Hog on the Run
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
I was a girl guide you know
Today I had wayward hosiery.
Hold ups are sexy, right? All that bare flesh at the top of your thigh, fresh air fluffing your unmentionables, a suggestion of a wayward nature. I remember seeing Coupling (the Brit version, OK, it was quality stuff) where the theory was put forward that only 5 pairs of stockings exist in the entire world. Women who have a new man in their life are allowed to borrow the sacred stockings during the early days of their relationship, in order to kindle passion. Once that time has passed, the stockings are passed on to the next lucky lady in line, which is why us girls only wear them when you boys are all new and fresh to us. Today was my day.
Anyway.
On discovering that the only pair of tights I could find had holes in them, I dug around in my drawer and found a pair of serviceable black hold ups. So far, so good. A slightly thrilling way to start the day, no? They were quite pretty, all lace topped and glossy. What could go wrong?
Cut to later on. Sadly the silicon sticky bits seemed lacking. Deeply lacking. Every time I stood up I could sense an odd looseness around the thigh area, a feeling of insecurity. Hmmmmm.
Surely, nothing could be sexier than hold ups drooping sadly around your knees, only being prevented from dropping all the way to the floor by what were previously one hot pair of knee high boots. Flappage was happening. Think of this vision as being like pirate boots with a humiliating twist.
I spent some time (all morning, really) running to the loo to yank them skyward. Only to feel them creep floorward again.
I briefly toyed with the idea of sticking them to my thighs with a Heath Robinson type construction involving panty liners folded back on themselves, tucked down the tops. Then I remembered that the only thing panty liners sticks to is pubes. Thank God, knowing my luck the damn things would have appeared at the hem of my black skirt like white ghostly paper harbingers of doooooom.
So I did what any ex-girl-guide worth her salt would do. I put rubber bands around my thighs to halt the inevitable pull of gravity.
Ladies, having no feeling in your toes, and a strange double bulge of thigh showing through a pencil skirt is worth it, if it rescues you until lunchtime, when you can escape to the blessed shop and purchase tights, fully crotch-covering wonderful fabulous desperately unsexy tights.
Happy Days.
Monday, May 23, 2005
Typo of the Day
"Using aching tools" instead of "using machine tools".
Oops. Hehehe.
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Girl on Girl Action
For the record:
Yes, I went to an all girls school for four long, miserable years, from age 11 to 15. In the spirit of destroying men's long cherished fantasies, I now feel the need to puncture all myths regarding this. Like an overfilled football stabbed with a darning needle.
- We played hockey. I did not, at any time, want to look up any of my team mates' skirts. In fact, we spent as much time as possible wearing tomato red "tracky bottoms" in order to fend off the freezing wind. The most exciting thing that ever happened was me hitting a friend in the face with my hockey stick. Accidentally, of course. The second most exciting thing was another friend developing pleurisy just before a match and nearly suffocating on her own lungs. She only quit after half the match was over, people. She was that hard. Orgies caused by the overflow of team spirit into the dorm room never occurred.
- Admitting that you ever flicked the bean/pushed the wee man in the boat*/insert euphemism of choice here was tantamount to outing yourself as a lesbian. In fact, the atmosphere was so anti self-love that even using non-applicator tampons was grounds for being ostracised as unclean. Group masturbation sessions never occurred.
- The showers in the boarding house were placed in individual cubicles. With proper shower curtains and everything, my God, the luxury. Once upon a time my lovely housemates stole my towel from the shower room, leaving me two options: streak through the halls back to my dorm room or wrap myself in the shower curtain for dignity's sake. Guess which option I went for? I did not see another girl naked at any time during my four year incarceration. Group boob-soaping in communal showers never occurred.
- Any games played outside classes tended towards either violence or gossip. I'm talking about such time-honoured classics as chase-punch (little known variation on kiss-chase) or truth or dare. Lies were told, arms were thumped, kicks were aimed at heads, alarm clocks were locked in the hall cupboard outside the house mistress's room after being set to go off at 3am. How we laughed as she forced us out of bed at 5am to run round the hockey pitch in our pajamas as punishment. Lingerie clad pillow fights never occurred.
Glad I've got that off my chest.
In a move which pretty much sums up the story of my life, only two years after I left the school started taking boys. Gaaah!
*Sidekick always gets this one wrong and insists it goes, "helping the old man row the boat ashore". I don't know what this suggests to you, but it makes me feel slightly ill.
Friday, May 20, 2005
Interesting
Sponsored Links ![]()
Bollocks
Bollocks for sale. aff
Check out the deals now!
www.ebay.com
Is there anything that you can't get on Ebay?
