Monday, January 21, 2013
I’m intrigued by this BBC article about the potential effects of internet hyper-connectivity on society.
I don’t know about what goes on in your household (though if I were you, I’d lose that whole deal with the cling film and the life size gelatin seal pups), but with every day that passes, Whirl Towers plays host to an ever growing collection of twinky twonky pip-pop-friendly gadgetry seemingly destined to imprint its twinky twonkiness onto the raison d’etre of all who dwell within its spider-bespeckled walls.
Time was, I thought only of clothing and feeding myself, but now hardly a second passes when I’m not logging on to some website/app/in-hip feed or another to check my status, mood or angle of dangle — or rating/building/recommending/uploading farms/castles/pets/condoms/wasps by shuffling animated bytes of cybernothing from meaningless pixel panorama to meaningless pixel panorama using a pen that would have been known in the olden days as A Useless Rubber On A Stick.
Is that what Pallib Ghosh is on about?
And does he realise his name is an anagram of the hideously realised Widdecombic aspiration, ‘hag shall bop’?
As an aside while you muse on this, and other conundrums, here’s my best snow picture of the season (taken yesterday, before we had to swim for it like sub-aqua mammoths):
Monday, January 14, 2013
Today’s light snowfall presented me with an opportunity to test the Slippy Sole Factor of my new walking boots. Strictly speaking, they’re more of a summer leisure bootee — the leather is light and supple, the underside unrugged and unridged, and from the verandah you can gaze out over the rooftops to where the sea meets the sky in an impossibly beautiful melange of all hues azure. No, wait a minute — that’s the Montezuma Guest House in Margate.
What I can tell you about the countryside this morning is that curious mules abound. In the absence of too many striding old ladies with dogs and Manx-tugged wheel-less Hansoms, they’ve come sneaking out of their sub-equine hideaways to snort and frolic in their dinky thermal overwear. By the time I’d confirmed that my new boots were nowhere near as slippy as I’d first suspected, whole fields were a-ripple with a blanket of bounding mules — a spectacle as fascinating from a biophysical perspective as when I accidentally dropped an After Eight mint wrapper into a pan of bubbling custard just before serving up pud on Christmas Day.
Then it all changed. One minute, those ole mules were crazy for the whole “ground-based flock of birds” shebang made popular by the Jurassic Park film; the next minute they were rooted to the spot, bobbing their heads up and down like meerkats. I wondered if they’d taken a break from their romping to marvel at the flaps on my whippet fur hoodie, but as they sprang away one at a time, it dawned on me that a bloke wearing the latest hip street gear probably wasn’t that much of an unusual sight, even on a white-as-U-like Monday morning.
And I was right.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Hand, foot and mouth disease is a highly contagious infection which predominantly affects small children. Symptoms include a scar-like rash, blisters and itchiness, and though they may persist for up to a week, the danger to overall health is minimal.
Son-of-Whirl has now been infected for nine days with the worst case his doctor has ever seen and his extremities (including his nose) now resemble the horriblest kind of fusion between a syphilitic whore’s rancid dangly bits, a Domino's Max Tomato Ketchup pizza and the pustulent undulations that erupt on mild-mannered Jacob Windermere’s skin whenever he transforms into Captain Fucking Fucking Fucking Dreadful Acne.
If you’re a film producer seeking inspiration for alien flesh textures or landscapes, or a horror novelist needing exotic visual stimuli for your latest nightmare ripper, jpegs of my son’s skin are now available to purchase at the knock-down price of £25 per thousand pixels.
Warning: if you’re susceptible to vomiting, viewing these pictures may make you puke your own toenails.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Even the best laid plans — like the eggs of monstrous ducks destined to devour your soul — can come a cropper, it seems.
I’d intended to begin this year with a flurry of blog posts in protest at the migration of minds from habitats bloggoid to the fringe semen pools of social media frippery, but a bizarre combination of a weirdo Son-of-Whirl all-body rash and a week-long broadband signal AWOLisation scuppered my resolve like I was Michael Phelps swimming for gold along the M1 against Mo Farah, Bradley Wiggins on a fuck off Triumph motorcycle, and Zara Phillips in a 3,575,000,000,000,000,000 horsepower rocket aerodynamically superior to a textbook erect penis.
In some ways, this is a shame. Just after New Year I ventured into the night and was struck by the final flickers of the few remaining 12th night Christmas lights — a spectacle which might have made an excellent post about heralds, hope and Henormous Santae the following day but is next to useless now we’re all taken up with shopping online for summer bikinis. I also videoed myself playing Monopoly against a cheese sandwich, but that’s another story.
To be honest, I’m just glad to get back to normal...
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Okay, so New Year was a disaster.
I’d hired a gorillagram to stop by the house shortly after midnight and make with the Auld Lang Syne japes. As perfect plans go, it’s up there with making sure the first man on the moon isn’t called Buzz, bundling ducks with all the genetic hardware needed to both swim and look cute, and that great noise you can make with a roll of waxing strip and a suitably primed hirsute eunuch. Let’s be clear, this was no stripping “hot sex” kind of gorillagram destined to wheelbarrow shame onto my family home — I’d paid an extra thirty quid for the No Kisses or Cocks option and on that front, at least, I wasn’t disappointed. My plan should have worked a treat. But it didn’t.
The main problem was that everyone in my neighbourhood had clearly come up with the same brilliant idea, and by 11.15pm the whole town was paralyzed by gridlock. In every street and avenue from the centre of town to the ring roads on out, costumed men and women sat, bumper to bumper, cussing the worst outbreak of mass synchronised behaviour since Russell T. Davies was in charge of Dr Who. By 11.55pm, sixteen policemen had been hospitalised, numerous cats accidentally neutered by everything from bicycles to the credit cards of drunken revellers, and corpses laid to rest between 1611 and 1978 came gallumping from the sod with zombie wails. Okay, maybe I lied about that last part for comedic effect, but you get the general idea. It was chaos.
I type this brief account on New Year’s morn, assaulted by the hawang-hwang-hwang of overhead choppers. According to the emergency services it’ll be well over a week before the final kissy kissy apes are prised from their vehicles. In the mean time, everyone from the fire brigade to the Big Society Ant-riot S.W.A.T. teams to press-ganged boy scouts with nothing else better to do is sweeping the streets looking for survivors and handing out food parcels to the needy.
If you stayed in to watch the Hootenanny, you were lucky.
How was the very start of 2013 for you?