To a**ume, makes an a** out of you and me, but I'm not really allowed to say that on cs. If I wanted to write something about nature and refer to the pu**y Willow I would be similarly frustrated. Likewise, any mention of d*ck Turpin or d*ck Whittington would be immediately jumped upon. I have a dog that happens to be a b*tch. Can’t write about it.
I sometimes think I might blog about things that happen at work, but as I drive for a living and often travel to Sc*nthorpe and P*niston, I don't bother.
It can be so phucking frustrating.
of Freddie Pargetter? He got arrested at a friend of the family's stag party for the possession of drugs. In an added twist, it was the friend of the family who arrested him, he's a police officer. Now, 19 year old Freddie is waiting to find out if he'll be going to prison.
Just a few months ago young Freddie was a carefree college student from a respectable, some would say privileged, family who thought it would be a lark to make a bit of extra cash by selling a few tablets on the campus. His advantaged background more or less assured him of a bright and prosperous future, but now, that future is looking increasingly darker. You phucking idiot, Freddie.
When I first joined CS it was because of the forum. Then I started getting interested in the blogs. Now I’ve started dabbling in the poetry section, which has come as a bit of a surprise to me because, in all my 63 years of being on this planet, I’ve never had the slightest interest in poetry. I put this wandering about down to my restless nature, but now I’m starting to get worried. When I become bored with the poetry, it seems the only place left to move onto is the recipe section.
When I’m feeling self satisfied or smug about some achievement, the greatness of which is no doubt considerably more impressive in my mind than in anyone else’s, I often find myself the victim of an unconscious part of my psychology that obviously begrudges my feeling excessive pride in myself.
As I go about my business, in a very pleased with myself state of mind, often as not, I will very painfully stub my toe on something or sharply bump my elbow or embarrassingly trip up in front of someone. It’s as if one part of me is saying to another part of me, who the fcuk do you think you are?
And, to be honest, if I was the subconscious part of me, I would do exactly the same.
I seem to have come down with a bout of it. I think I'd better go to bed before it gets out of hand.
You always come across the occasional spider in any building and I get my fair share of them. I don’t dislike spiders, even though I have a mild aversion to them, as do a lot of people. I usually try to catch them in something and release them outside. A couple of weeks ago I kept coming across shed spider skins (or exoskeletons if I wanted to sound like a know it all pillock) on the floor. Since then I have evicted two quite alarmingly large specimens from my premises. I’m wondering if it is anything to do with the unusually long spell of very warm weather we had this summer, and a sign of things to come.
For the benefit of non UK residents, a monster spider is about two inches across and is absolutely no danger to human beings.
I’ve been looking for a wall mirror for my bathroom ever since I moved into this flat two years ago but haven’t been able to find a reasonably priced one. I was in Ikea earlier this week and, lo and behold, spotted exactly what I’ve been looking for. When I took one out of the wire cage where they were stacked, I was struck by how heavy it was, and it was thicker than I was expecting. It turned out that the pack actually contained four mirrors. This is where I come to the point of my blog, which is not really about mirrors at all, but about human nature, or at least my nature.
When I saw the price of what I took to be one mirror, I was happy with it. When I realised the price was for four mirrors, I suddenly begrudged having to pay for the three I didn’t need. Even though I can see the absurdity of my attitude, there seems to be nothing I can do to change it. I did actually buy the mirrors, but, even though it could be seen as getting four for the price of one, I’m not happy about it.
I look forward to all comments, provided there are no suggestions on what to do with the surplus mirrors, unless anyone wants to make me an offer for them, of course.
The debate seems set to continue with no resolution in sight. Or at least that was the case until very recently. Now it seems there's a new theory in town: something a lot of us suspected all along, as it turns out. It's too early to say anything conclusive at this stage, but evidence seems to be emerging that indicates man could, after all, have first appeared from under a gooseberry bush. It is said to be highly unlikely that it will ever be possible to say whether or not a stork was involved.
The painstaking work of sifting for evidence goes on.
On Woman’s Hour this morning (BBC Radio 4, 10:00am), the presenter was interviewing two witches. For most people the word “witch” has negative connotations, but these witches seemed like two very nice women. Their witchcraft mostly consisted of messing about with assorted herb combinations and directing various types of energy hither and thither. Both said they have never put a spell on anyone, as witches tend to believe that what they give out comes back to them "three fold". I don’t normally have much patience with this sort of thing but these witches sounded so nice that I didn’t mind at all.
This is Albert, he’s a miserable old git. Albert would love to be happy but a rare genetic condition means that being anything less than slightly grumpy could be disastrous for him. Merryphobia only effects .01% of the population but, for those who have the condition, it is far from a joke. In fact, a joke is something people like Albert need to be as far away from as possible.
Merryphobiacs are allergic to their own endorphins, they simply cannot afford to allow themselves the slightest mirth. If albert were to experience even the lowest level of amusement his immune system would release antibodies into his blood stream that would severely put his life in danger.
Although much research has been done to understand, and develop an effective treatment for merryphobia, progress has been painfully slow. In the meantime, the only way to minimise the vulnerability of merryphobiacs is through dehumerisation therapy: In effect, the sufferer’s sense of humour needs to be completely switched off through rigorous and intensive counselling techniques.
This is where you come in: £50 pays for a day’s therapy, and most patients need at least three weeks continuous treatment. The more you can donate, the more people like Albert will be given a life line. No matter how much or how little you can spare, remember: every penny counts. Please give today and don’t let Albert die laughing.
Thank You.
Harbal Blog (115)
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