Monday, May 16, 2005
Prophetic Warning
Beware mortals, for I have had a vision! I dreamed last night of social unrest, women confined to their homes, gunfire in the streets. And then the zombies came. Not Dawn of the Dead zombies either, the speedy ones from 28 Days Later. Helllloooooo!*
The worst bit was hiding in a sweet little old lady's home. She reached out and held my shoulders, telling me I was safe. Then her face disintegrated into grey mush and she howled at me, cracking her jaw in the process.
Thankfully I woke up at this point, gasping for breath like a landed fish.
Moral of the story? I really need to keep an eye on my caffeine intake after 6pm.
The last time I had dreams like that was when Sidekick was trying to quit the evil tobacco weed using those sticky patches. Naturally one detached itself from his chest and stuck itself to my armpit (how? how?), leaving me to spend the night in nicotine overload hell.
I will go to bed early tonight. And concentrate on pretty flowers and fluffy bunnies.
*If you haven't seen 28 Days Later this will mean nothing. Sorry about that.
Saturday, May 14, 2005
Upperclass Tupperware
I swear the '80s are coming back to haunt me.
You remember tupperware? My mum was a demon for it. Every dish cooked in our house involved at least one tupperware container for putting leftovers in, you know, the tiny amounts of food that you then transfer to the fridge so that they can fester in peace? And there were other "useful" items: a plastic mat with numbered circles on it for rolling out pastry to the correct diameter for your pie dish, acres of muffin tins (various sizes from large down to pointless), a strange white plastic tube-shaped thing that may, or may not, have been some sort of space age corkscrew, and a yoghurt maker that was sometimes used to incubate eggs.
At one point I remember we had an automatic potato peeler, which consisted of an industrial strength dish attached to a vicious motor, lined with skin flaying sandpaper. You added potatoes and a bit of water to stop the apparatus from catching aflame and switched it on. It made a noise which suggested Heathrow Airport had upped sticks and settled in our kitchen. The tubers exited displaying a slightly terrified air, with little bits of skin still clinging desperately to the outside. They looked like torture victims, that's all I'm saying.
But I digress. Back to retro cookware.
Last night I was forced pleased to attend a Pampered Chef "Party". The basic premise is an Anne Summers party without the kink. Or the risque lingerie (although, who knows what the hostess had on under her demure blouse 'n skirt combo?) You sit, presumably in a rapture of consumerism, while a flustered housewife demonstrates overpriced cooking utensils. The best seller is a sort of stone ware plinth thing which normal people use for cooking pizza on.
Voila. Only £19.95!
The hostess suggested that you spend 30 minutes chopping (with their chopping thingy of course: £24.50!) various foodstuffs including chicken and mayonnaise and mild chilli sauce in order to concoct something fabulous.
"Big Chopper" hur hur hur. Sidekick got all excited when he realised it used some sort of cam arrangement to turn the blade. Only deranged housewives and engineers could get a kick out this shit, I swear.
The gorgeous end result *nausea*
High Points:
- Sniggering helplessly with like-minded friend over comments like, "of course you make all your own pastry from scratch". Yeah right.
- Hostess lady getting confused and asking for prompts from her more experienced colleague in the audience. "These knives are dishwasher proof!" colleague: "No, they're not".
- Man in front of us making involuntary grunting noises.
- And finally, someone let rip a truly foul smelling fart. Everyone in the audience was looking at each other in a "Bloody hell. Was that you? 'Cos it wasn't me" way.
Did I mention that my social life is dead? Dead, I tell you, dead.
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Banned in at least one country
Here's a little present for the lovely Karla
Consider it a pre-flat-warming gift, in honour of this post. Yes, her blog is so reprehensible that you cannot see it in the United Arab Emirates.
(Damn trackback thing, I can't get it to work)
Voila:
I thought I might try a less fancy version, perhaps in red, or tasteful tones of sand? Just let me know.
In other news:
Pornography: this, translated from the original Greek means "the writing of harlots"
Pudenda: latin this time, meaning "that of which one should be ashamed"
Just thought you should know.
Monday, May 09, 2005
Special Offer
For sale: One set of *magic bathroom scales*.
White, reasonable condition, traditional style, measures weight from 0 to 18 stone. Would grace any bathroom, or why not keep them in the bedroom, making it easy to weigh yourself straight after waking?
Special features:
Wipe clean plastic coating
Easy read dial
Automatically weighs you at 3 stone less than you actually weigh. *
I'll take offers. I'd been weighing myself and thinking "Wow! It's great how I'm losing weight and not dieting or nuthin'. Damn that's good. Funny how I don't look any different, though....". Maybe I'll post them on E-Bay under "supernatural".
