Dammit! I missed my own Blog-Birthday!
Sigh … Yet another sign of advancing senility.
Not that anyone's remotely interested but the Small Glass Planet was officially two years old last Thursday (7th August).
Two whole years of utter drivel: rants, moans, whinges, spuffle, twattery, swear-fests, Godbothering, boring photographs, boring videos, boring music, twaddle, crap cookery, insults (I'll admit some of those were pretty good), balderdash, piffle, pedantry beyond all reason and general, self-obsessed, opinionated wank.
Including this post, that's seven-hundred and thirty-two (count 'em) chunkettes of all of our lives completely and utterly wasted. Lost to time forever.
Let's say you spend a couple of minutes reading and commenting on each one, that means the more doggedly persistent among you may have wasted a little over twenty-four hours of your lives reading this trash.
That's a whole day gone! Think what you could have done with that time! You won't get it back now, not even if you kept the receipt.
And as for all the time I wasted writing them …
Holy fuck!
I could have done so many more productive things … masturbated myself into a coma, drunk myself into a coma, drugged myself into a coma, watched daytime TV … well, maybe not that last one, but shit; what a totally futile thing blogging is … just filling in time, waiting for death.
Has it made me a better person?
Has it earned me money?
Has it brought me eternal happiness?
Has it got me laid?
Has it fuck!
BASTA!
(Italian's so much more expressive than English when it comes to shouting "Enough!") …
It's time things changed around here.
It's time I stopped all this crap and got myself a life.
Goodbye, Blogville! I'm off down the Mississippi on a raft …
Yeah, right …
Like I'd ever do anything that sensible.
See you tomorrow for more senseless futility.
P.S.
… and a belated Happy Blog-Birthday to my oldest and bestest blog-neighbour, Robyn; two years old last Friday!
P.P.S.
Of course, I could go off on a mawkish sob-fest about how much I owe you guys and your wonderful blogs/comments for keeping me relatively sane these past two years, but that would spoil a perfectly good rant, so I won't.
Blogging?
Bollocks!
Showing posts with label The Year Of Living Rantily. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Year Of Living Rantily. Show all posts
Friday, August 15, 2008
Friday, August 24, 2007
The Year Of Living Rantily Pt.XII
Bugger.
I've reached the last month of my first year retrospective and now I'll have to start thinking of things to write about.
First up from July comes the finest picture I have ever found on the internet:
Jesus riding a dinosaur. How cool is that!
July also saw the end of year party for my Japanese class.
こんにちわ guys! See you in a couple of weeks for next year's 日本語 fest.
As I'm stinkingly busy today and cannot really justify sitting here blogging I'll make this mercifully quick.
Other July lowlights were a sweary rant about jumpers, the "laughing at Diana's death" meme which resulted in the launch of The Pariah Club, Groover's photo melee, the armies of good and evil descending on my town, and of course, the wonderful Robyn invading London and touching my bum.
A quick trawl though your comments bring us:
Robyn:
"The party looks like fun, even WITH the dead guy."
"Hey!!!!!!!!! I wear cut-off trousers, and I think I look darn cute."
"Deanna Durbin? Seriously?"
"I'll be careful to shave my beard before I arrive."
"Hey, who's the fat chick in the white shirt?"
Vic:
"I love stuffing."
"Masturbation is fun."
Kate:
"Robyn googled bukake?"
"Can I watch? Or can you get pics?"
"I have a secret fear of fat ankles."
"I laughed my arse off when the queen mother died, she was an evil cow."
"I have the best pic of my mother with her hand up a chickens bits."
Terroni:
"We Americans are too busy with YouTube porn to care."
"Bum toucher."
Maria:
"I giggled uncontrollably and have since been labeled by the rest of my family as the cold hearted woman who laughed when Princess Diana died."
"I also find clitoris to be a very tasty snack."
"What's not to enjoy about mincing mice into the pork cheese mix."
"If Jesus had a dinosaur, I bet he called him Zippy."
"I am one of those Americans who find British accents to be almost an aphrodisiac."
Lynn:
"Every time I pop back here, you seem to be recommending some sort of filthy activity Dive."
Monsieur Benaut:
"Never met Molotov but the corsets set me thinking."
"The mind boggles !"
Ame:
"I NEED a good dose of Baps and PeePees right about now!"
"Let me TWEAK 'EM!"
Sassy:
"OK, enough of the America Fat already, or I'm going to start making lots of comments about British teeth."
"Sandals are a gift from the heavens."
"Oh, that's tasteless, Dive. Hee hee."
Dear Prudence:
"Dive, I am just wondering.... where's your pants? "
"I spend every possible minute neked."
"Where does he hide those dangly bits when he is dancing!"
Rich:
"Get yourself a Japanese maid uniform."
"Ahhh those guys in white hoods -reminds me of my youth."
Peahen:
"Just one gripe about the rotten trick of giving me the 'Old Labour and Proud of it' coffee mug!"
"Now everyone knows what cute feet you have."
Fresh Hell:
"I laughed when Diana died as well."
"I jumped out of a DC3 once … I was really glad about the parachute when I got out. It's the little details that put a shine on the flying experience."
"You are so touching each other's bums in that last shot!"
Old Knudsen:
"I laughed after the Tsunami and the Oklahoma and Omagh bombings. I didn't really you lot are cunts."
Thank fuck that's over.
I've reached the last month of my first year retrospective and now I'll have to start thinking of things to write about.
First up from July comes the finest picture I have ever found on the internet:
Jesus riding a dinosaur. How cool is that!July also saw the end of year party for my Japanese class.
こんにちわ guys! See you in a couple of weeks for next year's 日本語 fest.As I'm stinkingly busy today and cannot really justify sitting here blogging I'll make this mercifully quick.
Other July lowlights were a sweary rant about jumpers, the "laughing at Diana's death" meme which resulted in the launch of The Pariah Club, Groover's photo melee, the armies of good and evil descending on my town, and of course, the wonderful Robyn invading London and touching my bum.
A quick trawl though your comments bring us:
Robyn:
"The party looks like fun, even WITH the dead guy."
"Hey!!!!!!!!! I wear cut-off trousers, and I think I look darn cute."
"Deanna Durbin? Seriously?"
"I'll be careful to shave my beard before I arrive."
"Hey, who's the fat chick in the white shirt?"
Vic:
"I love stuffing."
"Masturbation is fun."
Kate:
"Robyn googled bukake?"
"Can I watch? Or can you get pics?"
"I have a secret fear of fat ankles."
"I laughed my arse off when the queen mother died, she was an evil cow."
"I have the best pic of my mother with her hand up a chickens bits."
Terroni:
"We Americans are too busy with YouTube porn to care."
"Bum toucher."
Maria:
"I giggled uncontrollably and have since been labeled by the rest of my family as the cold hearted woman who laughed when Princess Diana died."
"I also find clitoris to be a very tasty snack."
"What's not to enjoy about mincing mice into the pork cheese mix."
"If Jesus had a dinosaur, I bet he called him Zippy."
"I am one of those Americans who find British accents to be almost an aphrodisiac."
Lynn:
"Every time I pop back here, you seem to be recommending some sort of filthy activity Dive."
Monsieur Benaut:
"Never met Molotov but the corsets set me thinking."
"The mind boggles !"
Ame:
"I NEED a good dose of Baps and PeePees right about now!"
"Let me TWEAK 'EM!"
Sassy:
"OK, enough of the America Fat already, or I'm going to start making lots of comments about British teeth."
"Sandals are a gift from the heavens."
"Oh, that's tasteless, Dive. Hee hee."
Dear Prudence:
"Dive, I am just wondering.... where's your pants? "
"I spend every possible minute neked."
"Where does he hide those dangly bits when he is dancing!"
Rich:
"Get yourself a Japanese maid uniform."
"Ahhh those guys in white hoods -reminds me of my youth."
Peahen:
"Just one gripe about the rotten trick of giving me the 'Old Labour and Proud of it' coffee mug!"
