have discovered that fans find it disconcerting if I sit behind the screen and facing them.
The action usually starts out slow, with some murmured approvals or disapprovals and detailed discussion of the rules or statistics by self-appointed experts. Soon though voices become raised and the fans start waving their arms like demented puppets. They throw themselves to the edge of their seats, chins thrust out to be level with the ends of their noses. Eventually there is roaring, clapping, jumping and perhaps even the classic underarm air--punch, all directed at the television. This is curious, considering that the television is at best a one way communication medium and at worst a piece of furniture.
Some games I've enjoyed watching people watch since arriving here are 'football' and the 2008 presidential election.

In other news, I nearly managed two bicycle accidents in one week. First I tried to cycle into the back of my boss and had to heroically throw myself over the handlebars at the last second to avoid the collision. Tonight as I cycled home a dog tried to take me out with a low open-mouthed challenge. His owner helpfully yelled at him from the street and then gave me an angry look. Cheers.

And this just in: two followers! One day I hope to return to the heady heights of twelve followers, though that seems to be asking a bit much, seeing as how three of them were the same person.

Kiefer never had it so good.

Frankly this 'blog' hasn't featured enough hardcore mollusc porn, so I've included the above picture, taken outside my cave last night. For those of you not au fait with slugs getting it on (this includes me) I believe the scene depicted above is just after the money shot, as they'd mostly retracted their disturbing white things and not long afterwards one of them detached itself from the half metre of mucus on which they were suspended and slithered off to tell its friends.

I thought you might be interested in how an interesting person like me spends one of my many days. I'll start at the beginning, and it goes a little something like this...

12am Consider turning off computer.

12:30am Try that again.

1am Get ready for bed. Brush teeth. Look at self in bathroom mirror. Cry.

2am Put away book and try to sleep.

3am Toy with notion of just getting up again.

4am Dream about touching girls' bottoms, talking to pigs and spaceships.

5am Wake up after marrying the pig. On one hand not so pleased about waking up, on other quite happy about dream not getting as far as consummation.

6am Wake up again. Wish this hadn't happened. Flail about until ensnared by tangled sheets. Pass out.

7am Same as above.

8am Same again. Too tired to get up.

9am Alarm clock begins its optimistic call to arms.

9:01am Alarm emphatically stopped.

9:30am Crawl out of bed, in direction of bathroom.

10am Wake up in shower.

10:10am Trousers go on other way round. Spray antiperspirant on mirror. Down orange juice. Brush teeth. Not enough time for breakfast, put banana in bag instead.

10:20am Based on weather, choose bus or bike. Bus will be full of bronzed students (student newspaper has special "tanning now summer's over" edition) and bag people and takes longer. Bike doesn't have effective A/C and is apparently invisible to some car drivers.

10:30am-10:45am If bike was chosen, arrive at work, wring out shirt and hang it on back of chair. Put on spare shirt. If bus was chosen, arrive much later after managing to prise oneself out of flesh sandwich on bus.

11am Use news.bbc.co.uk to establish that UK hasn't sunk beneath the waves of a foaming sea of bickering during the night.

11:15am Try to remember what I've been doing.

11:25am Recollection comes and adds to growing sense of unease. Look at scrawled notes on pieces of paper and establish that no inspiration has occurred overnight.

12pm Go for lunch. Join with colleagues in deriding, well pretty much everyone really. Go for coffee afterwards.

1:pm-1:30pm Return from lunch. Consider going home. Choose to stick with it.

2pm Look at pieces of paper until finally settling on course of action. Sail course like a seaman who's been drinking a heady cocktail of seawater and his own urine for two weeks.

3pm Continue blundering until students come to ask my boss to do their homework for them. Seek refuge in library.

4pm Leave library because creepy guy has sat opposite me, even though all the other chairs are free.

5:30-5:45pm Return home using whatever means necessary. Tolerate people asking the bus driver stupid questions, or cycle over hills past lurching jogzombies.

6pm Vegetate to the soothing sounds of neighbours running up and down stairs with support from their bawling child.

7pm Start working again. Still nothing happening. Turn on stereo and listen to doowop. Sing along. Hope neighbours don't like it.

7:23pm Sudden recollection! Rummage through bag and uncover crushed banana. Throw away.