*May, on reflection, be broken.
Friday, May 06, 2005
Delusions of Terror
As usual, I was wasting time skipping merrily amongst the Blogger blogs when I was brought up short by this statement pasted right across the top of the page. Weird:
"Note from the paranoid author of this blog:
Due to my increasing (though variable degrees of) paranoia, please refrain from linking to this blog. This is not due to any misconceptions of superiority (even though I may be better than you or anyone else out there), but only to a severe dread of being discovered by my friends or family. If you are my friends or family, please stop reading this blog. If you cannot stop, please do not ever let me know that you know about this blog. If you have to let me know, hypnotize me first, and then make me forget what you tell me. Otherwise, read on."
It was all I could do not to link to this blog just to be contrary. Not sure what that says about me, but it can't be good.
The worst thing is that now I can't find the page again in order to check for salacious and dirty reading matter, although I can reveal that the current post contained......a recipe for........SOUP. Nasty little munchkin.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
The Mandatory Political Post
Election 2005!
I've held off on this one as I didn't want to go into too much detail and therefore bore anyone. This is a complete lie, actually I just didn't want to bore myself, but the bible told me I had to do it.
In case any Britishers out there hadn' t noticed, tomorrow is your opportunity to go forth and vote like a good 'un. Here's a short run down to help you make up your mind:
1. Labour
Primary face: Tony Blair
Characteristics: Dodgy, could be fond of untruth. Still having trouble with unnatural looking body language, despite years of public practice. Increasingly pissed off with Paxman. Don't mention the war. More toothy than he used to be.
2. Conservative
Primary face: Michael Howard
Oh no, hang on, Michael Howard
Characteristics: Dodgy, may be a bloodsucker. Stiff, and with a really peculiar accent. Wants to either lock people up or prevent them from getting in, depending on who they are, and probably also on his mood. Why not help the Conservatives with their campaign here?
3. Liberal Democrats
Primary face: Charles Kennedy
Characteristics: Dodgy, looks like if you poked him, the mark would stay for hours. May be made of plasticine. Like all liberals, has difficulty with decisions. New dad, so watch for signs of swinging to the right (politically speaking). Possibly booze fuelled.
That's it really. There are other parties but voting for them is basically pointless. Anyone want to make a choice for me?
Never mind, it heralds the return of Peter Snow and his swingometer! Woooo.
Monday, May 02, 2005
Living and Mooing
I experienced what is perhaps the essence of true adulthood this weekend. This single event, more than anything else, illustrates that I am hurtling towards 30, and half my friends are rapidly fleeing it: the dinner party.
More than that, this was an actual fondue party. For real, there was a cheese fondue, and hot oil, all in all it was an accident waiting to happen. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Once upon a time the pub was the place for social interaction, meeting there at about 7ish after having scarfed down a pizza by way of ballast. Being fairly sozzled by 9ish was par for the course, in fact it was actively encouraged. This, my Bacchanalian idyll, my drink fuelled Eden, is long since gone. Because, let's face it, it was all about getting your phreak on (as I believe the kids call it these days).
These days it is all done differently. Most of our circle is now regularly (or perhaps not so regularly - it is also no longer de rigeur to ask) getting their phreak on with just the one person. This makes social gatherings change. The underlying tension is gone, leaving a different dynamic for interaction. This particular party started off as a gathering of the damned.
Imagine a bus stop. Then imagine a group of listless people waiting for a bus, one which may never come. Now position them on a group of sofas around a coffee table laden with three (count 'em) fondue sets. Give them neat little glasses of white wine, or pint glasses of lager. With guests quaffing tidily, silence descends. I deeply regretted not having stayed at home, I mean, Casualty was on and everything.
Thank God I managed to breach the gap and start up conversation with the other geek in the room, otherwise I might have had to strangle myself with my own knickers just to end the boredom. I never get tired of talking about how Trekkies are sadder than Star Wars fans, and about how, if I get the chance, I will drive toothpicks into George Lucas's cold, black heart for what he has done with the last two films. Or what browser is best, or about sites to go look at. Geek and proud of it, that's me.
The food was good too.
And finally, the crowning glory of the evening. One guest, desperately trying to cling to adulthood while everyone else was trying to forget it, piped up with this little gem: "I'd love to see a live production of The Mikado..." There was a short pause as we tried to compute this, like someone kicking the record player at a real party. Silence. Then Sidekick said "Naw. That'd be really dull - watching them tighten nuts and bolts and stuff". I replied "No, you're thinking of Meccano."