"Now everyone knows what cute feet you have."
Fresh Hell:
"I laughed when Diana died as well."
"I jumped out of a DC3 once … I was really glad about the parachute when I got out. It's the little details that put a shine on the flying experience."
"You are so touching each other's bums in that last shot!"
Old Knudsen:
"I laughed after the Tsunami and the Oklahoma and Omagh bombings. I didn't really you lot are cunts."
Thank fuck that's over.
Monday, August 20, 2007
The Year Of Living Rantily Pt.X
With the inexorable inevitability of Mondays and toothache comes the next installment in Dive's "first year of blogging" retrospective.
The time has come to rummage through May's posts and see if anything worthwhile sticks to our furtively fumbling fingers.
Let's get the pretty stuff out of the way first. I posted this typical view from my neck of the woods to refute Mister Dickens' libellous assertion that Norfolk is … er … flat.
May also witnessed old Dive's spectacularly public car crash which provoked the biggest round of applause at that year's Knobworth Festival.
And Rich's relentless happiness sparked off an inevitable response, which neatly encapsulates "The Tao Of Dive":
Read and learn, my droogs.
"Let's just clear up a few things here:
Numero uno: Life sucks.
It sucks huge hairy arse.
A positive mental attitude just gets you shat on.
Every fucker is out to get you.
Helping others just makes you look like a pervert.
Every cloud is a fucking cloud.
Smiling makes you look creepy.
You really do look fat in that.
And ugly.
All the work you do simply enriches other people.
See? They are laughing at you.
Life is a big fat box of fucking misery.
And don't you forget it."
Some mornings I'm just little Mister Sunshine. I feel so damned perky I can light up the world with my happy smiles.
And a month with Dive simply couldn't go by without me taking the piss out of some poor religious group.
In May, it was this, followed by this and this.
May also saw the birth of Blogville (thanks to Maria), Willy Wonka's French Whore and Peter Gabriel taking the stage with my piss on his hands and his boots.
You lot were your normal sweet and delectable selves.
Here are some of your out-of-context comments from May's postbag:
Robyn:
"NO there is never an appropriate time to use "party" as a verb."
"The thought of anything being beaten with bagpipes is so ridiculously funny."
Kate:
"I was taught by a Mrs Dickman and a Mr Cox in the same year."
""Foetid pismire" even more inspirational than clusterfuck."
"I got my revenge, I made shrinkies out of her Evie records."
"Refreshingly fuckety."
"Disco is definitely not dead!"
"Pretty and witty and bi"
"I'm sitting here in a towel with hunks of foil in my hair pretty much impersonating sputnik."
"Fuckity fuck! Oh Yeah!"
Lynn:
"I would bend over for the spanking but yes you're right, it'd be far too enjoyable."
"He makes me want to give money to an animal sanctuary."
Dear Prudence:
"Dive, I forgive you for being a blind to the truth, pinhole informed Marxist."
"You NEED TO BE MOIST!"
"Mr. Ranty Pants! Oh how we love you!"
"We had a Congressman here and his name is (I swear) Dick Sweat!"
"Titties and beer!"
Vic:
"I saw this guy a couple of years ago - he's about 87 yrs now and he was on stage at a local park singing a very pathetic song with tight pants and looking like he had a codpiece or a penile implant."
"Good finger vibrato."
Mme. Benaut:
"My neurosurgeon's name was Mrs. Deadman!"
Maria:
"I think it is all that talk about ironing. It just sends me."
"Feeling very moist and beery today."
"I have these two joints in the box on top of my dresser."
"Let's see...in 1978, I was a sophomore in college and the biggest thing I did was to get stoned and go see Bob Dylan with my lover."
"Prosthetic genitalia...it just sort of floats right off the tongue, doesn't it?"
"Shit...I KNEW I looked fat in that. God damn it!"
"Bollocks, you ninnies."
Sassy:
"I'll leave the whole "moist" thing alone."
"Wow. He was young once. How strange."
"Sigh... Sonny Chiba."
"The Mafia are in cahoots with the US Postal Service."
"That warms the cockles of my heart."
Terroni:
"Party, party, party, paaarty!"
The Lovely Betty:
"I've got an uncle who's a Mr Goodhead."
Rich:
"White Punks on Dope!"
"I always try and invite these women in for coffee."
Old Knudsen:
"Does this dancing make me look like a fruit?"
"See you in hell commie boy."
Peahen:
"You're as happy as a dog and you've got two cocks?"
My favourite comment that month has to be Kate's simple and elegant "Fuckity Fuck! Oh Yeah!"; a splendid sentiment if ever there was one.
I feel a teeshirt coming on …
The time has come to rummage through May's posts and see if anything worthwhile sticks to our furtively fumbling fingers.
Let's get the pretty stuff out of the way first. I posted this typical view from my neck of the woods to refute Mister Dickens' libellous assertion that Norfolk is … er … flat.May also witnessed old Dive's spectacularly public car crash which provoked the biggest round of applause at that year's Knobworth Festival.
And Rich's relentless happiness sparked off an inevitable response, which neatly encapsulates "The Tao Of Dive":
Read and learn, my droogs.
"Let's just clear up a few things here:
Numero uno: Life sucks.
It sucks huge hairy arse.
A positive mental attitude just gets you shat on.
Every fucker is out to get you.
Helping others just makes you look like a pervert.
Every cloud is a fucking cloud.
Smiling makes you look creepy.
You really do look fat in that.
And ugly.
All the work you do simply enriches other people.
See? They are laughing at you.
Life is a big fat box of fucking misery.
And don't you forget it."
Some mornings I'm just little Mister Sunshine. I feel so damned perky I can light up the world with my happy smiles.
And a month with Dive simply couldn't go by without me taking the piss out of some poor religious group.
In May, it was this, followed by this and this.
May also saw the birth of Blogville (thanks to Maria), Willy Wonka's French Whore and Peter Gabriel taking the stage with my piss on his hands and his boots.
You lot were your normal sweet and delectable selves.
Here are some of your out-of-context comments from May's postbag:
Robyn:
"NO there is never an appropriate time to use "party" as a verb."
"The thought of anything being beaten with bagpipes is so ridiculously funny."
Kate:
"I was taught by a Mrs Dickman and a Mr Cox in the same year."
""Foetid pismire" even more inspirational than clusterfuck."
"I got my revenge, I made shrinkies out of her Evie records."
"Refreshingly fuckety."
"Disco is definitely not dead!"
"Pretty and witty and bi"
"I'm sitting here in a towel with hunks of foil in my hair pretty much impersonating sputnik."
"Fuckity fuck! Oh Yeah!"
Lynn:
"I would bend over for the spanking but yes you're right, it'd be far too enjoyable."
"He makes me want to give money to an animal sanctuary."
Dear Prudence:
"Dive, I forgive you for being a blind to the truth, pinhole informed Marxist."
"You NEED TO BE MOIST!"
"Mr. Ranty Pants! Oh how we love you!"
"We had a Congressman here and his name is (I swear) Dick Sweat!"
"Titties and beer!"
Vic:
"I saw this guy a couple of years ago - he's about 87 yrs now and he was on stage at a local park singing a very pathetic song with tight pants and looking like he had a codpiece or a penile implant."
"Good finger vibrato."
Mme. Benaut:
"My neurosurgeon's name was Mrs. Deadman!"
Maria:
"I think it is all that talk about ironing. It just sends me."
"Feeling very moist and beery today."
"I have these two joints in the box on top of my dresser."
"Let's see...in 1978, I was a sophomore in college and the biggest thing I did was to get stoned and go see Bob Dylan with my lover."
"Prosthetic genitalia...it just sort of floats right off the tongue, doesn't it?"
"Shit...I KNEW I looked fat in that. God damn it!"
"Bollocks, you ninnies."
Sassy:
"I'll leave the whole "moist" thing alone."
"Wow. He was young once. How strange."
