Football Hooligans go Birding at Spurn.

Infamous football firm, Millwall, “The Treatment”, had a days birding at Spurn planned. For legal reasons and to protect their anonymity, we spoke with “Millwall Paul” but his real name is this: 

Arthur Jackson

32a Milton Avenue

Hounslow 

Middlesex.

(I know it’s Monty, thanks…)

Millwall Paul is one of the main faces of Millwalls firm, notorious from the late 70s through to the early 90s. He is a proper Cockerney Geezer, so we let Millwall Paul tell us of a terrific days birding on the Yorkshire Coast.

“We didn’t know what to expect. I facking kid you not. Mad Fizz had spoken with one of their lot and reckons they’ve got 50-60 good lads art. There’s four of us in a jam jar. We stopped at Watford Gap and stole all the banches of flowers thinking our treacles would appreciate them when we get in. Big John hasn’t even got a Mrs but stole some anyway. We pointed art he could’ve  half-inched something useful like a Pasty or other. Cant. 

We made Spurn at dawn, we was tooled up with binoculars, scopes and some really thick electrical cable cut into foot long pieces to use as a cosh on these nawvern cants. 

A Wryneck was showing in the triangle, so we wandered rarnd and found a tidy little mob looking through telescopes and binoculars. Who the fack are these cants? They had a few skinheads, a couple of tarts tagging along, Barbour jackets on, cam on then you mags…. We started singing “we are Millwow, super Millwow, we are Millwow from the Den” and ran at them, our scopes were getting in the way to be fair. We got right apto them and they stood their ground to be fair to em. We backed off. The skinheads were actually bald geezers in their 70s so they must be right tricky cants. We backed off and continued past them, we were facking artnambered, they were still watching the Wryneck, we sang Millwow songs and sharted “fack your Wryneck, you scraffy cants”.

We carried on towards the Warren. We got on a dark Wheatear, so we checked it for something rarer like a Pied or Black-Eared Wheatear. Big John got the tail pattern and we were all happy it was just an unusual Northern Wheatear. Cant.

Walking towards the facking Warren, a couple of Tree Pipits flew sarf. Cants. We got to the Warren and there was a tidy little firm scoping the Humber. “It’s facking Tottenham” said Big John. Cam on then you cants, and we ran at them shouting “Millwow”. They stood their ground. Respect. “Where you facking from?” I sharted. 

“Erm Rotherham” said an elderly lady.

“Facking Rotherham? You’ve got fack awl, you scraffy nawvern cants”.

“Would you like a slice of Bakewell Tart?” asked the elderly angel (cant). We accepted the peace offering, it was either kick their facking heads in or have a slice of Bakewell Tart. They were watching the waders and pointed art a nice Little Stint. Facking Yid cants. 

Innit.

At the Warren, there was a right facking mob. There was a Young Ornithologist’s Club arting. All young uns. “It’s their youth firm” shouted Mad Fizz so we all started sharting “cam on then you maggy cants, whilst half-hiding behind each other pushing your mate forward in front of you. “Cam on then” but the adult supervisors just stared at us and explained they were watching a ringing demonstration and a couple of Brambling had been caught if we’d like to see? “FACK YOUR BRAMBLINGS YOU MAGGY CANTS” and we started pushing each other closer to the youth firm. “Where the fack are you from you cants!”

“Grimsby” said a polite yang cant. 

“facking cod heads? Don’t make me facking larf”.

We jogged on, screaming threats at the YOC members and their supervisors, clapping hands abav our heads, singing “millwow” as we went. The ringing geezer then brought art a nice male Brambling, so we turned rarnd and had a butchers at the cant. We started singing “we are Millwow, no one likes us, we don’t care, we are Millwow, super Millwow, from the Den” and the Brambling died of fright in the geezers hand. It mast’ve facking known we were Millwow. Cant.

The YOC didn’t want to facking know the scraffy cants. Facking mags. 

We did some birding, adding Redstart cants, Pied Fly cants, and a nice facking Bluethroat cant to the day list. Cants. 