He sets 'em up, I knock 'em down. Being childish really kicks ass sometimes.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
I was a girl guide you know
Today I had wayward hosiery.
Hold ups are sexy, right? All that bare flesh at the top of your thigh, fresh air fluffing your unmentionables, a suggestion of a wayward nature. I remember seeing Coupling (the Brit version, OK, it was quality stuff) where the theory was put forward that only 5 pairs of stockings exist in the entire world. Women who have a new man in their life are allowed to borrow the sacred stockings during the early days of their relationship, in order to kindle passion. Once that time has passed, the stockings are passed on to the next lucky lady in line, which is why us girls only wear them when you boys are all new and fresh to us. Today was my day.
Anyway.
On discovering that the only pair of tights I could find had holes in them, I dug around in my drawer and found a pair of serviceable black hold ups. So far, so good. A slightly thrilling way to start the day, no? They were quite pretty, all lace topped and glossy. What could go wrong?
Cut to later on. Sadly the silicon sticky bits seemed lacking. Deeply lacking. Every time I stood up I could sense an odd looseness around the thigh area, a feeling of insecurity. Hmmmmm.
Surely, nothing could be sexier than hold ups drooping sadly around your knees, only being prevented from dropping all the way to the floor by what were previously one hot pair of knee high boots. Flappage was happening. Think of this vision as being like pirate boots with a humiliating twist.
I spent some time (all morning, really) running to the loo to yank them skyward. Only to feel them creep floorward again.
I briefly toyed with the idea of sticking them to my thighs with a Heath Robinson type construction involving panty liners folded back on themselves, tucked down the tops. Then I remembered that the only thing panty liners sticks to is pubes. Thank God, knowing my luck the damn things would have appeared at the hem of my black skirt like white ghostly paper harbingers of doooooom.
So I did what any ex-girl-guide worth her salt would do. I put rubber bands around my thighs to halt the inevitable pull of gravity.
Ladies, having no feeling in your toes, and a strange double bulge of thigh showing through a pencil skirt is worth it, if it rescues you until lunchtime, when you can escape to the blessed shop and purchase tights, fully crotch-covering wonderful fabulous desperately unsexy tights.
Happy Days.
Hold ups are sexy, right? All that bare flesh at the top of your thigh, fresh air fluffing your unmentionables, a suggestion of a wayward nature. I remember seeing Coupling (the Brit version, OK, it was quality stuff) where the theory was put forward that only 5 pairs of stockings exist in the entire world. Women who have a new man in their life are allowed to borrow the sacred stockings during the early days of their relationship, in order to kindle passion. Once that time has passed, the stockings are passed on to the next lucky lady in line, which is why us girls only wear them when you boys are all new and fresh to us. Today was my day.
Anyway.
On discovering that the only pair of tights I could find had holes in them, I dug around in my drawer and found a pair of serviceable black hold ups. So far, so good. A slightly thrilling way to start the day, no? They were quite pretty, all lace topped and glossy. What could go wrong?
Cut to later on. Sadly the silicon sticky bits seemed lacking. Deeply lacking. Every time I stood up I could sense an odd looseness around the thigh area, a feeling of insecurity. Hmmmmm.
Surely, nothing could be sexier than hold ups drooping sadly around your knees, only being prevented from dropping all the way to the floor by what were previously one hot pair of knee high boots. Flappage was happening. Think of this vision as being like pirate boots with a humiliating twist.
I spent some time (all morning, really) running to the loo to yank them skyward. Only to feel them creep floorward again.
I briefly toyed with the idea of sticking them to my thighs with a Heath Robinson type construction involving panty liners folded back on themselves, tucked down the tops. Then I remembered that the only thing panty liners sticks to is pubes. Thank God, knowing my luck the damn things would have appeared at the hem of my black skirt like white ghostly paper harbingers of doooooom.
So I did what any ex-girl-guide worth her salt would do. I put rubber bands around my thighs to halt the inevitable pull of gravity.
Ladies, having no feeling in your toes, and a strange double bulge of thigh showing through a pencil skirt is worth it, if it rescues you until lunchtime, when you can escape to the blessed shop and purchase tights, fully crotch-covering wonderful fabulous desperately unsexy tights.
Happy Days.
Monday, May 23, 2005
Typo of the Day
"Using aching tools" instead of "using machine tools".
Oops. Hehehe.
Oops. Hehehe.
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Girl on Girl Action
For the record:
Yes, I went to an all girls school for four long, miserable years, from age 11 to 15. In the spirit of destroying men's long cherished fantasies, I now feel the need to puncture all myths regarding this. Like an overfilled football stabbed with a darning needle.