"Sigh... Sonny Chiba."
"The Mafia are in cahoots with the US Postal Service."
"That warms the cockles of my heart."
Terroni:
"Party, party, party, paaarty!"
The Lovely Betty:
"I've got an uncle who's a Mr Goodhead."
Rich:
"White Punks on Dope!"
"I always try and invite these women in for coffee."
Old Knudsen:
"Does this dancing make me look like a fruit?"
"See you in hell commie boy."
Peahen:
"You're as happy as a dog and you've got two cocks?"
My favourite comment that month has to be Kate's simple and elegant "Fuckity Fuck! Oh Yeah!"; a splendid sentiment if ever there was one.
I feel a teeshirt coming on …
Friday, August 17, 2007
The Year Of Living Rantily Pt.IX
Trudging on through the impenetrable, treacly morass that is Dive's first year retrospective, we collapse in a sticky heap on the month of April.
The month that Knudsen turned nice (thankfully a temporary glitch), and that Dive shot a kitten …
Most of the month was taken up with my picturesque but tedious "look up" photoseries. The one shining exception, drenched in bile and filth, was the following post by Stouffer:
"Viddy well, my droogs.
For it is I, Stouffer, the blue rubber cat who guards Dive's dining room.
Dive is stinkingly busy this week and unlike most of the blogworld he carries on some pretence of having a life. So life comes first, work second, then blogging trails in somewhere after ironing and picking his nose.
While the dork's away, the cat can play.
Not that I'm a vicious, vindictive überbitch, but while he's off gazing into some woman's eyes and mooning over her like a soppy twat, I've got hold of the sucker's password and have taken over his stupid blog.
Now how the hell do I type that "mad scientist cackling laugh" thing?
So … Let's spill the beans on this tit you call Dive:
- He once had a ponytail and a goatee! … HA!
- Until last year when I burned 'em all, he thought Hawai'ian shirts were "cool".
- He cried at the end of Edward Scissorhands … Hahahahahahahahahahahaha!
- He lost his virginity in a car park in Lowestoft.
- With a farmer's daughter … Ah, the age of romance is not dead.
- He likes to be the big "rock star", but he once ended up supporting Freddie and the Dreamers at a fucking holiday camp. HA!
- He irons his boxer shorts.
- He likes lamps. I tell him "You like lamps! Your house is beautifully decorated! It's full of books and paintings! What the hell are you doing mooning after a WOMAN? Face it, you twat, you're gayer than Waylon Smithers!" … Does he listen? Does he fuck!
- He once did a post on his fucking spice rack! What kind of dicksplash posts his fucking spice rack? I despair sometimes. I really do …
- He's got a big box of Lego in his attic. He waits for friends to bring their kids round then gets it out and plays for hours. Totally ignores the fucking kids. What a world class wanker.
- He never posts photos of the back of his head, does he? Ha! Bald patch! Hahahahahaaaaa!
That'll teach him to stick his hand up my arse … Bastard!
Right. I'm off for a saucer of moloko."
Other than that, and Prudence's Rhyme-It Challenge, and "Cock", and Japanese maid's uniforms, it was a pretty dull month, blog-wise.
Your comments, on the other hand, were up to their usual standard of confused depravity. And we welcomed Terroni and Maria to Blogville, too.
This is what you reprobates had to say for yourselves:
Terroni:
"I'll never forget the look of that dead pig sitting in our bathtub full of ice."
"These freaks just want an excuse to watch the puppet sex over and over and over again!"
"The little black buggers stain my white sheets!"
"Utterly beautiful but absolutely useless"
"Not as amusing as a dead mime, but close."
"Did Lynn just say that her clitoris is flourishing?" She did indeed.
Dear Prudence:
"Lindsey Buckingham-OH FUCK!"
"Soppy Twat."
Robyn:
"Well, here's to a sillier world."
"Hooray for useless beauty."
"Everyone needs a tiny room with a gold pheasant on the top."
"I will NOT click on it to make it larger."
"What are grumpy trousers?"
"I hate to interrupt the frisky exchange here, you two, but...."
"Flutteringly Favorite."
"Rich, SHUT UP."
"Listen to you. What a cranky old fart."
"OH! OH! Now you've just gone too far."
Kate:
"I love producing the stiffy effect in a male."
"Monkeys flying out of your arse."
"I'm wearing thigh high leopard skin boots."
"Would have thought raw pussy would be something you'd be dining on frequently lately."
Sassy:
"I'm not Sassy Sundry. My real name is Lulu, and I'm shacked up with a guy named Hank."
"Words like "penis" tend to trigger things."
"I look like a junkie who has been beaten with sticks."
Maria:
"There is nothing scarier than having your doorbell ring at 2 a.m. and finding a clown standing there."
"I am just so stuck on the word "smegma"."
"I want whatever you're having. Two."
Gaijin Girl:
"I spend most of my time walking around in circles coz I can't remember which arrows make me go which way."
"My best plan is to get beaten up by the fundamentalist, head to the men's room to get electrocuted and slashed by the clown, then incinerated by the microwave in kitchen, then shark and weasels upstairs."
"Cheesy peas."
"Oh feck. I just dobbed myself in."
Peahen:
"… the goatee and pony tail. I'm afraid that I liked them both very much."
Lynn:
"I'd love to know the story worthy of stretching the man's penis then carving it out in all its glory."
"Yoko's wonderful."
"We must have a giggle and a sexy old wriggle."
"Men are still a bit of a mystery to me."
"Okay then, I'll put it on and serve you coffee, Rich. Once. Then we'll never speak of it again."
"The pink pig would be the one with poo popping out of his arse would it?"
"Oh Dive. Dive what have you done?"
"Yes cult, Dive. Careful with that one!"
Rich:
"Gee dive, you'd make someone a good wife."
"I'm just kissin' your ass to get off your "wanker list"."
"This is right up my alley, Dive. Playing dress up."
Ame:
"You need your arse SPANKED!"
"You lost me at twat!!"
Monsieur Benaut:
"We should set up a booth a few yards back and sell shanghais, replacement rubbers and old priest's habits."
"Are German knobs as shiny as British ones?"
"It's hard to think about dicks"
Fresh Hell:
"Whores! Every last one of them."
Old Knudsen:
"Freddy and the Dreamers? You are the coolest person ever."
"I'm so happy to get boners."
"I love kittens, they make me smile."
"I once got into a fist fight on how you pronounce clematis."
I pronounce it wrongly.
The month that Knudsen turned nice (thankfully a temporary glitch), and that Dive shot a kitten …
Most of the month was taken up with my picturesque but tedious "look up" photoseries. The one shining exception, drenched in bile and filth, was the following post by Stouffer:"Viddy well, my droogs.
For it is I, Stouffer, the blue rubber cat who guards Dive's dining room.
Dive is stinkingly busy this week and unlike most of the blogworld he carries on some pretence of having a life. So life comes first, work second, then blogging trails in somewhere after ironing and picking his nose.While the dork's away, the cat can play.
Not that I'm a vicious, vindictive überbitch, but while he's off gazing into some woman's eyes and mooning over her like a soppy twat, I've got hold of the sucker's password and have taken over his stupid blog.
Now how the hell do I type that "mad scientist cackling laugh" thing?
So … Let's spill the beans on this tit you call Dive:
- He once had a ponytail and a goatee! … HA!
- Until last year when I burned 'em all, he thought Hawai'ian shirts were "cool".
- He cried at the end of Edward Scissorhands … Hahahahahahahahahahahaha!
- He lost his virginity in a car park in Lowestoft.
- With a farmer's daughter … Ah, the age of romance is not dead.
- He likes to be the big "rock star", but he once ended up supporting Freddie and the Dreamers at a fucking holiday camp. HA!
- He irons his boxer shorts.
- He likes lamps. I tell him "You like lamps! Your house is beautifully decorated! It's full of books and paintings! What the hell are you doing mooning after a WOMAN? Face it, you twat, you're gayer than Waylon Smithers!" … Does he listen? Does he fuck!