We started to make are way owta the grarnd, back to the mowta. Some stragglers from their lot were sat outside Crarn and Anka pab. Pretending to jast enjoy their drinks and facking cakes sat outside the battle cruiser. Facking didn’t wanna know did they? Cants. 

We bamped into some Stoke cants at the services but that didn’t cam to anything eiver. Cants. 

A great day art, Big John posted on his birding blog the details of the birding, Redstart cants and that, but also powstid on his hooligan blog that we facking turned the cants ova. Facking maggy scraffy norvern cants”. 

Thanks to Millwall Paul for a terrific write up of a terrific day out.

Coming  next week on Q@Spurn: West Ham turn up at Flamborough mob handed and set the windmill on the crazy golf in Brid alight. 

Cants.

…..

Usual suspects….

 The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist. 

With Birds Eye in Hull now closed, No Neck Ted off Benedict looked for work. As well as running raw steel to Iran for use in the arms trade, he started work at Siemens working 6-2 and 2-10 with the chance of overtime. Drinking tea at break, treating himself to a Double Decker out of the vending machine underneath the stairs, and generally trying to experience as much as he could. 

Some say his father’s German. He grew up in the west of Hull, making his name on the streets through petty crime, protection rackets, and stealing cheap crocs and sausage rolls from Greggs. 

What I’ve been told and what I believe, No Neck Ted comes home from the graveyard shift at Birds Eye, to find the Hungarians at his house, his wife raped, his children with knives to their throats. The Hungarians tell him they want his territory, his business, and the sausage rolls if there’s any left. No Neck Ted looks over the faces of his wife and children. Then, to show these people of will what real will is, he puts PopTarts in the toaster. For ninety seconds the room is silent. The kids are looking around. His wife doesn’t quite know what’s going on. The Hungarians all sort of look at each other. No Neck Ted off Benedict starts to twiddle his thumbs. It’s all a bit uncomfortable. The toaster pops. The Pop Tarts spring up and just like the part when Vincent gets shot by him out of Die Hard and Moonlighting in Pulp Fiction, No Neck Ted looks his family in the eyes and shoots them. With a pistol. He shoots the Hungarians but allows the last one live, telling him he would rather see his family buried than give up his crocs and sausage rolls. 

He goes after the rest of the mob. He kills their parents, their parents friends, he burns down the stores they work in, he blows up their children’s BMXs, he kills people who owe them money, he blows up other random things that their close family own, and like that…he’s gone. Underground. He becomes a myth, a spook story, every arch criminal has heard the name of No Neck Ted off Benedict. 

“Back when we were at that barber shop in Skokie, Illinois, I’d asked for my one pound fifty protection money, the barber , big fat guy, I mean Orca-fat, says he’ll cut my hair in payment. The hair-do I received was only £1 so he gave me 50p as well. You know, to make it square. I got a new barnet plus 50p”. 

The Hungarians held the only man that could identify No Neck Ted off Benedict, “Mad Dog” Nicky Dunn. What I’ve been told, and what I believe is, it was Nicky Dunns partners birthday, so, to show what real will is, took her out breaking into sheds, or “shedding”, high on amphetamines. 

“The coffee out of the vending machine under the stairs is shit. Back in Guatemala we’d pick the beans straight from the tree, then dry it for four days, grind it, sieve it, leave it vacuum packed for eight days, then boil it with cream and sugar”. 

“I saw Nicky Dunn die”. 

“Why didn’t you shoot him? He was your friend?”

“It was No Neck Ted off Benedict. I mean, the devil himself. How do you shoot the devil in the back? I mean, what if you miss? I mean, look at my hands, they look like crabs claws, and have you seen how ridiculously cross-eyed I am?” and he is REALLY cross-eyed, like, properly cross-eyed. 

“Let me tell you what I know. There was no dope on that boat. No Neck Ted off Benedict used you to get on that boat to kill the only man who could identify him. It was a hit”.

“No”.

“Mad Dog Nicky Dunn was No Neck Ted off Benedict“

“No. He was my friend”.

“Mad Dog Nicky Dunn used you to get on that boat”

“Why me? I’m just an over-exaggerated cross-eyed cripple, why me?!”