8pm-9pm Consider food. If lucky there will be 'one I made earlier' in the fridge, suitable for reheating, rather than incineration. If not, boil some eggs or something. Debate whether peanut butter is a food group.

10pm Browse internet. After reading latest informed debate become furious, turn green, grow to four times normal size, ripping clothes in process and crash through door, showering the street with splinters and fragments of brick. Fight crime, mainly by breaking crates and throwing barrels. Come round in supermarket, buying washing up liquid and bananas.

11pm Last stab at work. Words on page no longer correlate with activity in brain. Despair. Resort to internet again. Seethe.

Well it's having so much to live for that keeps me going, and seeing it all written down like that, I have to say I'm filled with pride and an enduring sense of achievement. I'm hoping for a different dream at some point though.

Lifestyles of the mediocre and easily forgotten

'sup? How's it hanging? OMG like like like, like?

It is traditional when you haven't updated your vapid internet shitspeak disseminator in a while to start by apologising: 'sorry I haven't posted recently' is fairly standard. However I'm going to break with tradition and say screw you, you maggot born in the corpse of a pampered civilization.

I nearly wrote a biting satire on privacy policies and posted it, but instead I wrote a meandering discourse with angry bits and then deleted it. As far as personal data collected here goes, let it suffice to say that I might store information in my brain about who you are if we've met, and you have the right to ask me to forget you at any time. I will try very hard.

I have been most industrious, making friends with some people and definitely not being friends with others (by her account anyway); attending a drunken rooftop gathering and contributing to the heckling that earned us the accolade of 'douchebags' from a staggering drunk in the street far below (my first douchebag, gush!); playing wii gynaecologist and finally getting driven home by people who are drunk enough to not remember where their car is (or how to use an automatic gearbox).

It has been pointed out to me that I now have a skill for getting girls to drive me home. Men drive me home too, but for some reason that has been overlooked by the learned minds performing the study. Nonetheless, I will add this ability to my long standing proficiency for getting girls to cook for me and see what I can persuade the fools to do for me next. If only they could be housebroken.

Otherwise I have been at work, engaged as always in the noble art of failure, confusion and despair; or at home listening to the people in the apartment above indulge in their passions for stamping around, inexpertly juggling heavy objects and conversing with their spawn in tellytubby.

It would seem that the healthcare 'debate', closely followed by members of the international community with too much time on their hands everywhere, has quietened down just in time for some crap about telling children to work hard being part of a socialist agenda.

Yours (and yours alone),

ROFL Harris.

Idiom and Insects

Did you know that 'skyping' is now synonymous with having webcam phone sex? I didn't until very recently. My previous ignorance may be the cause of some funny looks I've received when I tell people that I spend Saturday afternoon skyping my parents. Then I spend the evening dogging and cottaging. I might even fit in some hare-coursing if I have time.

Probably my favourite misunderstood verb is 'gaying', as in 'gaying out on Cowley raid', which is juvenile landed gentry for 'going out on Cowley road', the same dialect that favours 'hice' over 'house'.

Technically none of that was idiom, so let's move swiftly along to the next of the title's inaccuracies. Today has been defined by close encounters of the arthropod kind (so not really just insects, I hope we can all learn to live with that). It started at 5am when a house cricket decided to open up with some earsplitting chirping on my bedside table. This ended badly for the cricket. They're unpleasant things gifted with the same kind of shimmery brown appearance that made cockroaches such a popular family pet.

At lunchtime I saw something about 3 inches long making its way across the lounge. I trapped it in a jar just in time to look it up on the internet before having phone sex with my parents. Apparently it was a house centipede. I returned him to the outside world, where he is hopefully warming himself in the belly of a bird.

Last but not least was my discovery of a fat black and orange caterpillar, the size of my little finger, making itself comfortable on the pile of clothes in my laundry basket.

I'm not sure what has prompted my new found popularity, though if I can find some good recipes it could help keep the grocery bills down.

Engendering conflict

Hello readers! That's you in Australia and Finland; I think most people had quite enough of me when I went back to the Kingdom and have now decided they have better things to do, like worship cricket as a pathetic substitute for failing to lead meaningful lives. Anyway I fought I'd right you a post for being so good. Now if only I could see the screen properly from the mountain of pickles and squeezeecheez on my naked belly.