- He once did a post on his fucking spice rack! What kind of dicksplash posts his fucking spice rack? I despair sometimes. I really do …
- He's got a big box of Lego in his attic. He waits for friends to bring their kids round then gets it out and plays for hours. Totally ignores the fucking kids. What a world class wanker.
- He never posts photos of the back of his head, does he? Ha! Bald patch! Hahahahahaaaaa!
That'll teach him to stick his hand up my arse … Bastard!
Right. I'm off for a saucer of moloko."
Other than that, and Prudence's Rhyme-It Challenge, and "Cock", and Japanese maid's uniforms, it was a pretty dull month, blog-wise.
Your comments, on the other hand, were up to their usual standard of confused depravity. And we welcomed Terroni and Maria to Blogville, too.
This is what you reprobates had to say for yourselves:
Terroni:
"I'll never forget the look of that dead pig sitting in our bathtub full of ice."
"These freaks just want an excuse to watch the puppet sex over and over and over again!"
"The little black buggers stain my white sheets!"
"Utterly beautiful but absolutely useless"
"Not as amusing as a dead mime, but close."
"Did Lynn just say that her clitoris is flourishing?" She did indeed.
Dear Prudence:
"Lindsey Buckingham-OH FUCK!"
"Soppy Twat."
Robyn:
"Well, here's to a sillier world."
"Hooray for useless beauty."
"Everyone needs a tiny room with a gold pheasant on the top."
"I will NOT click on it to make it larger."
"What are grumpy trousers?"
"I hate to interrupt the frisky exchange here, you two, but...."
"Flutteringly Favorite."
"Rich, SHUT UP."
"Listen to you. What a cranky old fart."
"OH! OH! Now you've just gone too far."
Kate:
"I love producing the stiffy effect in a male."
"Monkeys flying out of your arse."
"I'm wearing thigh high leopard skin boots."
"Would have thought raw pussy would be something you'd be dining on frequently lately."
Sassy:
"I'm not Sassy Sundry. My real name is Lulu, and I'm shacked up with a guy named Hank."
"Words like "penis" tend to trigger things."
"I look like a junkie who has been beaten with sticks."
Maria:
"There is nothing scarier than having your doorbell ring at 2 a.m. and finding a clown standing there."
"I am just so stuck on the word "smegma"."
"I want whatever you're having. Two."
Gaijin Girl:
"I spend most of my time walking around in circles coz I can't remember which arrows make me go which way."
"My best plan is to get beaten up by the fundamentalist, head to the men's room to get electrocuted and slashed by the clown, then incinerated by the microwave in kitchen, then shark and weasels upstairs."
"Cheesy peas."
"Oh feck. I just dobbed myself in."
Peahen:
"… the goatee and pony tail. I'm afraid that I liked them both very much."
Lynn:
"I'd love to know the story worthy of stretching the man's penis then carving it out in all its glory."
"Yoko's wonderful."
"We must have a giggle and a sexy old wriggle."
"Men are still a bit of a mystery to me."
"Okay then, I'll put it on and serve you coffee, Rich. Once. Then we'll never speak of it again."
"The pink pig would be the one with poo popping out of his arse would it?"
"Oh Dive. Dive what have you done?"
"Yes cult, Dive. Careful with that one!"
Rich:
"Gee dive, you'd make someone a good wife."
"I'm just kissin' your ass to get off your "wanker list"."
"This is right up my alley, Dive. Playing dress up."
Ame:
"You need your arse SPANKED!"
"You lost me at twat!!"
Monsieur Benaut:
"We should set up a booth a few yards back and sell shanghais, replacement rubbers and old priest's habits."
"Are German knobs as shiny as British ones?"
"It's hard to think about dicks"
Fresh Hell:
"Whores! Every last one of them."
Old Knudsen:
"Freddy and the Dreamers? You are the coolest person ever."
"I'm so happy to get boners."
"I love kittens, they make me smile."
"I once got into a fist fight on how you pronounce clematis."
I pronounce it wrongly.
The Year Of Living Rantily Pt.VIII
Whacko!
Time to dredge the crap out of March's postbag.
Quite apart from a brief history of astonishingly pervy British kids' TV from my childhood, March brought us the classic "Vibies Are A Girl's Best Friend" post where you all - very bravely - fessed up your amusing vibie true stories.
I just re-read your comments and laughed half my lunch out my nose.
Here is my personal favourite, from Lynn (though it was difficult to choose):
"My parents were staying. They use my room and i move into spare room as it's more pleasant for them with bathroom attached. Went in to get my clean knickers (keep it in knicker drawer) for following morning and to say goodnight. Feeling around and talking to them, wasn't paying attention and set the over-sensitive (one of the design faults) button off. BZZZZZZZZZZZZ! Quizzical looks from them, flustered look from me. Felt for it, pressed a button which turned out to be a further buzzy one, with whirly movement bashing against bottom of drawer. Finally switched thing off. Turned to them and said simply. "Neck massager. Tut. Thought we'd go to the antiques fair tomorrow, okay? Night then." Exit. Lay in bed cringeing."
March also spewed up the second best meme ever. A mind-buggering two-parter from the fecund brain of the Groover.
Here's Part One, which set me up in a particularly cruel way for …
(perhaps a little too predictably), the monumental confessional Part Two.
Other March lowlights included Dive slapping Hallmark yet again:
"Oh, crap. Another Hallmark Holiday.
Fuck Hallmark.
Every day is Mothers' Day.
Stop buying their crappy cards right now. It only encourages the bastards.
Actually, "Fuck Hallmark; Every Day Is Mothers' Day" would make a pretty good teeshirt. I think I'll make one for Mum …"
Plus Groover's Haircut Challenge, The One-Armed Man, spurting blood and concussion, origami food, my arsenal of Apple Macs, the street where I was born and the arrival of Australian food in my studio.
March also brought forth a whole month's worth of disturbing, amusing or just plain weird comments from the disturbing, amusing or just plain weird residents of Blogville.
Robyn:
"I am shocked and appalled."
"OH, baby Dive!!"
"Woohoo. A one-armed man!"
"Shoot the donkey."
"I'm so confused."
Ame:
"Knice Knobs!"
"I'll sleep with you in a heartbeat!"
"I could hear that grunting all the way to CALIFORNIA"
"Love you and your big pants."
"PMP! (Peeing my PANTS!)"
Rich:
"SHUT UP Ame!!!!"
"Dive are you sure that "she" wasn't Knudsen in a dress?"
"I recently visited a store in Portland Maine that sold nothing but women's pleasure toys."
Sassy:
"Step away from the Lolitas."
"Good luck with the wobbly goo."
"Good morning, Dive. You do look wonderful from across the ocean."
"I was absolutely convinced that she saw me in that pinwheel … Like I said, drugs."
"You are so cute. Why not pay a visit?"
"You won't respect me in the morning."
"And you'd have to get me over your knee."
"Can I have ten points anyway? I'm nice."
"You smell nice, but your evil monkeys stink."
Dear Prudence:
"She was naked at the time, she F'd up from that!"
"Well, there is just something sexy about a man diddlin' …"
"Now you know what women think of while they watch your fingers stroking your strings..."
"I was having a rather heated discussion with my oldest and when I ripped the bottom sheet off the bed... out flies my vibe and bounces across the floor and lands at his feet."
"It doesn't look like a tongue it is made out of kind of wiggly stuff so it feels soft and pliable like a tongue."
"Isnt' it funny how many men don't realize just how often women "rub it"?"
Fresh Hell:
"A horrifying glimpse of my middle aged body"
"Particularly fun was a glow in the dark jobbie that looked just like a male member, silicon textured and the whole bit"
Gaijin Girl:
"It's the year of the pig - revel in it."
"It's still green, though."
"Oh, feck"
Dick Headley:
"Deep-fried in batter might be nice?"
Peahen:
"That was me ringing your phone just now btw - answer, will you!"
