Thursday, March 29, 2012

Weird Dog Telepathy Guy

As I’m strolling about the neighbourhood conjuring up strategies to avoid Mr Do Something, I’ve taken to being surprised by Weird Dog Telepathy Guy.

He’s been popping up for weeks now, ambling round a corner suddenly or manifesting out of nowhere in the middle of the street like a phantom gating in from The Beyond.

He’s nothing much to look at himself — a young surfer boy type with a taste for gangly limbs — but his dog is something else entirely. Corgis and beagles, I recognise instantly, along with most breeds of ‘-tian’ pooch and the occasional novelty lurcher, but the anatomy of the dog accompanying Weird Dog Telepathy Guy leaps from the pages of no I Spy Book of Pets.

Tall and slender and wiry, it glides along the pavement like a cat, leading with its anteater snout and swishing its tail behind it like a whip. Not once have I seen it bound to its owner’s hand by a leash, and never has he prompted it to sit, “walk on” or perform, all of which leads me to conclude that either its sleek skull is fitted with a navigation device of some kind — or the guy who would otherwise simply be Weird Dog Guy is telepathic, issuing silent commands from beneath his beach-look blond locks.

Maybe, next time we meet up, I should try to distract the dog — by lying down in its path, perhaps, or juggling some tins of Pedigree Chum while barking like Lassie on heat. If there truly is some telepathic link twixt Guy and Weird Dog, I’m guessing the two will skirt round me, the silence of their Oh look, there’s a twat embarrassment allied to the lack of instructions to “walk left”, “walk right” or “leap”. If, however, commands are issued, I can rule out the telepathy angle and save a bit of typing when I record our encounters in my journal.

Is this a foolproof strategy or a recipe for disaster?

Friday, March 23, 2012

What Is It With Crap Hats?

Let me state quite clearly from the outset that I’m a hat loving kind of a guy.

There’s nothing I’d rather see more than a return of hats of all kinds — bowlers for businessmen (or, given the grubby state of much ‘business’ these days, nouveau black Stetsons), caps and trilbys for blokes in general, and (because we now inhabit a chummy global village) plenty of tall Egyptian pharaoh offerings for the goils.

We could have all this. Tomorrow. But we won’t.

And so it is that our newfound zeal for hats persists solely in the domain of the idiot teen — the proud new hope for the future sadly too young in the tooth to realise that the hats they don to the nightclubs of their existence alongside the Nikes, the Hollisters and the Gaps resemble what everyone over the age of twenty-five recognises instantly as tea cosies.

I’m sure there’s a name for them, these new teen hats poised midway between rockclimber savant and wooly octupoid crock of shite, but whatever it is, I don’t plan to race to my nearest crap hat retailer any time soon and splash out fifty quid in order to look hip and cool.

I’d rather swan about the place like Chris Eubank than stuff my head up a baggy scrotal distillation of all that’s inherently spazzy about headgear.

Monday, March 12, 2012

My Social Media Have Birthed Homunculi

When you sign up to Twitter and Blogger and Facebook and Arsebook and Nolife and Crustybum and WankAhoy! and Stern Horse and Linkydinkmyazz and Troll Targitt and Pixofmybits and Lookitmyfurniture and Toast History and Sawthisturd and Share My Prolapse and Audiorectum and Musings As Rusings and Subliminal Adbot Attractocopter and Cryogenesis Byte Bunker and Snorkel Thrust and My Pets Sing and Alphawave UR Baby and Earwax Alert and Inflatostatus et al, the one thing they never alert you to in the “10 years at my disposal to read this crap” terms & conditions is that

(1) you will end up saying the same things to the same people via an unbelievable number of aliases and avatars,

(2) everything you say will be re-tweeted, re-blogged, re-facebooked (etc) by all your friends, your friends of friends, and (ultimately) everyone else in the cyber world via all their aliases, aliases of aliases, and favourites of aliases of avatars,

(3) everything ever said by anyone will be sniffed out and regurgitated by spambots and whambots and botbots before being rolled into infotorpedo after junkmissile after trashjavelin prior to a ritual firing at random into the naievety of the Universe.

And so, with a view to having my assembled commas jizzsputniked up the Pleiades, I’ve signed up to Gene-Splice-The-Monstrosity-Of-My-Narcissistic-Inevitableness-With-All-Known-Means-Of-Time-Consuming-And-Vapidity-Inspiring-Cybertech-Transmission-Nighmare-Hellholes-Dot-Fuckin-Com and aired a few snippets of writing. Most of it has appeared here in various guises — some of it recently — but if you’re cruising round the cybersphere clad in another of your alii and you’ve nothing else better to do, maybe you might like to drop by while we wait for all our personal information to be mangled into mnemonochunks no bigger than a nanobeetle’s brain...

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Warming My Cockles

The great thing about the song The Sun Has Got His Hat On is that it was written and recorded before the invention of the mankini.

Had Gay and Butler sat down to write the score to Me And My Girl today, doubtless they’d have been struggling to find decent rhymes for “resplendent in thongesque lycra” and “balls bursting from the skimpyness”.

But, hey — it’s gloriously sunny here at the moment and I’m not complaining.

Sunlight ripples across every structure from my window to the vista like a molecule-thick rug weaved from the essences of randy cephalopods and even through my view is compromised by the JCBs roaring about on the plot of land that will soon become home to The Mole People, I’m delighted that every day brings further promise of the summer to come.  As of now I can commence making preparations for creeping about the place bunged up with hay fever, rubbing ointment into every inch of my seared flesh and being stung by a thousand and one fucking wasps.


Friday, March 2, 2012

Megabytes Per Second Vs Miles Per Hour

Thanks to my fantastic new internet service I have more tangled cables trailing about the place than could be deployed as lasso replacements by a hundred-strong posse of rodeo champions robbed of all their ropely possessions.

Or maybe I could catch a stray asteroid.

The point is that none of the boxes and wind-up monkeys sits where they really need to go and the only way I’ve been able to connect is via an improvised wiring arrangement worthy of a Mission Impossible film.  Tom Cruise may even be trapped somewhere near the master socket, I don’t know — it’s difficult to tell on account of the 6m diameter ball of wires blocking out all light from the window.

Everyday activities like going to the loo or walking from the settee to the bookcase or engaging in a moment’s aerobic Whirlio dancing can now take several hours and I’ve used more balls of wool to find my way to and from furniture milestones than Theseus deployed to extricate himself from the Labyrinth.  When the telephone rings I have to hope the caller’s children will get back to me some day, and heaven forbid if anyone sets fire to their own faces eating a spicy sausage.

I’m currently experimenting with a range of mobility-friendly initiatives, including grunting my way through a set of circus contortionists’ exercises downloaded from and splashing more olive oil about my naked person than Henry Cooper managed after a lifetime drenched in Brut and sweat.

Looking and feeling like a stymied twat has never been easier...