“Because you’re an over-exaggerated cross-eyed cripple with crab like hands”.

“I saw Mad Dog Nicky Dunn die”

“Mad Dog Nicky Dunn was No Neck Ted off Benedict, the kind of man that could engineer a police line-up, the kind of man that could kill Edie Finnerhan. Found this morning, two shots to the back of head”.

“I don’t have to listen to this, I posted ten minutes ago. Fucking cops….”

He walks out. His hands turned from crab claws into a normal persons hands, his (and I can’t EMPHASISE just how cross-eyed he is) over-exaggerated cross-eyes returned to what a normal person’s eyes would look like to be picked up by Kobayashi but walked straight into the bonnet as his eyes were still adapting.

The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist. And like that…..

He’s gone…….

……

25 (maybe) Fun Rice Krispies Facts

The team at Q@Spurn have written this for me, I mean, us, just to keep me, us, at least somewhat “entertained” even though I, I mean they, have started spelling Crispies with a “K” then resorted quite quickly to a “C” but I, they, can’t be bothered to go change them all. These are the things that trouble me. Them.

1.  Rice Krispies are a breakfast cereal, usually served with fresh milk and granulated sugar.

2.  But other serving suggestions are available including just in a bowl by themselves as per the front of the box. This is just to save money on the milk and sugar needed for every front of every Rice Krispies box.

3. It costs Rice Crispies manufacturers (British Gas) about 10p in milk for every box front.

4. Mad innit!?

5. When I typed the word “milk” the spellcheck changed it automatically to “milf”. 

6. I may need to look at my self. 

7. Now!!Because I typed the above sentence, Google has just opened a browser with links to “watching yourself”, “cameras”, and “wanking furiously”. 

8. Rice Crispies are made from pure Crispies and they only got the word “Rice” involved because they looked like rice. 

9. Google has now automatically opened a new page because I typed “wanking furiously” a few sentences, or fucking paragraphs, ago. Does that make sense? I’ll have to read it back.

10. Yeah I think it does. 

11. With links to “Wanking furiously - A Bachelors Tail (very poor indeed) by Roald Dahl - buy now with Amazon Prime”, “Rice shaped cameras”, and “Tony the Tiger off Frosties and that”. 

12. Tony the Tiger only represented Frosties.  He never once saw fit to praise Rice Crispies. 

13. Rice Crispies once asked Tony the Tiger to praise them on the front of their boxes and offer a secret toy which children of all ages would have to fish out of their cereal and milk with their hands, initially excited about finding a mystery toy in a small plastic bag in their breakfast bowl only to find it was a small,  plastic, purple, sort of star thing, that had no interest or couldn’t be used for anything of a fun nature as the word toy denotes 

14. Rice Crispies only have two friends.

15. Tony the Tiger, God rest his soul, was named after Tony Robinson who played Baldrick in Blackadder. He would say his catchphrase “you plonker” quite a bit. 

16. I’ve just laughed at “quite a bit” which is wrong as it’s my own writing. Im in idiot. 

17. My mate Jim used to eat Golden Grahams and Cinnamon Grahams quite a lot. That was less amusing to me. Let us think about the development/marketing team when they were revising these new cereals. What shall we call one of these new cereals made from bran and other things? Graham. Graham?! said the Chairman…. Fuck it, call every single one of them Graham. And everyone cheered! 

18. Gary, who’s in accounts, was a bit upset but still liked the name of the new branding.

19. Golden Grahams?!?! Golden. GRAHAMS. Golden Grahams.Thats Golden, then Grahams. Golden….Grahams…. I need to take this in that Ive just accepted this name for all these years but never actually realised what they were trying to do to us. 

20. Tony the Tigers catchphrase was “I’d rather eat one than be one!!!” when he was advertising Frosties. Advertising. But this backfired as everyone realised that they too, obviously, would rather eat one than be something that they eat. I wish I was that steak, or should I just eat it? 

21. Tony then fell on hard times and approached Rice Crispies for future work but they’d already marketed three boys called Snap, Crackle and Pop to be on their front cover..Tony suggested “Snap, Crackle, Tony and Pop” but it fell on deaf ears. Tony can be seen in the background in the shadows of some of the early Rice Crispies front covers trying to get in on the shot.  Originals are worth a few quid nowadays. 