"There's just not enough sculptural facial hair in the world."
Kate:
"Furniture wrestling used to be my favourite sport."
Vic:
"So are man-boobs one of the first places where the weight comes off or is that just something that happens to women?"
"Old Knudsen is right about the lemurs."
"Fucking monkeys weren't such a good idea after all."
Lynn:
"I too have an interloper who lives in my mirror."
"Dive consider yourself admonished and spanked by two of your ladies on here."
"… emerging giggling hysterically whilst throwing up on the field."
"Boo hoo now i'm thix again and in a tantrum. Waaaaa..."
"I remember that night, in bed, cuddling P or P i'm not sure who and ending up throwing him noisily on the floor. Our relationship was over. Yuk."
"I'm behind the sofa... BOO!"
"The rabbit is overrated and full of design faults."
Monsieur Benaut:
"Roll on Springtime, when little gurls' minds turn to LERRRRRVE."
"Bugger the Reef."
"Looked a bit like an Ottoman testicle adjuster, mate."
The Lovely Betty:
"I was never as disturbed by Johnny Morris or Glaze as I was by Pinky And Perky. My vile and twisted parents decorated my room with Pinky And Perky wallpaper and I had feverish dreams in which they came to life. Brrr."
"Cruising for little boys in tutus"
Old Knudsen:
"They thought I was mad you know so I bit off their faces."
"I think yer a right cunt but thats just me." (Ever the shrewd judge of character, Old K.) "Bloody sex mad aliens and their dumb questions."
"I was searching for little boys in tutus and I found yer site. I must say I'm disappointed."
MJ:
"What is that stain above Peter Glaze's finger?"
"I just come here for the freaks."
We got 'em in spades!
Time to dredge the crap out of March's postbag.
Quite apart from a brief history of astonishingly pervy British kids' TV from my childhood, March brought us the classic "Vibies Are A Girl's Best Friend" post where you all - very bravely - fessed up your amusing vibie true stories.
I just re-read your comments and laughed half my lunch out my nose.
Here is my personal favourite, from Lynn (though it was difficult to choose):
"My parents were staying. They use my room and i move into spare room as it's more pleasant for them with bathroom attached. Went in to get my clean knickers (keep it in knicker drawer) for following morning and to say goodnight. Feeling around and talking to them, wasn't paying attention and set the over-sensitive (one of the design faults) button off. BZZZZZZZZZZZZ! Quizzical looks from them, flustered look from me. Felt for it, pressed a button which turned out to be a further buzzy one, with whirly movement bashing against bottom of drawer. Finally switched thing off. Turned to them and said simply. "Neck massager. Tut. Thought we'd go to the antiques fair tomorrow, okay? Night then." Exit. Lay in bed cringeing."
March also spewed up the second best meme ever. A mind-buggering two-parter from the fecund brain of the Groover.
Here's Part One, which set me up in a particularly cruel way for …
(perhaps a little too predictably), the monumental confessional Part Two.
Other March lowlights included Dive slapping Hallmark yet again:
"Oh, crap. Another Hallmark Holiday.
Fuck Hallmark.
Every day is Mothers' Day.
Stop buying their crappy cards right now. It only encourages the bastards.
Actually, "Fuck Hallmark; Every Day Is Mothers' Day" would make a pretty good teeshirt. I think I'll make one for Mum …"
Plus Groover's Haircut Challenge, The One-Armed Man, spurting blood and concussion, origami food, my arsenal of Apple Macs, the street where I was born and the arrival of Australian food in my studio.
March also brought forth a whole month's worth of disturbing, amusing or just plain weird comments from the disturbing, amusing or just plain weird residents of Blogville.
Robyn:
"I am shocked and appalled."
"OH, baby Dive!!"
"Woohoo. A one-armed man!"
"Shoot the donkey."
"I'm so confused."
Ame:
"Knice Knobs!"
"I'll sleep with you in a heartbeat!"
"I could hear that grunting all the way to CALIFORNIA"
"Love you and your big pants."
"PMP! (Peeing my PANTS!)"
Rich:
"SHUT UP Ame!!!!"
"Dive are you sure that "she" wasn't Knudsen in a dress?"
"I recently visited a store in Portland Maine that sold nothing but women's pleasure toys."
Sassy:
"Step away from the Lolitas."
"Good luck with the wobbly goo."
"Good morning, Dive. You do look wonderful from across the ocean."
"I was absolutely convinced that she saw me in that pinwheel … Like I said, drugs."
"You are so cute. Why not pay a visit?"
"You won't respect me in the morning."
"And you'd have to get me over your knee."
"Can I have ten points anyway? I'm nice."
"You smell nice, but your evil monkeys stink."
Dear Prudence:
"She was naked at the time, she F'd up from that!"
"Well, there is just something sexy about a man diddlin' …"
"Now you know what women think of while they watch your fingers stroking your strings..."
"I was having a rather heated discussion with my oldest and when I ripped the bottom sheet off the bed... out flies my vibe and bounces across the floor and lands at his feet."
"It doesn't look like a tongue it is made out of kind of wiggly stuff so it feels soft and pliable like a tongue."
"Isnt' it funny how many men don't realize just how often women "rub it"?"
Fresh Hell:
"A horrifying glimpse of my middle aged body"
"Particularly fun was a glow in the dark jobbie that looked just like a male member, silicon textured and the whole bit"
Gaijin Girl:
"It's the year of the pig - revel in it."
"It's still green, though."
"Oh, feck"
Dick Headley:
"Deep-fried in batter might be nice?"
Peahen:
"That was me ringing your phone just now btw - answer, will you!"
"There's just not enough sculptural facial hair in the world."
Kate:
"Furniture wrestling used to be my favourite sport."
Vic:
"So are man-boobs one of the first places where the weight comes off or is that just something that happens to women?"
"Old Knudsen is right about the lemurs."
"Fucking monkeys weren't such a good idea after all."
Lynn:
"I too have an interloper who lives in my mirror."
"Dive consider yourself admonished and spanked by two of your ladies on here."
"… emerging giggling hysterically whilst throwing up on the field."
"Boo hoo now i'm thix again and in a tantrum. Waaaaa..."
"I remember that night, in bed, cuddling P or P i'm not sure who and ending up throwing him noisily on the floor. Our relationship was over. Yuk."
"I'm behind the sofa... BOO!"
"The rabbit is overrated and full of design faults."
Monsieur Benaut:
"Roll on Springtime, when little gurls' minds turn to LERRRRRVE."
"Bugger the Reef."
"Looked a bit like an Ottoman testicle adjuster, mate."
The Lovely Betty:
"I was never as disturbed by Johnny Morris or Glaze as I was by Pinky And Perky. My vile and twisted parents decorated my room with Pinky And Perky wallpaper and I had feverish dreams in which they came to life. Brrr."
"Cruising for little boys in tutus"
Old Knudsen:
"They thought I was mad you know so I bit off their faces."
"I think yer a right cunt but thats just me." (Ever the shrewd judge of character, Old K.) "Bloody sex mad aliens and their dumb questions."
"I was searching for little boys in tutus and I found yer site. I must say I'm disappointed."
MJ:
"What is that stain above Peter Glaze's finger?"
"I just come here for the freaks."
We got 'em in spades!
Monday, August 13, 2007
The Year Of Living Rantily Pt.VI
Back to my hugely self-indulgent trawl through twelve months of trash to celebrate my first year of blogging.
We reach January, 2007: home of The Spice Rack; the post that caused Old Knudsen to spontaneously combust.
And also home to my walk into the office; lots of insanely pretty photos of London along the Thames on my morning constitutional. With sarcastic commentary.
January was when poor old Dive launched himself into the reeking pismire of dating. Yikes! The posts themselves are tragic but do read the HUGE comment-fests; some of you guys really do need serious medication, although some of you were hugely supportive and sympathetic.
