A Quantum of Fluff

If you ever think you don't understand about life.

If you're wondering if what you have is enough

If you ever think rats wouldn't not tolerate this race

Remember the commitment that's made to guff

If you find yourself wading into more trouble than strife

If your getting too full of the serious stuff

Add some reason to what passes for rhyme

And commit yourself to a quantum of fluff.

We're not supposed to know life in the detail you need.

So it's OK to add some vigour to grace.

The numbers may never appear to add up.

Remember.

They made TEN series of Hale & Pace.

New things

Number 8

Task: Repair cigar lighter power outlet as can't power my car toys, sat nav etc
Method: Google, Ford Manual, Halfords fuse (£1.99), pliers + 15 minutes
Result: Success with fiddle factor
Verdict: Pass with honours. No need to go to garage.

Proxy Time

I watched a couple of progs on the televis tonight.

About art fakery (thanks Orson) and the illiterate corrupt-ness of Wildenstein - a Monet verification organisation (and disgrace of the US), a bit of Penn & Teller (US brilliance, thanks boys) and a bit of BBC UK news which reflected ideas I'd formed elsewhere about the stupidity of methadone prescription.
Eclectic enough?
I don't think so - it's all the same childish roundabout.

One of my great heroes - DB - owns no television.
I understand his argument that TV is a substitute for real experience. Yet, how he justifies being unbearably moved by recorded music, I have no idea. Let Haydn's music die with Haydn, I say.

But that surrogate thing? I'm sorry. I just don't get that. It's an arrogance. That TV can teach you nothing. Maybe a celebrity can have all those so-called real experiences instead of the rest of our 'faximiles'. Good for them.
But I think they may get overtired rather quickly and need a regular colonic. Sometimes an experience is better by proxy. And who are they to know real experience? Certainly no more (or less) than the rest of us.

Now, where were we?

Art informs life, and TV is the premium mirror of our lifetime.

So as of tonight, I'll give you a choice.

You can discover a $30 million Monet in your attic that you picked up a couple of years ago at a bric-a-brac stall.

Or.

You can inspire and provoke one heroin addict to take the right hand fork (please tell me, does heroin actually have 2 'e's or not?).
One nudge to a different path.
A new cascade.

You have 5 seconds.


I know which I'd pick.

The rising value of certified comedy gold

Hot on the heels of my last joke comes another - less than a year later!

It has been Googled (in Adam and Joe's made-up jokes style for provenance and originality) and not found wanting in either that or in HQ - hilarity quotient.

Sit back, relax and put part of your evening aside because here is the masterpiece in question.

Q. How many auctioneers does it take to change a light bulb?











A. Lots

There's no need to be like that!

There is some justice in the world.

Gavin Henson is Channel 5's The Bachelor.
Yeah.
Yeeeeah!

Thank god that he never made the career threatening mistake of marrying Charlotte Church (the mother of his 2 children) as then he clearly would not have been eligible.

Close one, Gavo! Well done, mate!

In the show, he'll get to choose which of a dozen women "wins" the witless streak of creasote.
So even before filming begins, we know we have a show that has 13 people who love Gavin Henson.
I have less oily tools in my steampunk drawer.

Once he was just a twinkle in his brother Jim's eye.
In fact, until the chubby songbird gave him a career, he was the forgotten muppet.

Thankfully he has not been deprived of his right to make his two bastard children very proud. Particularly the one who's just had his second birthday.

Go Gav!
Find yourself a Princess. You greasy, greasy, greasy toad.

Monochrome Gold

Inside and Out

I use soap.

I am a soap user.

There I've said it.

Every day, in every way, I'm getting cleaner.

There may be a generation of people out there who have never used soap.

Who have never had a bar of carbolic stuffed down their string vest.

Who thought personal hygiene began with gel and ends up with mousse or foam.

But recently (and following an intervention by a number of concerned relatives), I bought some soap.

What sort of soap do you use I hear you cry. Well sit back and I will furnish the answer.

I use Shield.

Why? Pour yourself a gin and listen up.

I like the colour but mainly it is thanks to a historical ad campaign with a ditty that stuck in the nut like glue.

Shield - first think in the morning....

Shield - just as day is dawning....

Shield's the one's that giving me

The feeling that it's great to be

Goes to Shield.

Genius!

Stand aside Shake 'n' Vac lady.

We get imprinted early.

There's no hope of recovery and we might find ourselves seeking out those comforting patterns.

It needn't be anything to be ashamed of.

Be proud and support your most retro products.

Put on a cardigan, load up a bit of Manic Miner, suck on a butterscotch (the younger generation may prefer a sherbet pip - the sweet you can eat in class without fear of been spotted) and if I may return briefly to the subject of cleaning product join me in a hearty "Up yours Cif".

　

　

Metamag

Being somewhat prone to junk mail, I regularly get offered as am sure do you, magazine subscriptions to The Economist, The Spectator and other high brow eggheady fare, as well as the usual applications for American Express etc.

Today's came with a card to inform people of my preferred customer membership status (altogether now, ooooh!). (The reason you didn't get one is simply that you are not important enough). The sender clearly wanted the card to remain intact during the frantic envelope opening sequence.

To preserve contents, the front of the envelope was labelled:

TIME. Do Not Bend.

I'll bear it in mind, grasshopper.

Unwearable Innocence

Now I don't mind having a drink holder in my car but I keep choking down a glug  that I don't really need at the traffic lights or similar such pause.

And there's never quite the time you need (its' the screw tops), so I always overglug.

 

What I forget is that the swallowing act requires a bit of extra gobspace, let's say oh .. 10%.

A spluttering accident often follows when swallowing on a full trap.

(And when I say full I mean full with outblown cheeks. Proper full).

 

What you tend to discover is that smoothies don't seem so innocent when you are wearing them.

Judicial Point

I've embossed my increasingly popular bird table with the words "Twitter Feed"

 

Is that wrong?