Theory of Relativity Part I

 I’ve been talking to eldest and we were talking about space, perpetual motion, light speed, gravity and that.

I tried to explain it in terms of everyday life and all that malarkey.  So here, my loyal reader, is what my science team here at Q@Spurn offered. 

To get into the scale of this firstly let’s think about the Sun. The sun is our heat - remember that. I won’t remind you again. Around 90 million miles away. It’s light, that we see, takes around 8-9 minutes to reach us. So we are seeing where the sun is Eight minutes ago, ie where you see the sun right now isn’t where it is right now. It’s a bit to the right actually RIGHT NOW. In our time. Think about that.

So, we’re seeing the sun where it actually was 8 minutes ago. Now, that light from the sun has taken 8 minutes to get here so how is it that when a cloud that’s a mere 1km away blocks the light but also at the same time the temperature drops?! If we’re seeing the sun 8 minutes previous surely the temperature would drop in 8 minutes?! Well, this is a bit of trick question from Q@Spurns science team and it’s simply the the convection, heat, travels at the speed of light also. so to us it’s in real time, all things happen in our eyes instantly although in this case 8 minutes behind in a grander scale. 

Bit boring this post isn’t it? Yer cock pongs. 

That's much better. 

Now picture  yourself and your mate John sat a few metres apart. John bounces a tennis ball, one bounce, to you which you catch. Fine. To you and John it bounces, continues its path in a direct line to you. Real time. The Earth is spinning, let’s call it 1000 mph around the equator so you and your good mate John are travelling at 1000 mph (not allowing for longitude and latitude for the pedants out there) so why, when John releases the ball, doesn’t the ball shoot through your french doors and the local school at 1000mph. It’s not travelling? We are stuck to the earth through gravity and your french doors are stuck to the earth but now the ball is free and everything is moving at 1000mph?! Of course, simply the ball also takes on that same speed as John has released it whilst travelling at 1000mph so it (by the same forces) is travelling at 1000mph also.

When John throws the ball the light takes that absolute minuscule amount of time to get to your smashing eyeball. So, even YOU are seeing the ball 0.00000000000001 seconds ago. Remember this. I won’t repeat this information. 

You and John are now on a train. I know, the imagery is WILD on Q@Spurn. The train is travelling 70mph. But you’re both travelling at 1000mph due to the spin of the earth. To picture this let’s just say you’re travelling LEFT at 1000mpg and the train (and you) (and John) (oh, and the ball) are travelling RIGHT at 70mph. John throws you the ball with one bounce. You catch. Same deal. You see it in a direct line. Your only other mate, Su Pollard, is stood a fair distance away from the train tracks. Watching you and John throw fucking balls to each other! Now why would Su Pollard be stood watching you and your best mate John throw a ball to each other while you’re on a train? Well. It’s for science and that innit. 

So.

Su Pollard sees your best mate John release the ball yet you’re travelling at 70mph past her, Su Pollard is travelling 1000mph the same way as you and your best mate John. Su Pollard she’s John release the ball, then maybe 10 metres to the left, say, sees it bounce, then another 10 metres along sees you catch it. Su Pollards view of the balls flight is an elliptical release then bounce, then elliptical path into your hand but this is 20 metres wide. You and your best mate John see it as a direct line. 

Relativity is just how it is. The “theory” is just that we can explain it. All forces/speed/space/time/convection/etc are all in massive unison. But. Simply. It just the way it is. If it didn’t “work” the earth is spinning at 1000mph but the toddler across the road has just thrown its dummy, the dummy lost all speed so the earth caught up and the dummy SMASHED through your front window, gave your lass a massive centre parting as it skimmed the top of her swede, went straight through the fence and killed the gardener out the back. 