And my biggest comment bag of all (forty-nine of the suckers) was provoked by the strange "Boswell On Puffin-Frottage", beating my previous day's post on Ironing (ironing?) by only a single comment.
Go back and read what you wrote, you sick, sick people.
Having orbited the Planet the previous month, the incomparably groovy Groover finally landed in Blogville in January and set off a great little ranty mini-series on the twatty shop assistants in music stores. Here and here.
Also I revealed to the world why I have more taste than most people, which I shall relate once again here:
"I lost my sense of smell when I was fifteen.
I'd been rushed to hospital with a burst appendix and a fully functioning pheromonal facility. A couple of weeks of hilarious japes with abdominal drainage tubes later and I left hospital with neither appendix nor sense of smell.
My doctor shrugged his shoulders. Had I been a private patient, he could have made a lot of money from me, but this was the NHS, so his reaction was best summed up by the word "whatever".
Recently, this condition seems to have become fashionable and even has a name (anosmia) and lists of famous anosmics such as William Wordsworth and Michael Hutchens (and somewhat more yummily, Ben Cohen, of Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream) have appeared in the papers.
While this condition is classed a disability, we anosmics don't qualify for disability allowance like those scrounging slackers in the blind and deaf communities (smug bastards with their "proper" disabilities, curse their cotton socks).
Apparently, permanent anosmics like old Dive often have a much more developed sense of taste than those sniffy people with real working noses.
It's kinda nice for an arty-farty snob like me to have my superior taste officially recognised.
Weirdly, I can still remember smells and that can be a real pain.
I sometimes wake up from a dream (I can still smell in dreams, how freaky is that?) with a smell stuck in my brain that stays there all day.
The most annoying "virtual smell" I get stuck with is the smell of washday from when I was a little kid. We had a cold tap and a copper by the range for heating water. The awful smell of damp, soap-powdery clothes in a tiny back room sometimes assails me for days at a time. And oranges … which is a real pisser if I'm hungry.
Some advantages I have over "normally nosed" people:
- I can sit quite happily beside a farting dog and not notice a thing, while the rest of the room runs away, gagging.
- I am a demon at raw chili-eating contests.
- er … that's about it.
Some disadvantages:
- Being unable to smell burning.
- Being unable to smell gas.
- Being shaken awake in the dead of night with a "What's that smell?"
- Having to follow a frantic woman round the house as she tries to locate the "burning smell" or "leaking gas" she is convinced has woken her. And being bawled out for my inability to help.
- Not realising I have a drainage problem until someone visits and reels back, going "What the fuck is that stink?"
- Not realising I've got dogshit on my shoe at work.
- Becoming a fanatically clean person so I don't risk being smelly.
And a couple more: Having no sense of smell and an enhanced sense of taste, I tend to "taste" smells, but can only pick up on a tiny amount of any smell. And it's usually the wrong part of it …
Ame (and a lot of other people besides) loves Lush products. While I can understand that they might smell very nice to her, all I can pick up on is a horrid taste of washday soap powder and rotting fruit.
And I know a lot of you like perfume … Well should we ever meet, please, PLEASE don't wear any. It's an effective Dive repellent (maybe I shouldn't have given that away).
Even with the most expensive perfumes, all I can taste is the solvent. Chanel No5 tastes like a petrol/paint-stripper flavour and is the last thing I want to inhale close up.
I'm with the Japanese in finding the neck the most erotic part of a woman. For me, there is nothing nicer than nuzzling into that bit under her ear and inhaling lovely fresh, clean woman. If she's wearing perfume I have to reel away and have (once or twice) been known to involuntarily gag. EWW! That stuff is repellent!
So. That's me and my anosmia. At least I have better taste than you. Official."
Other than that, January contained the famous camellia, and a wonderful project from the lovely Robyn , called "I Am From". Here's Robyn's and here's mine. If anyone's not done it yet, go to Robyn's site and pick up the template and have a pop at it yourself.
January also introduced Stouffer, my blue rubber cat. We shall be hearing disgusting revelations and swearing from him later.
Tune in tomorrow for yet more tedium.
We reach January, 2007: home of The Spice Rack; the post that caused Old Knudsen to spontaneously combust.
And also home to my walk into the office; lots of insanely pretty photos of London along the Thames on my morning constitutional. With sarcastic commentary.
January was when poor old Dive launched himself into the reeking pismire of dating. Yikes! The posts themselves are tragic but do read the HUGE comment-fests; some of you guys really do need serious medication, although some of you were hugely supportive and sympathetic.
And my biggest comment bag of all (forty-nine of the suckers) was provoked by the strange "Boswell On Puffin-Frottage", beating my previous day's post on Ironing (ironing?) by only a single comment.
Go back and read what you wrote, you sick, sick people.
Having orbited the Planet the previous month, the incomparably groovy Groover finally landed in Blogville in January and set off a great little ranty mini-series on the twatty shop assistants in music stores. Here and here.
Also I revealed to the world why I have more taste than most people, which I shall relate once again here:
"I lost my sense of smell when I was fifteen.
I'd been rushed to hospital with a burst appendix and a fully functioning pheromonal facility. A couple of weeks of hilarious japes with abdominal drainage tubes later and I left hospital with neither appendix nor sense of smell.
My doctor shrugged his shoulders. Had I been a private patient, he could have made a lot of money from me, but this was the NHS, so his reaction was best summed up by the word "whatever".
Recently, this condition seems to have become fashionable and even has a name (anosmia) and lists of famous anosmics such as William Wordsworth and Michael Hutchens (and somewhat more yummily, Ben Cohen, of Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream) have appeared in the papers.
While this condition is classed a disability, we anosmics don't qualify for disability allowance like those scrounging slackers in the blind and deaf communities (smug bastards with their "proper" disabilities, curse their cotton socks).
Apparently, permanent anosmics like old Dive often have a much more developed sense of taste than those sniffy people with real working noses.
It's kinda nice for an arty-farty snob like me to have my superior taste officially recognised.
Weirdly, I can still remember smells and that can be a real pain.
I sometimes wake up from a dream (I can still smell in dreams, how freaky is that?) with a smell stuck in my brain that stays there all day.
The most annoying "virtual smell" I get stuck with is the smell of washday from when I was a little kid. We had a cold tap and a copper by the range for heating water. The awful smell of damp, soap-powdery clothes in a tiny back room sometimes assails me for days at a time. And oranges … which is a real pisser if I'm hungry.
Some advantages I have over "normally nosed" people:
- I can sit quite happily beside a farting dog and not notice a thing, while the rest of the room runs away, gagging.
- I am a demon at raw chili-eating contests.
- er … that's about it.
Some disadvantages:
- Being unable to smell burning.
- Being unable to smell gas.
- Being shaken awake in the dead of night with a "What's that smell?"
- Having to follow a frantic woman round the house as she tries to locate the "burning smell" or "leaking gas" she is convinced has woken her. And being bawled out for my inability to help.
- Not realising I have a drainage problem until someone visits and reels back, going "What the fuck is that stink?"
- Not realising I've got dogshit on my shoe at work.
- Becoming a fanatically clean person so I don't risk being smelly.
And a couple more: Having no sense of smell and an enhanced sense of taste, I tend to "taste" smells, but can only pick up on a tiny amount of any smell. And it's usually the wrong part of it …
Ame (and a lot of other people besides) loves Lush products. While I can understand that they might smell very nice to her, all I can pick up on is a horrid taste of washday soap powder and rotting fruit.
And I know a lot of you like perfume … Well should we ever meet, please, PLEASE don't wear any. It's an effective Dive repellent (maybe I shouldn't have given that away).
Even with the most expensive perfumes, all I can taste is the solvent. Chanel No5 tastes like a petrol/paint-stripper flavour and is the last thing I want to inhale close up.
I'm with the Japanese in finding the neck the most erotic part of a woman. For me, there is nothing nicer than nuzzling into that bit under her ear and inhaling lovely fresh, clean woman. If she's wearing perfume I have to reel away and have (once or twice) been known to involuntarily gag. EWW! That stuff is repellent!