Glad I've got that off my chest.
In a move which pretty much sums up the story of my life, only two years after I left the school started taking boys. Gaaah!
*Sidekick always gets this one wrong and insists it goes, "helping the old man row the boat ashore". I don't know what this suggests to you, but it makes me feel slightly ill.
Yes, I went to an all girls school for four long, miserable years, from age 11 to 15. In the spirit of destroying men's long cherished fantasies, I now feel the need to puncture all myths regarding this. Like an overfilled football stabbed with a darning needle.
- We played hockey. I did not, at any time, want to look up any of my team mates' skirts. In fact, we spent as much time as possible wearing tomato red "tracky bottoms" in order to fend off the freezing wind. The most exciting thing that ever happened was me hitting a friend in the face with my hockey stick. Accidentally, of course. The second most exciting thing was another friend developing pleurisy just before a match and nearly suffocating on her own lungs. She only quit after half the match was over, people. She was that hard. Orgies caused by the overflow of team spirit into the dorm room never occurred.
- Admitting that you ever flicked the bean/pushed the wee man in the boat*/insert euphemism of choice here was tantamount to outing yourself as a lesbian. In fact, the atmosphere was so anti self-love that even using non-applicator tampons was grounds for being ostracised as unclean. Group masturbation sessions never occurred.
- The showers in the boarding house were placed in individual cubicles. With proper shower curtains and everything, my God, the luxury. Once upon a time my lovely housemates stole my towel from the shower room, leaving me two options: streak through the halls back to my dorm room or wrap myself in the shower curtain for dignity's sake. Guess which option I went for? I did not see another girl naked at any time during my four year incarceration. Group boob-soaping in communal showers never occurred.
- Any games played outside classes tended towards either violence or gossip. I'm talking about such time-honoured classics as chase-punch (little known variation on kiss-chase) or truth or dare. Lies were told, arms were thumped, kicks were aimed at heads, alarm clocks were locked in the hall cupboard outside the house mistress's room after being set to go off at 3am. How we laughed as she forced us out of bed at 5am to run round the hockey pitch in our pajamas as punishment. Lingerie clad pillow fights never occurred.
Glad I've got that off my chest.
In a move which pretty much sums up the story of my life, only two years after I left the school started taking boys. Gaaah!
*Sidekick always gets this one wrong and insists it goes, "helping the old man row the boat ashore". I don't know what this suggests to you, but it makes me feel slightly ill.
Friday, May 20, 2005
Interesting
| Sponsored Links |
| Bollocks Bollocks for sale. aff Check out the deals now! www.ebay.com |
Is there anything that you can't get on Ebay?
Monday, May 16, 2005
Prophetic Warning
Beware mortals, for I have had a vision! I dreamed last night of social unrest, women confined to their homes, gunfire in the streets. And then the zombies came. Not Dawn of the Dead zombies either, the speedy ones from 28 Days Later. Helllloooooo!*
The worst bit was hiding in a sweet little old lady's home. She reached out and held my shoulders, telling me I was safe. Then her face disintegrated into grey mush and she howled at me, cracking her jaw in the process.
Thankfully I woke up at this point, gasping for breath like a landed fish.
Moral of the story? I really need to keep an eye on my caffeine intake after 6pm.
The last time I had dreams like that was when Sidekick was trying to quit the evil tobacco weed using those sticky patches. Naturally one detached itself from his chest and stuck itself to my armpit (how? how?), leaving me to spend the night in nicotine overload hell.
I will go to bed early tonight. And concentrate on pretty flowers and fluffy bunnies.
*If you haven't seen 28 Days Later this will mean nothing. Sorry about that.
The worst bit was hiding in a sweet little old lady's home. She reached out and held my shoulders, telling me I was safe. Then her face disintegrated into grey mush and she howled at me, cracking her jaw in the process.
Thankfully I woke up at this point, gasping for breath like a landed fish.
Moral of the story? I really need to keep an eye on my caffeine intake after 6pm.
The last time I had dreams like that was when Sidekick was trying to quit the evil tobacco weed using those sticky patches. Naturally one detached itself from his chest and stuck itself to my armpit (how? how?), leaving me to spend the night in nicotine overload hell.
I will go to bed early tonight. And concentrate on pretty flowers and fluffy bunnies.
*If you haven't seen 28 Days Later this will mean nothing. Sorry about that.
Saturday, May 14, 2005
Upperclass Tupperware
I swear the '80s are coming back to haunt me.