The summer temperatures have finally peaked and have started their slow ebb. Cicadas are still doing good business of the exceedingly irritating chirrupy kind, but now they have competition. The return of the undergarments to the university weighs heavy on my soul yet again, reminding me as it does every year of just how many eons ago I started hiya education. Waddling about the streets in their flipflops and asking bus drivers stupid questions (does this bus go to where it says it does on the front of the bus), they are most tiresome in constantly getting underfoot. Apparently some of them have failed to learn even the simplest rules.

Today, on entering the bathroom/restroom/lavatory/toilet/craperie I was alarmed to see what was clearly a girl's bag poking out from under the door of one of the cubicles. Instantly I raised the threat level to defcon one, followed the first step of emergency protocol, "assume it's me that's bolloxed up", and darted outside to look at the sign on the door. Yes, it was indeed the universally recognised yet revoltingly gender biased image of a stick-'man' without a kilt, an archaism of malecentric society. I paused to reanalyse the situation. Perhaps it wasn't a girl's bag at all, perhaps I had drawn an erroneous conclusion based on my institutionalised sexism. Or mayhap it was a lady's bag but belonging to a male. Perchance it was not my sexism, but my homophobia that was at fault. No wait, having a girl's bag doesn't necessarily make you gay. So we can definitely put a tick next to homophobia. Conceivably it was just a man who liked large handbags with hoop handles or through a set of amusing coincidences had found himself in possession of one. I walked back into the bathroom and took the only other cubicle (I had some reading to do).

Now toilet cubicles in Freedom have an alarmingly large gap at the bottom so that you can swing your M-16 around to defend your constitutional rights at ankle level. As a consequence you can usually see one of the feet of the person in the next 'stall'. I was driven to reevaluate my previous reevaluations as I looked down and saw a small foot in a strappy sandal with pink painted toenails. Yuck, some guy with miniature feet and ohmygod that shade of pink is soooooo 2008.

This set me to thinking, and the toilet is well known to be a productive environment for such endeavours: what if it is a womb-an? And if it is what does it matter? Maybe she is rich in testosterone, or carrying a bumper chromosome. She might simply choose to self define as a man, and who am I to interfere with that? I should merely be grateful she's not at the urinal, spraying all over the place. Unless she's pre-op or post-op, or has some kind of hose installed. With a tap I hope. What does it mean to be a woman anyway? Oh wait, that'll be in a dictionary or medical textbook somewhere. Yes, here we go, a woman is an adult female human. And a female is apparently the one that produces ova. Ova are defined as the larger gametes (in species where more than one type of gamete appears). So presumably the IAAF need to wait nine months for their tests to be absolutely certain. And then they can get with the programme and start chucking out all the athletes whose overzealous exercise regimes or genetic disorders have caused them to not produce gametes at all. We can kidnap them, stamp 'freak' on their foreheads and make them fight lions in an arena under the contemptuous gaze of Silvio Berlusconi as he reclines on a bed of nubile slaves, eating pork scratchings.

Refocusing on the issue of toilets, it seems that the problem is still waiting to be addressed. Should they all be unisex (or omnisex)? As with most 'problems' the answer is easy once you know what the right question really is. I think society for its own, as usual mysterious, reasons has chosen the separation of defaecation facilities on the basis of what sort of external genitalia you are packing, regardless of how you might view yourself. One type goes through one door and the other has to wait outside a different door because of the long queue. If you are lucky enough to have both, choose the door without the queue. The solution is now clear. To avoid images that enforce a sexfacist image of men in trousers and women in skirts, the doors should just show a picture of the required genitalia, or for situations where that might be inappropriate (Heaven knows why, I'm sure we've all seen it before) a picture of a hose on one and the predator's face on the other.

This post was brought to you by thesaurus.com and the entry for the word 'perhaps'.

Now, before I return to my moist cave hacked out of flesh, let me bring to your attention this exciting job opportunity.

Fill um's

First, I would like to share this music video with you. It ups its game from about 1:20 onwards.