So. That's me and my anosmia. At least I have better taste than you. Official."
Other than that, January contained the famous camellia, and a wonderful project from the lovely Robyn , called "I Am From". Here's Robyn's and here's mine. If anyone's not done it yet, go to Robyn's site and pick up the template and have a pop at it yourself.
January also introduced Stouffer, my blue rubber cat. We shall be hearing disgusting revelations and swearing from him later.Tune in tomorrow for yet more tedium.
Friday, August 10, 2007
The Year Of Living Rantily Pt.V
Still trawling through the archives of my first year of blogging.
December, 2006 seemed to consist of depression, parties and Marxism in equal measure.
Here it is in pictures:
Neil and Dive, the two most miserable bastards in Norfolk
The tool of my trade
Partying for 50 years of the Cuban Revolution.
!Hasta La Victoria Siempre!
"If it ain't STIFF, it ain't worth a fuck!"
Better than sex
Space, £19.99
Next summer's fashion essential
Splendid moustaches
Dodgy
A Happy Christmas to all my readers
Several more people crash landed on the Small Glass Planet during December.
Some bounced off, but two made HUGE impact craters:
Hugs and kisses to the utterly wonderful Kate and Ame! Yaaay!
And at the end of December I made my resolutions for 2007. Let's see how those are doing, shall we?
- Be less of a miserable old bugger; Well considering how depressed I was when I wrote my Christmas Appeal (below), I'm as happy as Tickle-Me Elmo, so that's one down.
- Stop kicking children in supermarkets; I don't use supermarkets any more so that's another one ticked off. I still kick children though.
- Get a girlfriend (Hah!); Quite astonishingly, I have a wonderful girlfriend now and we've been together since since early February. Six months tonight. Happy anniversary, darling. A happy Dive is a scary proposition, is it not?
- Keep blogging; Sorry, but I'm still here.
- Keep getting 100 percent in my Japanese exams; I did! I did!
- Take up a new hobby; maybe macramé, caravanning or puffin-frottage. I've taken up kissing. It's great! Much better than I remembered.
- Eat a dolphin; Dammit! There had to be one I've not yet achieved. But hey, it's only August. And I've eaten whalemeat so that's a start.
So let's start the retrospective festivities with "Dive's Christmas Appeal".
Reading it again I honestly can't believe I was that depressed. What a miserable bastard!
Here it is in all its gory glory, including a singalong Smiths song:
"Around this time of year we are bombarded with Christmas appeals. There are so many groups who are in need and it's nice to give something so that someone will have a less shitty time of it at the peak of the suicide season. I like to slip my Big Issue guy a twenty pound note for the Christmas Issue, and my big 'pennies' jar (£170 odd this year) has gone toward Motor Neurone research, which also goes toward making me feel less shitty about myself. And there are lots of others …
This year, when you set aside a moment to consider those less fortunate, I'd like to remind you of a group who get left out year after year; snubbed and ignored, especially around the "party season" when everyone else is so happy.
So Dive's Christmas Appeal for 2006 is:
"Spare a thought for the ugly this Christmas".
I admit to a special interest here as I am a longstanding and fully paid up member of this group.
Take it from one who knows: Christmas is a fucking awful time to be ugly. I mean, I'm not hideous (well not very), but when I walk into a party and people turn to see who it is, I can feel a palpable flinch from all the unattached women in the room.
We ugs are the people who put the "N" in "hello" … We say "Hello" to a woman and her mind forms it automatically into "Hell No".
And even if one of us somehow makes it into a relationship, we get the feeling that we're as sexually attractive as yesterday's washing-up …
You know, you see it all piled up and stinky in the sink and you know somebody's got to do it, but … (shudder). No way! Not even with Marigolds on …
And mistletoe. Fuck all round that.
And stupid drunk office girls in Santa hats snogging everything that moves … everything but an ug, of course.
And stupid "feel good" Christmas crap fucking TV. Where are the ugs? Nowhere. Except for "fake ug", like Ugly Betty … Listen, you TV twats: putting a brace and glasses on a pretty girl does not make her ugly. Ug is Ug. If TV used real ugs, nobody would watch. Just like real life … Bastards!
And "the youth of today", pretty girls binge-drinking 'til they puke, then fucking in their own stink and leaving pools of chlamydia wherever they sit. But even semi-conscious from booze, they won't go near an ug.
And sicky-sicky married couples with their "lovely" kids. Do we ugs get to be attractive married couples? Do we bollocks! So don't invite us over at Christmas; seeing you so happy only makes us more fucking miserable when we get home alone to our dark empty houses.
And girlfriends who are 'friends who happen to be girls'. I've got girlfriends coming out of my fucking ears, but they'd all puke at the thought of dating me. (Ugs make girlfriends as easily as gay guys do; we're "safe" … Hah!).
And Christmas parties? Don't get me started … really … don't. There's no love in our ugly lives and no prospect of any, so Christmas really sucks huge ass. We ugs even have our own anthem. The lovely Mister Mozza wrote it for us; How Soon Is Now (sing along):
I am the son
And the heir
Of a shyness that is criminally vulgar
I am the son and the heir
Of nothing in particular
You shut your mouth
How can you say
I go about things the wrong way
I am Human and I need to be loved
Just like everybody else does
There's a club, if you'd like to go
You could meet somebody who really loves you
So you go, and you stand on your own
And you leave on your own
And you go home
And you cry
And you want to die
When you say it's gonna happen now,
Well, when exactly do you mean?
See I've already waited too long
And all my hope is gone
You shut your mouth
How can you say
I go about things the wrong way
I am Human and I need to be loved
Just like everybody else does
So, this is Dive's Christmas Appeal: Embittered, lonely, rejected, heartbroken and self-pityingly miserable as we are, please spare a thought for the ugly this Christmas. Grit your teeth, pucker up and kiss one of us. You can have some chocolate after to take the taste away. And you can enjoy your Christmas knowing you've done your good deed.
Sorry guys; I tried, but the Grinch is back with a vengeance."
Highlight of the month was "National Drunk Blogging Day", to be resurrected this weekend by Vic (good luck, mate).
My menu consisted:
One bottle of chardonnay
One bottle of Rioja
One bottle of malt whisky (Macallan)
One bottle of vodka
Four cans of Adnams Suffolk Stong Beer.
Fuck!
Other spiffy parts of December included my "year in music", "little Dive" looking almost as cute as Robyn, acres of Christmas misery, Iraqtile Dysfunction and much, much more.
It also saw the launch of the only good meme ever made, which included:
"14. You have been given the opportunity to create the half-hour TV show of your own design. What is it called and what’s the premise?
It's called "I'm A Celebrity, Beat The Crap Out Of Me" and stars every "celebrity" on the planet. They are brutally beaten and tortured for twenty minutes in front of a live audience, then put to death in amusing ways by cute Japanese girls in bikinis."
Why has this programme not been made? I can't understand it.
Favourite "Dive" moment from December, 2006:
"Fuck America! Let's Party!"
Best comments:
Robyn:
""Fuck America?" You wound me, Dive. If this quote comes back to haunt me, I swear..."
You certainly did, young Robyn!
"I do love the naked starfish buttocks"
"Those Christians, I hate em."
"Spurty and jelly minded"
"Porn cookbooks"
Rich:
"An Indian guy with a small penis"
Sassy:
"By the way, you are cute."
"Dive is cute, single, and fantastic."
"I think you should take up macramé."
Old Knudsen:
"You lot are so ghey, you should see the knockers I posted"
"I'd swear that ugly wee shite winked at me"
Lynn:
"Darling, they don't have any SMALL ones! Shall I get these instead?"
"Oooh! I badly need one of those contraptions"
"Did I just admit to knitting?"
Ame:
"Orgasmic!!!"
Dear Prudence:
"Seductively smooth, almost creamy"
Utsav:
"One can never have too many guitars."
