Now here’s one that’s been bugging me for years. Perhaps someone out there knows the answer. If so PLEEEEASE post a comment!
You know when there’s a big accident or a grizzly murder and there is hardly anything left of the poor bugger to name them from? So the forensic peeps turn to dental records to identify the body – you hear it quite often on the news.
Now here’s the thing: If they can’t identify the body, how do they know who their dentist is?
Who shall I have a go at today? I know! Those idiots who throw their heads back when swallowing an aspirin or some such other pill. What the fuck’s all that about?
“Oooh, it’s hard to get down”, I’m told. Bollocks! An aspirin’s about as small as you can get (except for a microdot… so I’m told!). What about when you’ve a gob full of mashed potato at the dinner table? – You don’t keep on throwing your head back every time you swallow, like some sort of demented lizard or a blood-crazed T.Rex off Jurassic Park.
No, I think you’ve seen it on telly. I think it’s a Hollywood swallow, designed so that viewers actually know that the actor is supposed to be swallowing something. The same kind of point that I made about Hollywood gun holding in my previous post. Bloody Yanks. They’ve a lot to answer for.
Well I’m not, but…
As I was getting out the shower yesterday, there was a hair in the bath formed into a perfect pound symbol. Now does that mean I have money coming to me, or a big bill to pay? I’ll let you know when it happens.
Meanwhile, back to the Twilight Zone. Do do do do, do do do do….
There has been a recent report by scientists about the alarming drop in the number of the bee population. The reason for the demise of bee colonies, they say, is unexplained. Well, they haven’t looked very far. For I can reveal today where all the bees have disappeared to.
Now the warmer weather is coming, I have started opening the conservatory doors out onto the garden so I can enjoy the fresh air of a spring day. Within 30 seconds of opening the doors, a bee has magically flown in and is buzzing around the windows, unable to find the exit – how come they find their way in so easily but can’t get out? Another mystery for scientists.
Anyway, this happens every time the doors are opened. As the things are too thick to get out, they buzz themselves silly until they’re lying belly up on the window sill, getting frazzled by the sun. So my conservatory is a mass bee cemetery and that’s where they’ve gone to. Simple, really.
I was walking past the market yesterday and was enticed by all the lovely displays of fruit. Now, I don’t buy much fruit any more because it’s generally shit. But this looked so good, I succumbed to the appetising display of colours – reds and yellows and pinks and greens, orange and purples and blues – thank you Cilla. I bought some plums and strawberries.
I should have known better. These things were so big they might have been grown for the set on a science fiction film. This kind of fruit just shouldn’t be that big. So what did they taste like? Nothing. No flavour. Just bigness. And colour. Pleasing to the eye, shit on the pallet. I had been suckered again.
This is true with most fruit now. Apples taste like cardboard. Peaches are fibrous with no juice whatsoever. I could go on. What happened to the days when you bought a (single!) peach, bit into it and the juice ran down your chin (ooooer)? They are usually so hard that you lose your crowns when you bite into the fuckers!
So you bin the first one ‘cos you can’t eat it and put the rest into the fruit bowl and wait for them to ripen.
And wait. And wait. And wait. Then you test them again and they’re still hard. So you go and do something that takes about three minutes, turn back to the fruit bowl and the fuckers have turned into a mouldy, mushy mess!
Fruit? Forget it.
There was a shriek from the bathroom this morning. The little lady had discovered a ‘tarantula’ in the bath. “It’s that big” she says, holding hands out that would easily encirle a dustbin lid (the old-fashioned corrugated type, not a wheely bin). The offending creature was, in fact, about an inch wide.
Anyway, I ejected the helpless thing out of the bathroom window onto the conservatory roof – it’s probably climbed back into the bathroom by now – and I got thinking. Why can’t spiders get out of the bath when they can easily walk upside-down on ceilings?
And also, after almost bringing down the house walls by the power of their screams, why do girls suddenly get all protective of the spider’s welfare? Stuff like “don’t trap its legs” or “don’t drop it too far”. Why are you bothered?
I once had a girlfriend who was petrified of spiders, but when she saw one stuck in the bath she used to make a ‘spider ladder’ – a strip of bog roll draped over the side of the bath – so that it could climb out itself. What’s all that about? Women!
I’d never heard of her until three days ago. She’s headline news today after dying following a skiing accident. Now that’s awful and tragic news, no doubt about it. But should it be the leading story? I think not! After a few seconds research on Google, I found out that dozens of people a year die on slopes in the USA alone. Why don’t they get a mention on the news? Because they’re not important?
The good old BBC ran the story as the lead item this morning. They even had a reporter outside the hospital where she died in Manhattan. “What’s the latest from New York, Heather?”. “Well Bill, she’s still dead!”. Come on… do we really need it?
Why do ordinary (i.e. English, not American) people sing in American accents? Geordies, Brummies, carrot crunchers, cider drinkers, all of ’em. They all have almost indecipherable lilts to their voices when speaking, yet when they sing they magically attain an American accent.
The only exceptions I can think of is the lovely Cerys Matthews, boyo, and that geezer out of Blur.
On this week’s ’24’ one person – ONE single person – deliberately sabotaged and reformatted the entire FBI computer system. Hahahahahahahahahahahaha ooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
I love that programme.
Hi-vis vests. They’re brill! They’re designed to be extra glowy like one of those highlighter pens so that the wearer can be seen. And they do what it says on the tin. Or, rather, vest. I thought they were worn for safety reasons originally, which sounds like a good and sensible idea.
However, now it seems everyone wears glowy vests so that you can spot them, rather than for safety reasons – policemen, parking attendants, stewards, window cleaners, dustmen, road sweepers, council officials with clipboards, lollipop ladies, council gardeners, petty criminals doing community service, dog walkers, dogs…
The trouble is, so many people are wearing hi-vis vests now that people without them are becoming a minority and you can’t actually see the person you’re after because they’re lost in a sea of glowy yellow or orange!
I reckon they should invent hats with flashy beacons on, or jackets with in-built telescopic flag poles that project automatically from the shoulders upon the press of a secret button.
Back to the TV show I love to hate… Sky’s ’24’. This programme is stupid, unfeasible, unbelievable and totally unmissable! I love to watch it and see how many faults I can pick with it. It keeps me going all week.
One of the bits I picked up on in this week’s episode, and I’m sure it’s not just confined to ’24’, is that everybody responds to an important piece of information with the word ‘what?’.
For example… “The president’s just been kidnapped”… “What?”
Or “Terrorists have detonated a nuke in L.A.”… “What?”
Or “Somebody’s just pinched your last Rolo”… “What?”… “I SAID SOMEONE’S JUST NICKED YOUR LAST FUCKING ROLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!”.
Jeez! Methinks it’s time to fit Jack Bauer up with a hearing aid.
It was my car’s 100,000th birthday today. Yes, one hundred thousand. Well, I’ve moaned about her in the past, but she keeps going, more or less, so thanks to the old gal.
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday dear Pee Six-Oh-Nine Jay-Kay-Why-iiiii,
Happy birthday to you.