As part of my programme of not running up and down the aisles of airplanes screaming and shaking the flight attendants until social services confiscate them, I like to distract myself from thinking about falling by watching some films. The films must fulfill certain criteria: they should involve things happening quickly and nonsensically with characters that serve only to bridge the gaps between explosions. While I may have inadvertently described a recent trend in soap opera, what I meant was that I watch action films. Comedies are ok too, if they're actually funny. So not American Pie then. I try to steer clear of anything that involves thinking though, because such films invariably have (or indeed are) tedious dead spots where the suddenly active analytical part of my brain has time to think about how much of a modern airplane is actually held together by glue and that if you look at the correct statistic (deaths per journey, rather than mile) then flying is less safe than driving. But still safer than cycling. Worst of all, 'coming of age' films - which are often just an excuse for directors to hire a cast of beautiful teenagers and play out the unfulfilled sexual fantasies they had in their youth about the girl next door, her mother, her dad, her dog or her vacuum cleaner - are usually so vile that they make me want to exit the plane prior to landing. And I've been told that is not advisable.

During my last journey I weathered three films (with a bit of cheating in one), they were X-men Origins: Wolverine, Star Trek: XI and Dragonball Evolution. I would just like to say, before we move on, that if anyone suggests watching the latter film to you, the correct answer is to say "no", walk away without looking back, block all possibility of future communication with them and sneak to their house in the dead of night to paint a bloody red hand and the word "unclean" on their front door. If only there was a national register of such people, we could round them up with time-tested vigilante efficiency and feed them to a pack of baying paedophiles. Unless the person suggesting you watch the film is a child, in which case you should just give them more ritalin and they will no doubt grow up to be a fine upstanding contestant on Britain's got talent.

The X-men have always been second tier superheroes. When viewed in comparison to Superman and Batman they have neither the simplicity of the former nor the lone warrior cool of the latter. Instead they have strangely chosen to focus the absurdity of a man who can't grasp the 'under' aspect of underpants and the wooden character of an American who actually has a butler. At least they didn't try to emulate any aspect of Spiderman, who is a whiny dick with dirty wrists. I think this film was pretty good because it featured lumberjacks and people who are, because of genetics, able to turn themselves into diamond, or walk through walls, both of which are probably not ok with the IAAF.

Star Trek XI doesn't make much sense. Murderous abuse of science aside, it is non-canonical, worst of all sci-fi sins. Add to this the sad fact that due to union action by the federation of cornish pasty makers, Klingons had to be dropped from the final film. There is a woman painted entirely green though. She is an alien, and you can tell because she's green.

Dragonball is so shit that the cast and production crew needed reconstructive colorectal surgery after the completion of the film. However Chow Yun Fat is in it, and I quite like him because he once starred in a film called Hard Boiled that, in the finest traditions of Hong Kong cinema, features a shoot-out in a maternity ward.

I went to a a small festival dedicated to beer and bluegrass on Saturday. For some reason Hulahoops seem to be very popular at outdoor events here and there were some highly skilled female practioners, although judging by their facial expressions they might have been using performance enhancing drugs. Speaking of highly skilled practioners: There was a little bit of dancing to the bands and at the end of one song an old man came up and tapped me on the shoulder. He said he was 75 years old and that he felt I could "outdance anyone he had ever seen in his life" and "should be up there on stage". I will try not to let it go to my head. Especially because for all I know he's never the left the farm before and just judged me relative to Mavis the stillborn heifer and Old Buck the three legged dog that died back in '74. He seemed like a nice guy though and came over to shake my hand again before he left.

Error

It is important to remember when living in the American South, that some people believe in the Jesus.

Escape from the Socialist Witchdoctors

Desperate and wild-eyed with terror I fled across an ocean in the company of screaming pygmies (plus a woman who was led off the plane first, wearing a mask and in the company of paramedics). Even then, newly alighted on a far-flung continent, I did not halt my flight - the danger was too great. Scrambling through underground caverns and catapulted about in subway cars I arrived at the bus terminal. There I hid amongst the goats and crates of chickens until I could slip aboard a transport as it left, delivering me into the dark anonymity of the rural wilderness.

Verily, 'tis a great boon to have escaped the dangerous and perverse land of social health care. Where, disgustingly, the poor and disadvantaged can share hospitals with decent tax fearing God paying folk, because there are no money grabbing misery anuses at the door to turn them away. A place so debased that people walk around without even the common vanity to demand precision regiments of burning white teeth and so backwards that it has yet to grasp the profit making potential of institutionalised male genital mutilation. The final nail in the coffin is the depraved insistence on providing care for chronic womanisers who are also wheelchair bound scientists.