You remember tupperware? My mum was a demon for it. Every dish cooked in our house involved at least one tupperware container for putting leftovers in, you know, the tiny amounts of food that you then transfer to the fridge so that they can fester in peace? And there were other "useful" items: a plastic mat with numbered circles on it for rolling out pastry to the correct diameter for your pie dish, acres of muffin tins (various sizes from large down to pointless), a strange white plastic tube-shaped thing that may, or may not, have been some sort of space age corkscrew, and a yoghurt maker that was sometimes used to incubate eggs.
At one point I remember we had an automatic potato peeler, which consisted of an industrial strength dish attached to a vicious motor, lined with skin flaying sandpaper. You added potatoes and a bit of water to stop the apparatus from catching aflame and switched it on. It made a noise which suggested Heathrow Airport had upped sticks and settled in our kitchen. The tubers exited displaying a slightly terrified air, with little bits of skin still clinging desperately to the outside. They looked like torture victims, that's all I'm saying.
But I digress. Back to retro cookware.
Last night I wasforced pleased to attend a Pampered Chef "Party". The basic premise is an Anne Summers party without the kink. Or the risque lingerie (although, who knows what the hostess had on under her demure blouse 'n skirt combo?) You sit, presumably in a rapture of consumerism, while a flustered housewife demonstrates overpriced cooking utensils. The best seller is a sort of stone ware plinth thing which normal people use for cooking pizza on.
Voila. Only £19.95!
The hostess suggested that you spend 30 minutes chopping (with their chopping thingy of course: £24.50!) various foodstuffs including chicken and mayonnaise and mild chilli sauce in order to concoct something fabulous.
"Big Chopper" hur hur hur. Sidekick got all excited when he realised it used some sort of cam arrangement to turn the blade. Only deranged housewives and engineers could get a kick out this shit, I swear.
The gorgeous end result *nausea*
High Points:
Did I mention that my social life is dead? Dead, I tell you, dead.
You remember tupperware? My mum was a demon for it. Every dish cooked in our house involved at least one tupperware container for putting leftovers in, you know, the tiny amounts of food that you then transfer to the fridge so that they can fester in peace? And there were other "useful" items: a plastic mat with numbered circles on it for rolling out pastry to the correct diameter for your pie dish, acres of muffin tins (various sizes from large down to pointless), a strange white plastic tube-shaped thing that may, or may not, have been some sort of space age corkscrew, and a yoghurt maker that was sometimes used to incubate eggs.
At one point I remember we had an automatic potato peeler, which consisted of an industrial strength dish attached to a vicious motor, lined with skin flaying sandpaper. You added potatoes and a bit of water to stop the apparatus from catching aflame and switched it on. It made a noise which suggested Heathrow Airport had upped sticks and settled in our kitchen. The tubers exited displaying a slightly terrified air, with little bits of skin still clinging desperately to the outside. They looked like torture victims, that's all I'm saying.
But I digress. Back to retro cookware.
Last night I was
Voila. Only £19.95!
The hostess suggested that you spend 30 minutes chopping (with their chopping thingy of course: £24.50!) various foodstuffs including chicken and mayonnaise and mild chilli sauce in order to concoct something fabulous.
"Big Chopper" hur hur hur. Sidekick got all excited when he realised it used some sort of cam arrangement to turn the blade. Only deranged housewives and engineers could get a kick out this shit, I swear.
The gorgeous end result *nausea*
High Points:
- Sniggering helplessly with like-minded friend over comments like, "of course you make all your own pastry from scratch". Yeah right.
- Hostess lady getting confused and asking for prompts from her more experienced colleague in the audience. "These knives are dishwasher proof!" colleague: "No, they're not".
- Man in front of us making involuntary grunting noises.
- And finally, someone let rip a truly foul smelling fart. Everyone in the audience was looking at each other in a "Bloody hell. Was that you? 'Cos it wasn't me" way.
Did I mention that my social life is dead? Dead, I tell you, dead.
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Banned in at least one country
Here's a little present for the lovely Karla
Consider it a pre-flat-warming gift, in honour of this post. Yes, her blog is so reprehensible that you cannot see it in the United Arab Emirates.
(Damn trackback thing, I can't get it to work)
Voila:
I thought I might try a less fancy version, perhaps in red, or tasteful tones of sand? Just let me know.
In other news:
Pornography: this, translated from the original Greek means "the writing of harlots"
Pudenda: latin this time, meaning "that of which one should be ashamed"
Just thought you should know.
Consider it a pre-flat-warming gift, in honour of this post. Yes, her blog is so reprehensible that you cannot see it in the United Arab Emirates.