You’re in the park and you throw your dog in the air as a bit of fun but your tiny cute dog loses all velocity (speed duh) and the earth carries on spinning so the dog has to ABSOLUTELY LAUNCH itself at the neighbouring house and spread various parts of anatomy over a relatively large area for such a tiny cute dog. Mrs SteauaBucharest, who lives there, becomes fed up with tiny, bald dogs splattering their limbs and other parts all over their garden. And wall. So Mrs SteauaBucharest puts up a sign in the park saying “No throwing dogs” And she draws a tiny, bald, baby dog with all its parts missing underneath. 

The big ones go straight through the wall leaving a dog-shaped cartoon-style shape in the wall. 

Let’s go further. The nearest habitable planet hosts intelligent life. One of these life forms, let’s call him or her “Steve Davis”. For reference. Steve Davis is now looking from fucking miles away, like well far and that. The earth is now travelling around the sun at 67000mph! Woah. Spinning around the Sun at 67000mph! That’s how Steve Davis sees it.  You, your best mate John and Su Pollard are now travelling at 67000mph in Steve Davis’s eyes! Holy Shitsauce!   So you, John, and Su Pollard, and the ball, are ALSO travelling at 1000mph to the RIGHT around the Earth, but you and your best mate John are also travelling at 70mph LEFT on the train in Su Pollards eyes, but Steve Davis is also seeing you, your best mate John, and Su Pollard, travelling at 67000mph to the RIGHT. 

Bit mad. I hope you’re following this because I aren’t. 

Your best mate John releases the ball. You see it bounce, Su Pollard sees it bounce 10m later. Steve Davis sees your best mate John release the ball but he sees it bounce 3000 miles to the left. Then another 3000 miles when you caught it. These figures aren’t true by the way. It would take ages to work that out so the science team have just fucked it off and started drinking Rum and overly flirting with the office’s only woman. Let’s call her “Mrs Cock” for reference.

The flight of the ball from your eyes, Johns eyes, Su Pollards eyes, and Steve Davis’s eyes are vastly different. But you and John are just sat there. On a train. 

It all just works. It’s just that we can prove it. Which is remarkable. 

The ball has travelled the two metres between you and John, Su Pollard has seen it travel 20 metres, and Steve Davis has seen it travel 6000 miles. Same ball. 

Coming next time: Fun statistics from astro-physics magazine and a poor attempt at a joke about anything ranging from cocks to Belgium. 

Gregg Wallace: My Saturday

5am I wake up, as normal with my pyjamas covered in rice pudding and a lazy lob on. I check my emails and go and stand on the balcony whilst singing 80s pop classic “Gold” by Spandau  trying not to wake my wife Maureen. It’s a cold morning so I drink a full bucket of rice pudding in one and wave at the next door neighbour, Elton John, who is also up early and has several young men helping him in the garden wearing very little and dancing to  music a DJ is belting out. I think the DJ is Normski.

7am I wake Maureen up so she can go sort our autistic son, Bernard, out and take his restraining straps off. He has, unbeknownst to me, been rather loudly voicing his needs throughout the night. Maureen makes coffee and I do a massive piss all over the kitchen floor.

9am Gym. Exercise is good for the mind as well as the body. Eric Bristow once told me that. I have eight minutes on the rowing machine before drinking a full bucket of rice pudding and relaxing in the sauna. I get the staff to throw everyone else out as they are peasants. 

10am breakfast. Maureen makes eggs benedict but I have to tell her that the hollandaise isn’t thick enough, the eggs could do with a little more seasoning, and the muffin has been shop-bought and at this stage of the competition she should be making her own muffins. I put a ladder up to the 12-foot fence between my house and Elton Johns and climb up only to be met with scenes of debauchery and so forth. I make a hasty retreat and get Maureen to walk the dog. 

1230pm. I’ll have a snooze before lunch if Bernard will stop voicing his needs rather loudly, and retire to the drawing room. I dream about clouds, the ocean, and John Torode. 130pm lunch. Maureen has prepared Sea Bass, on a bed of sautéed potatoes, wilted spinach, and a full bucket of rice pudding. The rice pudding goes everywhere as usual as I attempt to neck it. Bernard has spaghetti hoops with custard but just throws it at the wall. 

258pm I try to spend time with Bernard regularly, even though I didn’t want a child. 