Nice to be back really. On the radio I heard a caller complaining to a talk show host that President Obama doesn't say "how great this country is" enough. In order to win over his critics he sorely needs to create the post of Secretary of Greatness. And maybe wear a t-shirt and baseball cap with "America is awesomest" written on them. Health wilderness Britain got round this tricky issue long ago by prepending the name of the country with "Great" so that everyone has to acknowledge how wonderful it is whenever conversation turns to the birthplace of deep fried mars bars and Phil Collins.

Pubic Transport

As is usual when I visit the side of the Atlantic rife with decay, apathy and long forgotten aspirations, I have spent most of my time on public transport. If not visiting tiny psychopaths or the architects of my birth, I've been responding to social summons and attending exhibitions of syphilitic genitalia in London. It will be exquisite relief to escape this vacation (holiday for the less Free) and go back to looking at girls' legs from the comfort of air conditioned offices.

Sharing transport with other, putative, members of the species is always an edifying experience. It affords a fascinating glimpse into their lives, often at volume levels that are detrimental to the human eardrum, and a less fascinating glimpse into my increasingly panic stricken mind.

Trains in Italy are well nice they are, and feature things like comfortable seats, high speeds, punctuality, leathery old men and fantastic views (often through the windows). Sadly not all of the other passengers are given to quiet contemplation or speech that doesn't involve shouting (many users of Italian trains are Italian). On one journey I found a group of excited young men particularly irksome, and though I couldn't understand what they were saying, I doubt it was as funny as they seemed to find it. The other passengers weren't especially amused either.

Glancing through my window I noticed we were making a speedy and precipitous transit along a cliff top above the gleaming blue sea. We were high enough not to even be able to see the olive skinned riffraff miring the beach. Looking to the opposite side of the carriage I could see an old man drowning in sweat while struggling to open his window. Using a complex system of gestures and silly grins I indicated that I would be willing to open mine instead. Gasping from his latest struggle, he assented and just as we veered particularly close to the edge I managed to jerk the window open with a great crash. The boys shut up instantly, excepting the one who screamed.

Trains in the Royal Gizzard of Berkdom are not so pleasant, but are reassuringly expensive just like bad lager. However they benefit immensely from being full of English speakers. I am now privy to just how amazing Take That's comeback concerts were and festival gossip from some fragrantly soiled teenagers. Hopefully their parents hosed them down before letting them back in the house. The noncommittal grunts of a husband in response to his snooty wife's long winded and unsurprisingly pretentious dissection of the ballet are something I'm aiming to emulate in later life.

Planes, I don't like much. Every time I get on one I am convinced I am going to die, and so my continued use of flying machines is either demented or courageous.

Any sudden vertical motion whatsoever, such as that caused by turbulence, or a sharp kick to the rectum through my seat, kindly provided by the passenger behind me, causes me to try and pull the armrests off.

My most enjoyable journey recently was on a coach, when the attractive blonde sitting next to me fell asleep on my shoulder, fulfilling my female contact quota for at least the next decade.

Sorted out for E's and designer raingear

Aching muscles and a sore throat. These are symptoms of swine flu, normal flu, the common cold or a hard day's work in the porn industry. Alternatively the same effect can be had by standing around all day, sleeping on a hard surface and shouting too much, and it is this particular route I have chosen to my current weakened state.

Festivals are traditionally a local celebration of culture and identity. It is fitting then that modern festivals in Britain take the worthless into the countryside to trample grass and avoid washing for a weekend while they transform bad lager into urine.

As soon as a festival begins the surrounding fields start their transition into a refugee camp. In our advanced society it is passé to flee genocide, war, starvation, earthquakes or the wrath of a volcano that hasn't seen enough virgins lately. Instead refuge is sought from parents, central heating, hygiene and dress sense. Small clearings are left amongst the vibrantly coloured domes, where waterproof mats, boxes of beer, poorly tuned guitars, fold up chairs and the feckless collect. Soon gangs assemble in these spaces: young men in denial over their sexuality, who in increasing desperation engage in the art of calling each other gay. The loudest cry for help, thinly disguised as a joking accusation, wins, then all return to looking glum and feeling confused, until the next round starts. Any girls present ignore the boys, engrossed in ensuring the integrity of their first day makeup and hairstyling. Squealing, snorting and attention seeking continue long into the night until eventually drunken coma prevails.