(Damn trackback thing, I can't get it to work)
Voila:
I thought I might try a less fancy version, perhaps in red, or tasteful tones of sand? Just let me know.
In other news:
Pornography: this, translated from the original Greek means "the writing of harlots"
Pudenda: latin this time, meaning "that of which one should be ashamed"
Just thought you should know.
Monday, May 09, 2005
Special Offer
For sale: One set of *magic bathroom scales*.
White, reasonable condition, traditional style, measures weight from 0 to 18 stone. Would grace any bathroom, or why not keep them in the bedroom, making it easy to weigh yourself straight after waking?
Special features:
Wipe clean plastic coating
Easy read dial
Automatically weighs you at 3 stone less than you actually weigh. *
I'll take offers. I'd been weighing myself and thinking "Wow! It's great how I'm losing weight and not dieting or nuthin'. Damn that's good. Funny how I don't look any different, though....". Maybe I'll post them on E-Bay under "supernatural".
*May, on reflection, be broken.
Friday, May 06, 2005
Delusions of Terror
As usual, I was wasting time skipping merrily amongst the Blogger blogs when I was brought up short by this statement pasted right across the top of the page. Weird:
It was all I could do not to link to this blog just to be contrary. Not sure what that says about me, but it can't be good.
The worst thing is that now I can't find the page again in order to check for salacious and dirty reading matter, although I can reveal that the current post contained......a recipe for........SOUP. Nasty little munchkin.
"Note from the paranoid author of this blog:
Due to my increasing (though variable degrees of) paranoia, please refrain from linking to this blog. This is not due to any misconceptions of superiority (even though I may be better than you or anyone else out there), but only to a severe dread of being discovered by my friends or family. If you are my friends or family, please stop reading this blog. If you cannot stop, please do not ever let me know that you know about this blog. If you have to let me know, hypnotize me first, and then make me forget what you tell me. Otherwise, read on."
It was all I could do not to link to this blog just to be contrary. Not sure what that says about me, but it can't be good.
The worst thing is that now I can't find the page again in order to check for salacious and dirty reading matter, although I can reveal that the current post contained......a recipe for........SOUP. Nasty little munchkin.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
The Mandatory Political Post
Election 2005!
I've held off on this one as I didn't want to go into too much detail and therefore bore anyone. This is a complete lie, actually I just didn't want to bore myself, but the bible told me I had to do it.
In case any Britishers out there hadn' t noticed, tomorrow is your opportunity to go forth and vote like a good 'un. Here's a short run down to help you make up your mind:
1. Labour
Primary face: Tony Blair
Characteristics: Dodgy, could be fond of untruth. Still having trouble with unnatural looking body language, despite years of public practice. Increasingly pissed off with Paxman. Don't mention the war. More toothy than he used to be.
2. Conservative
Primary face: Michael Howard
Oh no, hang on, Michael Howard
Characteristics: Dodgy, may be a bloodsucker. Stiff, and with a really peculiar accent. Wants to either lock people up or prevent them from getting in, depending on who they are, and probably also on his mood. Why not help the Conservatives with their campaign here?
3. Liberal Democrats
Primary face: Charles Kennedy
Characteristics: Dodgy, looks like if you poked him, the mark would stay for hours. May be made of plasticine. Like all liberals, has difficulty with decisions. New dad, so watch for signs of swinging to the right (politically speaking). Possibly booze fuelled.
That's it really. There are other parties but voting for them is basically pointless. Anyone want to make a choice for me?
Never mind, it heralds the return of Peter Snow and his swingometer! Woooo.
I've held off on this one as I didn't want to go into too much detail and therefore bore anyone. This is a complete lie, actually I just didn't want to bore myself, but the bible told me I had to do it.
In case any Britishers out there hadn' t noticed, tomorrow is your opportunity to go forth and vote like a good 'un. Here's a short run down to help you make up your mind:
1. Labour
Primary face: Tony Blair
Characteristics: Dodgy, could be fond of untruth. Still having trouble with unnatural looking body language, despite years of public practice. Increasingly pissed off with Paxman. Don't mention the war. More toothy than he used to be.
2. Conservative
Primary face: Michael Howard
Oh no, hang on, Michael Howard
Characteristics: Dodgy, may be a bloodsucker. Stiff, and with a really peculiar accent. Wants to either lock people up or prevent them from getting in, depending on who they are, and probably also on his mood. Why not help the Conservatives with their campaign here?
3. Liberal Democrats
Primary face: Charles Kennedy
Characteristics: Dodgy, looks like if you poked him, the mark would stay for hours. May be made of plasticine. Like all liberals, has difficulty with decisions. New dad, so watch for signs of swinging to the right (politically speaking). Possibly booze fuelled.