300pm I tie Bernard up as the footballs kicking off. I put Sky Sports News on and cringe every time there’s a goal in the Hartlepool game as the full panel (all women except for a disabled black guy) roll their eyes and reference previous host Jeffrey Stelling in “hilarious” scenes. My 5-fold accumulator isn’t looking good so I go to try to pass stools. 

445pm The acca isn’t looking good at all, but Leeds have had a good result by only conceding six at home to Dagenham and Redbridge. 

450pm Make that seven. I shout over to Elton John asking if I can borrow his lawnmower as I think Maureen should be cutting the grass. Elton John doesn’t answer as it appears he’s still revelling with Normski and the young scantily-clad gentlemen. He must be having a barbecue as there’s lots of sausage flying about, a lot of rump, all served with gentlemen’s relish. Double-entendres are cheap jokes, I find. 

6pm I suddenly inspect all the food cupboards manically, ripping out not one, not two, but three packets of Aldis own Spaghetti. There’s a blackcurrant jelly mix that’s out of date, an onion that’s gone bad, and an unopened jar of pickled red cabbage and it’s not even Christmas. I scream at Maureen “maureen, what on earth is going on here? We’re doing just what the general public do and that is waste food and overstock on groceries that will never be used”. Maureen started screaming “I’ve been so facking stupid, I’m so sorry Greg”, so I punched her in the kidneys as it’s spelt “Gregg” with two g’s. “We’ve got to sort this out” I said. 

7pm Tea. Maureen had Spaghetti with green onion served on a bed of red cabbage followed by jelly and I ordered a chinky. And you can all fuck off, that’s not racialist, it’s known as chinky. It is. Full chinky banquet is a Saturday treat for me. Bernard was still tied up so I’m not sure what he had but it will have been slightly overcooked and needed seasoning. I washed it all down with a full bucket of rice pudding. Ah-bosh! 

8pm I retired to my quarters to work on my own catchphrase. I lit a cigar and changed into some fresh pyjamas and set aside a full bucket of rice pudding for the night ahead. I waved at Elton John and his depraved entourage only to be met with gun fire. I watched Mrs Doubtfire in bed but I didn’t think it was very good, I masturbated furiously, then shouted night to Maureen who was in her quarters and from a distant part of the house, I thought I could hear the sound of a child crying as I dozed off to sleep. 

Female Waxing

As this is a birding blog and there’s lots of Waxwings around I’ve had to (obviously) analyse the pressing topic of female waxing habits. 

And that’s a great segway. 

After deep deliberation, we at Q@Spurn have deduced that only on 2 days in 2/3 weeks they’re happy with their leg hair. 

Sponsored by ClamSmooth (trademark) here’s our findings: 

Women having their legs waxed. I get it. Smooth. A little treatment. Pampering. They can just brush spunk off without it getting caught up in pyoooobs. I get it. But, having their legs waxed isn’t simple, oh no. 

No way. 

They have to grow it/them for 2-3 weeks so the wax can get hold of them. 

Now let’s analyse that. They want smooth legs. No problem. I get it. So what they do is grow their leg pyooobs for2-3 weeks then get them waxed so they’re really smooth. 

Beaut. Nice. Fucking nice smooth shins. 

But. 12-24 hours later, the stubble will be starting to poke through. They’ve gone 2-3 weeks with unshaven, outrageous, spiky, HAIRY, out-of-order, and fucking smelly (maybe) leg hair for the sake of 12-24 hours of smooth, creamy legs PLUS the cost of £15-£35 pounds? 

For me, that doesn’t quite make sense. 

I think this is all about the pampering aspect, something to tell their mate at the school gates an hour after they dropped their offspring off. 

2-3 weeks of hairy legs for 1 day of smoothness? For 30 quid? All because of a night out maybe? 

“i’ve had my legs and clam waxed cos we’re out innit, I didn’t get my anus done cos I won’t lettem go near that, my husband has had to put up with my hairy legs and clam for the last 2-3 weeks but fuck him, we’re out. And that.”

Blokes build up to a night out at 18 was to have a wank in the bath so they’d last longer if they pulled later.

Preparation. 

Back to female clams and the waxing issue….