As dawn creeps over the campsite the next morning, watching very carefully where it puts its feet, it reveals a fully developed slum, with filth and excrement strewn around the tents. Stray teenagers pick their way through the cans, vomit and empty packets of kettle chips, sniffing for any edible scraps. Inside the tents the leaders of tomorrow wedge their faces into each other's armpits and dribble, while the air quality lies far below the standard set in European legislation for the interior of the colon.

Early-risers don their snorkels and wetsuits to brave the toilets, by now brim full of a mixture of slurry, an unknown black tarry substance and occasionally and horrifyingly, underwear. Later in the morning the rapid response biological and chemical warfare unit arrives to seal the portaloos in cement and bury them ten thousand feet below the surface of the Earth.

The tent city element of the festival is so popular with some that they think nothing of spending the whole festival in the campsite, even though other entertainment is provided and in fact a substantial part of the price of admission.

Those that choose to leave the camp must first carry out the requisite checks; before wandering over to the music area it is vital to ensure one is properly equipped. Pink plastic sunglasses and designer wellington boots are necessary to take part in the rolling prat-fashion show that takes place all day. A t-shirt with something 'clever' someone else thought of written on it, so that the wearer hopes to appear interesting by proxy, is useful but not essential. Actually any covering above the waist at all is non-essential. Newspapers are handy when trying to pass the time ignoring the acts on the stage you have chosen to recline next to. A mobile phone is probably more important than your kidneys: it allows you to find your friends who are also wandering around aimlessly and if it is a good model you can use the video facility to watch the band-playing-right-in-front-of-you on its tiny screen, so that later you can prove to less fortunate friends that you were really there, watching a band on a tiny screen instead of directly, with the unhindered eye. Plus, if your phone is on the intertwat, you can use twitter to instantly inform your friends that you are using twitter and not watching the band.

Once a song you have been ignoring or filtering through low quality mass produced electronics has finished, it is best to show your appreciation by shrieking as if the performance was so astounding that it triggered a primal fight-or-flight response, robbing you of all rationality and muscle control and hence causing you to suddenly expel all air in your lungs and void yourself. As soon as the next song starts, members of the audience should stop screaming and go back to using their phones or talking loudly to the person next to them.

After the festival is over the courteous thing to do is to leave promptly. The farmer wants you off his land so that he can turn it over to more intelligent species, like corn.

Book Review: My Little Pony, Pony Party!

Written and Illustrated by soulless profit seekers.

"Everything was quiet in Ponyville."

From the very first line of this slim volume, we are plunged into the depths of intrigue and suspense. Where are the ponies, denizens of the cunningly named Ponyville?

Immediately that terror has taken hold, the second line pulls us back and reassures us that all is well: "All the ponies were at home preparing for a party". This emotional rollercoaster continues for the rest of the book. The author cleverly makes the most of her ten, largely illustrated, pages by flinging us mentally from pole to pole.

The story follows the progress of the ponies as they choose their costumes. Gaypride pony casually throws on a pair of sunglasses and tosses her rainbow mane, declaring herself to be a movie star. Other instantly forgettable ponies go as magicians, cheerleaders, tarts, vicars, pimps, gimps and ailing scientists in wheelchairs. The narrative now shifts focus on one particular pony, whose name escapes me but it might have been Sunstroke or Dogfood or something. Anyway this pony's debilitating and possibly infectious brain condition has saved her from the knackers yard in case she enters the human food chain (although it would probably be at the French end so no one would notice) and without the higher mental faculties of the other ponies she can't choose a costume. Despair. Finally one of her friends (who incidentally is prancing about in no more than an apron and a hat, harlot) throws a filthy sheet over her and sticks a marital aid to her head, telling her to go as a Unicorn. Elation.