That's it really. There are other parties but voting for them is basically pointless. Anyone want to make a choice for me?
Never mind, it heralds the return of Peter Snow and his swingometer! Woooo.
Monday, May 02, 2005
Living and Mooing
I experienced what is perhaps the essence of true adulthood this weekend. This single event, more than anything else, illustrates that I am hurtling towards 30, and half my friends are rapidly fleeing it: the dinner party.
More than that, this was an actual fondue party. For real, there was a cheese fondue, and hot oil, all in all it was an accident waiting to happen. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Once upon a time the pub was the place for social interaction, meeting there at about 7ish after having scarfed down a pizza by way of ballast. Being fairly sozzled by 9ish was par for the course, in fact it was actively encouraged. This, my Bacchanalian idyll, my drink fuelled Eden, is long since gone. Because, let's face it, it was all about getting your phreak on (as I believe the kids call it these days).
These days it is all done differently. Most of our circle is now regularly (or perhaps not so regularly - it is also no longer de rigeur to ask) getting their phreak on with just the one person. This makes social gatherings change. The underlying tension is gone, leaving a different dynamic for interaction. This particular party started off as a gathering of the damned.
Imagine a bus stop. Then imagine a group of listless people waiting for a bus, one which may never come. Now position them on a group of sofas around a coffee table laden with three (count 'em) fondue sets. Give them neat little glasses of white wine, or pint glasses of lager. With guests quaffing tidily, silence descends. I deeply regretted not having stayed at home, I mean, Casualty was on and everything.
Thank God I managed to breach the gap and start up conversation with the other geek in the room, otherwise I might have had to strangle myself with my own knickers just to end the boredom. I never get tired of talking about how Trekkies are sadder than Star Wars fans, and about how, if I get the chance, I will drive toothpicks into George Lucas's cold, black heart for what he has done with the last two films. Or what browser is best, or about sites to go look at. Geek and proud of it, that's me.
The food was good too.
And finally, the crowning glory of the evening. One guest, desperately trying to cling to adulthood while everyone else was trying to forget it, piped up with this little gem: "I'd love to see a live production of The Mikado..." There was a short pause as we tried to compute this, like someone kicking the record player at a real party. Silence. Then Sidekick said "Naw. That'd be really dull - watching them tighten nuts and bolts and stuff". I replied "No, you're thinking of Meccano."
He sets 'em up, I knock 'em down. Being childish really kicks ass sometimes.
More than that, this was an actual fondue party. For real, there was a cheese fondue, and hot oil, all in all it was an accident waiting to happen. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Once upon a time the pub was the place for social interaction, meeting there at about 7ish after having scarfed down a pizza by way of ballast. Being fairly sozzled by 9ish was par for the course, in fact it was actively encouraged. This, my Bacchanalian idyll, my drink fuelled Eden, is long since gone. Because, let's face it, it was all about getting your phreak on (as I believe the kids call it these days).
These days it is all done differently. Most of our circle is now regularly (or perhaps not so regularly - it is also no longer de rigeur to ask) getting their phreak on with just the one person. This makes social gatherings change. The underlying tension is gone, leaving a different dynamic for interaction. This particular party started off as a gathering of the damned.
Imagine a bus stop. Then imagine a group of listless people waiting for a bus, one which may never come. Now position them on a group of sofas around a coffee table laden with three (count 'em) fondue sets. Give them neat little glasses of white wine, or pint glasses of lager. With guests quaffing tidily, silence descends. I deeply regretted not having stayed at home, I mean, Casualty was on and everything.
Thank God I managed to breach the gap and start up conversation with the other geek in the room, otherwise I might have had to strangle myself with my own knickers just to end the boredom. I never get tired of talking about how Trekkies are sadder than Star Wars fans, and about how, if I get the chance, I will drive toothpicks into George Lucas's cold, black heart for what he has done with the last two films. Or what browser is best, or about sites to go look at. Geek and proud of it, that's me.
The food was good too.
And finally, the crowning glory of the evening. One guest, desperately trying to cling to adulthood while everyone else was trying to forget it, piped up with this little gem: "I'd love to see a live production of The Mikado..." There was a short pause as we tried to compute this, like someone kicking the record player at a real party. Silence. Then Sidekick said "Naw. That'd be really dull - watching them tighten nuts and bolts and stuff". I replied "No, you're thinking of Meccano."
He sets 'em up, I knock 'em down. Being childish really kicks ass sometimes.