If the lucky victim had been waxed very recently then fine, you’ve caught them lucky, if they haven’t, you’re not bothered about the hairy legs, the mohair knickers. in fact you don’t even notice. 

Has any bloke ever said:

“I aren’t shagging her, she might have hairy legs for them being waxed and, even worse, how am I gonna concentrate if she’s got hairy shins?  I’ve had 14 pints of lager, a Diamond White,, two Mick Jaggers and a line of cheap whizz, I’m not risking shin hair, I’ll just go do a wank to Eurotrash” 

“and a kebab”

No man has ever said that. 

So men everywhere, tell your missus to shave various parts of their anatomy regularly and vice versa as and when you both feel it benefits all parties and have a deep, really deep, discussion about pyooooooooobs. 

In summary, if I had to have various parts looking good, I’d much rather have them looking “fine” for 13-20 days of 2-3 weeks rather than looking “great” for one day of 2-3 weeks and the rest of the time  it looks like a kebab that you spilt everywhere, or The Haywain by Constable, or the floor in a barbers shop at half four in the afternoon. 

I don’t think I’ve ever looked at my many (7) conquests and actually KNOWN if they had hairy or smooth legs. You don’t do you? I’m ignorant you see. 

Fin.

Not a Clue

I don’t understand shatterproof rulers.

Do you? 

I understand that the manufacturers don’t want them to shatter easily. But, when you think about this, this benefits nobody. The manufacturer or the buyer. So. I’ve never had a ruler shatter on me. Have you? 

Probably because they’re shatterproof. To make a ruler shatter I’d have to put some force into it. When using a ruler, I’m usually quite calm and drawing straight lines, so if I were to make that ruler shatter, I must WANT it to shatter, as in, somethings annoyed me, maybe the ruler has annoyed me, so I SMASH it on the desk or similar everyday household object. But it doesn’t shatter! 

Because It’s shatterproof. 

That’s shatter. 

proof. 

So it doesn’t shatter even though I want it to. All other times, when drawing lines, or measuring random things, etc, the ruler is never in danger of shattering. 

So, it doesn’t shatter when you want it to. Now, the manufacturers would surely sell more rulers if they did actually shatter? Let’s say someone goes mental while they’re drawing really straight lines and takes it out on the poor ruler only to find it doesn’t shatter so throws another arbitrary object at the wall and shatters it thus relieving his/her anger. They then replace the arbitrary object that they’ve just smashed instead of the ruler the very next day, thus the manufacturer of said arbitrary object gains another sale. 

So we can’t smash the ruler if we want to, and it’s not going to shatter itself, but if it did the manufacturers would gain another sale in stationary goods that not only measure random things but you can also draw really straight lines with. 

No one gains. 

Fucking no one. 

Multi-purpose Compost. I thought this through. I’m not a gardener. But I thought I’d give it a whirl. I bought some multi purpose compost. I planted some things that can only be described as plants in said compost. What else can this multi purpose item be used for? I ate some. It didn’t taste very nice to be honest but I hadn’t eaten since June (it was September) so I tucked in and had a slice of bread with it. 

It wasn’t very nice. 

So I put some of it in my car. Like, on the back seats and in the petrol tank. I broke down literally 40 seconds later and had to clean the back seats because there was a load of compost on it. 

Them. 

So I put some on my head. 

That’s it. 

Nothing happened. Obviously. 

Then I put multi purpose compost in my roof space and to this day I’m not sure whether it has made any difference or not. All I know is that there’s limited purposes for compost. So to advertise it as multi purpose is scandalous. It is pretty good for growing plants in, but it tastes shit, cannot be used as fuel for a car, doesn’t do anything to your head but may add some benefit to your loft space even though it smells after 6-8 weeks. 

Begonias. 

Head and Shoulders buyers. None of you have dandruff. 

“I don’t”. 

So you don’t need to buy Head and Shoulders. Buy, erm, a cheaper shampoo because you don’t have dandruff. Only buy expensive stuff like that if you’ve got dandruff or you simply don’t care about your hair or your appearance. Or your tits. I’m not sure where that last bit came from. It was a bit of an outburst. I’m sorry.