The party starts out well and soon all the ponies are nose deep in bags of amphetamine laced oats. Unfortunately Shitstrike skids on some vomit in the mosh pit and rips her cloak, while the rampant rabbit is sent flying from her forehead and into Footnmouth's eye. Understandably gutted, she breaks down at the humiliation of being costumeless. Once again her friends rescue her by throwing off their scanty costumes and giving them to her. While Sunshade is vainly admiring her new mothman get-up, the other ponies decide to take advantage of their nudity and quietly slip upstairs to the bedrooms. So everyone is happy. Until a week later when the rashes start.

The illustration is avant-garde, and the LSD enhanced colouring reflects the clash of spiritual highs and lows that fill the text. The depiction of the ponies' hideously deformed foreshortened skulls is a little disturbing, but who are we to judge others' appearances?

Overall I give this book a five out of ten for its wipe clean finish and ultra light construction, making it suitable for extreme sports.

It is possible that some parts of this review may not accurately reflect the actual book; it belongs to my sister and I didn't want to take it away with me, so I might have forgotten the details.

A shrug is worth a thousand words.

Together we stand at the edge. The edge of yet another vast gulf in culture and linguistics. This metaphorical edge is neatly reinforced physically by the presence of a counter, at a small and charmingly foul smelling streetside seafood restaurant.

Across the counter we are facing two immensely bushy moustaches. One sprouts from the florid round face of the proprietor, whose beady eyes are as wide open as they will go, reflecting his current state of confusion. The other, grander, model, carpets a large area beneath a noble nose on the craggy, weather beaten (then driven over, beaten again and left to die) face of the cook. His eyes are full, of now familiar contempt.

We can tell he is the cook because his hands are dirtier.

Who are these English? Why are they here? Why do they expect to be able to order dinner at the unholy hour of 7:30pm? The proprietor is perplexed. For his part, the cook is understandably peeved that we are indicating a wish to eat, which will conflict with his current task: leaning on the counter and watching girls in bikinis walk along the sea front.

We ask request various items on the menu. Each time, the proprietor turns to the cook to see his reaction. This is invariably a shrug, a look of disgust and finally a grunted comment. The proprietor turns back to us and shakes his head. Truly are we blessed, to have him to translate this proto-human sign language for us.

A deal is made. No we can't have pasta, no we can't have fish. We can have beer (because this is sensible) and some prawns and calamari, possibly because they can be prepared easily. Some salad is thrown in a bowl and all over the counter for us. Cook takes time out from rubbing his hands across his oily t-shirt to pick up the stray leaves and put them in the bowl. Thanks, you shouldn't have. No, really.

The food, on arrival, tastes much better than similarly priced fare would in the Kingdom, but this is always the case in a land where chain restaurants are about as popular as paedophiles.

Later in the evening, when we have finished eating and many other people who arrived after us are enjoying their pasta or fish, we embark on our attempt to pay. Astonishingly, it only takes twenty minutes. A new personal best.

As we walk back to the hotel at half past ten, there are still mahogany Italians in bathing costumes reclining on the concrete sea front. The sun disappeared hours ago. Perhaps they are getting obtaining a street lamp tan, or are simply making sure they get the best spots for tomorrow's arduous basking.

I no listening you

Our bus has little trouble avoiding the sparse traffic as it drives through town. The few other drivers all seem to be going somewhere else, and doing it in a hurry. Curling yellow paper and other refuse lines the streets, as if pressed there by the weight of the hot, still air. Plaster peels in great sections from the walls of the buildings, and ancient faded shop signs sit above closed shutters. The occasional mangy cat can be seen, strolling along the alleyways. Desolate, decrepit and almost deserted, the city is dead.

Where is this ghost town? Just pick anywhere in Italy, as long as its on a Sunday. I am convinced that Christianity led directly to the fall of the Roman Empire, just because of the introduction of the Sabbath. A whole day when everyone is given an excuse not to work is sure to erode things like hygiene, leading to plague; commerce, leading to a failing economy; and defense, leading to a jolly good sacking. Together with the Italian service sector's unwillingness to recognise the 'service' aspect of its function (at least since slavery and lashes were abolished), a general feeling that more time should be dedicated to animated shouting and gesticulating than other actions and a propensity to spend all night in bars, it is simply amazing that any productive activity occurs at all. In fact I have only tenuous evidence that it does.

Only three places show signs of life on a Sunday in Italy: hotels, the train station and bars. Hotels are open because tourists don't like to starve or sleep rough on arrival, though it probably took a while for even this to get through to the tourist industry. The train station is open so that people can visit relatives, or get home from the bar they were at until 6am on Sunday morning. Bars are open so that liquid carbohydrate can sustain those who have foolishly forgotten to stock up on food earlier in the week.

I got off the airport bus at the train station, which was to be fair, bustling. However this seemed to be because of the glacial pace at which the station staff were willing to exchange tickets for money, and the lateness of several trains. Generally it is held that trains on the continent are not late. Well perhaps this is true for French or German trains, but Italian trains definitely exercise their fundamental human right to lateness. What's more, because it's Italy, and no one is in a hurry (or is striking to prevent the dangerous introduction of 'hurry' and it's unfair implications on workers' rights) there is no information on how late the trains might possibly be. In fact it is difficult to determine if the antiquated platform number and train time boards work at all, though the brand new electronic screens next to them do have neatly affixed signs declaring them "Outi of Orderi". Or something.

It doesn't help that I don't speak foreign languages, which for the English means being able to slowly shout English words at perplexed looking foreigners. Instead I try a few words from a phrasebook, some English words spoken at normal volume, and sign language. Generally I have experienced reciprocal behaviour from the host nation, though I'm not sure whether the "I no listening you" lady was being rude or not. As I am staying at an international centre, lots of things are in English anyway, including the "Don't stand on the toilet seat" sign. There is even English available elsewhere, such as in the name of the intriguing 'Magic America Sex Shop'.

I am sharing a room in a hostel with a polite man from Egypt. We don't talk much, and I somehow feel that we don't have much common ground, given that I sleep under just a sheet in our stifling un-air-conditioned room, having dispensed with the other bed clothes, while he wears a full set of pyjamas and even pulled an extra blanket out of somewhere. At some point though, I may ask him about his mysterious 'No more bad smell underarm for man or woman' jar of white powder. "Just take a pinch", it says. I wonder whether it is customary to snort it up one nostril at a time, or both at once?

I hate the BBC

Scientists claim sperm 'first'.
You can have it later.

Talk Radio: providing stupidity with a voice since way before the internet.

There is a program on Radio 2 where a man discusses 'issues', which may possibly be 'topical' (like ointment) or 'current' (like raisins) or 'big' (from a homeless guy on the corner). For the sake of argument I'll call him 'Jeremy Vine'. When I say 'discusses', I mean he reads out words that are sent to him, in the form of texts and emails from the outraged, desperately sincere or nauseatingly smug: the three major ethnic groups of middle England. You might think that reading out other people's words is not all that hard a job. I might think that too, but I know that he puts his heart into it, by doing the voices. For each comment he abuses and contorts his vocal cords until they fit in the right box. Nauseatingly smug? That's philosophy professor with a dash of Ian Hislop. Desperately sincere? Two Amnesty International spokespersons and a pinch of liberal politician on the campaign trail. For 'outraged' he manages the kind of voice that you might expect from an anthropomorphised Daily Mail anus - if the Daily Mail had an anus instead of some sort of closed gastrointestinal loop that just processes the same shit again and again.

Sometimes on such programs, the maniac at the helm will instruct one of his voiceless minions to obtain a 'member of the public' on the phone. It is touching in this age of maximum dissemination of the word according to pillock that some still choose to phone a radio station to have the world swallow their opinion unfeelingly.

I was listening to a dicsucsion about facebook with half an ear when a woman, who for the sake of argument I'll call 'A woman' called in to complain that she had found a 'glitch' with facebook. Friends could take photos of her young children at parties or social events and then put them on Facebook without her realising, wailed 'A woman'. Then other people could 'look at them'.

Thank goodness 'A woman' had spotted the problem. No one could put photos on the internet prior to Facebook could they? Nor could they add text naming those depicted in electronic images. Now Facebook, with no regard for privacy whatsoever, is allowing people she knows to display images taken in her presence, to her social circle. This evil must stop. Or she could just ask her friends to not put pictures of her kids on the web. Or she could stop having friends and attending their parties. Or she could keep her kids inside locked in a box under the stairs, away from prying eyes. Or she could shut up and use her brain.

My preference would be for under the stairs, because their ravenous little appetites would help keep the woodlice numbers down. Two birds with one stone.