Ms.Mac:
"Hee hee. Farts!"
The Lovely Betty:
"The last thrupenny bit sized scab fell out of my nose yesterday."
Peahen (ever reliable)
"Spurting, spraying and gushing."
Thank God that year's over.
December, 2006 seemed to consist of depression, parties and Marxism in equal measure.
Here it is in pictures:
Neil and Dive, the two most miserable bastards in Norfolk
The tool of my trade
Partying for 50 years of the Cuban Revolution.!Hasta La Victoria Siempre!
"If it ain't STIFF, it ain't worth a fuck!"
Better than sex
Space, £19.99
Next summer's fashion essential
Splendid moustaches
Dodgy
A Happy Christmas to all my readersSome bounced off, but two made HUGE impact craters:
Hugs and kisses to the utterly wonderful Kate and Ame! Yaaay!
And at the end of December I made my resolutions for 2007. Let's see how those are doing, shall we?
- Be less of a miserable old bugger; Well considering how depressed I was when I wrote my Christmas Appeal (below), I'm as happy as Tickle-Me Elmo, so that's one down.
- Stop kicking children in supermarkets; I don't use supermarkets any more so that's another one ticked off. I still kick children though.
- Get a girlfriend (Hah!); Quite astonishingly, I have a wonderful girlfriend now and we've been together since since early February. Six months tonight. Happy anniversary, darling. A happy Dive is a scary proposition, is it not?
- Keep blogging; Sorry, but I'm still here.
- Keep getting 100 percent in my Japanese exams; I did! I did!
- Take up a new hobby; maybe macramé, caravanning or puffin-frottage. I've taken up kissing. It's great! Much better than I remembered.
- Eat a dolphin; Dammit! There had to be one I've not yet achieved. But hey, it's only August. And I've eaten whalemeat so that's a start.
So let's start the retrospective festivities with "Dive's Christmas Appeal".
Reading it again I honestly can't believe I was that depressed. What a miserable bastard!
Here it is in all its gory glory, including a singalong Smiths song:
"Around this time of year we are bombarded with Christmas appeals. There are so many groups who are in need and it's nice to give something so that someone will have a less shitty time of it at the peak of the suicide season. I like to slip my Big Issue guy a twenty pound note for the Christmas Issue, and my big 'pennies' jar (£170 odd this year) has gone toward Motor Neurone research, which also goes toward making me feel less shitty about myself. And there are lots of others …
This year, when you set aside a moment to consider those less fortunate, I'd like to remind you of a group who get left out year after year; snubbed and ignored, especially around the "party season" when everyone else is so happy.
So Dive's Christmas Appeal for 2006 is:
"Spare a thought for the ugly this Christmas".
I admit to a special interest here as I am a longstanding and fully paid up member of this group.
Take it from one who knows: Christmas is a fucking awful time to be ugly. I mean, I'm not hideous (well not very), but when I walk into a party and people turn to see who it is, I can feel a palpable flinch from all the unattached women in the room.
We ugs are the people who put the "N" in "hello" … We say "Hello" to a woman and her mind forms it automatically into "Hell No".
And even if one of us somehow makes it into a relationship, we get the feeling that we're as sexually attractive as yesterday's washing-up …
You know, you see it all piled up and stinky in the sink and you know somebody's got to do it, but … (shudder). No way! Not even with Marigolds on …
And mistletoe. Fuck all round that.
And stupid drunk office girls in Santa hats snogging everything that moves … everything but an ug, of course.
And stupid "feel good" Christmas crap fucking TV. Where are the ugs? Nowhere. Except for "fake ug", like Ugly Betty … Listen, you TV twats: putting a brace and glasses on a pretty girl does not make her ugly. Ug is Ug. If TV used real ugs, nobody would watch. Just like real life … Bastards!
And "the youth of today", pretty girls binge-drinking 'til they puke, then fucking in their own stink and leaving pools of chlamydia wherever they sit. But even semi-conscious from booze, they won't go near an ug.
And sicky-sicky married couples with their "lovely" kids. Do we ugs get to be attractive married couples? Do we bollocks! So don't invite us over at Christmas; seeing you so happy only makes us more fucking miserable when we get home alone to our dark empty houses.
And girlfriends who are 'friends who happen to be girls'. I've got girlfriends coming out of my fucking ears, but they'd all puke at the thought of dating me. (Ugs make girlfriends as easily as gay guys do; we're "safe" … Hah!).
And Christmas parties? Don't get me started … really … don't. There's no love in our ugly lives and no prospect of any, so Christmas really sucks huge ass. We ugs even have our own anthem. The lovely Mister Mozza wrote it for us; How Soon Is Now (sing along):
I am the son
And the heir
Of a shyness that is criminally vulgar
I am the son and the heir
Of nothing in particular
You shut your mouth
How can you say
I go about things the wrong way
I am Human and I need to be loved
Just like everybody else does
There's a club, if you'd like to go
You could meet somebody who really loves you
So you go, and you stand on your own
And you leave on your own
And you go home
And you cry
And you want to die
When you say it's gonna happen now,
Well, when exactly do you mean?
See I've already waited too long
And all my hope is gone
You shut your mouth
How can you say
I go about things the wrong way
I am Human and I need to be loved
Just like everybody else does
So, this is Dive's Christmas Appeal: Embittered, lonely, rejected, heartbroken and self-pityingly miserable as we are, please spare a thought for the ugly this Christmas. Grit your teeth, pucker up and kiss one of us. You can have some chocolate after to take the taste away. And you can enjoy your Christmas knowing you've done your good deed.
Sorry guys; I tried, but the Grinch is back with a vengeance."
Highlight of the month was "National Drunk Blogging Day", to be resurrected this weekend by Vic (good luck, mate).
My menu consisted:
One bottle of chardonnay
One bottle of Rioja
One bottle of malt whisky (Macallan)
One bottle of vodka
Four cans of Adnams Suffolk Stong Beer.
Fuck!
Other spiffy parts of December included my "year in music", "little Dive" looking almost as cute as Robyn, acres of Christmas misery, Iraqtile Dysfunction and much, much more.
It also saw the launch of the only good meme ever made, which included:
"14. You have been given the opportunity to create the half-hour TV show of your own design. What is it called and what’s the premise?
It's called "I'm A Celebrity, Beat The Crap Out Of Me" and stars every "celebrity" on the planet. They are brutally beaten and tortured for twenty minutes in front of a live audience, then put to death in amusing ways by cute Japanese girls in bikinis."
Why has this programme not been made? I can't understand it.
Favourite "Dive" moment from December, 2006:
"Fuck America! Let's Party!"
Best comments:
Robyn:
""Fuck America?" You wound me, Dive. If this quote comes back to haunt me, I swear..."
You certainly did, young Robyn!
"I do love the naked starfish buttocks"
"Those Christians, I hate em."
"Spurty and jelly minded"
"Porn cookbooks"
Rich:
"An Indian guy with a small penis"
Sassy:
"By the way, you are cute."
"Dive is cute, single, and fantastic."
"I think you should take up macramé."
Old Knudsen:
"You lot are so ghey, you should see the knockers I posted"
"I'd swear that ugly wee shite winked at me"
Lynn:
"Darling, they don't have any SMALL ones! Shall I get these instead?"
"Oooh! I badly need one of those contraptions"
"Did I just admit to knitting?"
Ame:
"Orgasmic!!!"
Dear Prudence:
"Seductively smooth, almost creamy"
Utsav:
"One can never have too many guitars."
Ms.Mac:
"Hee hee. Farts!"
The Lovely Betty:
"The last thrupenny bit sized scab fell out of my nose yesterday."
Peahen (ever reliable)
"Spurting, spraying and gushing."
Thank God that year's over.
The Year Of Living Rantily Pt.IV
Hokay; we're up to November, 2006, and as both Monsieur Benaut and Robyn yesterday posted kitty photos (I know, it's a plague all over the internet, but at least they're not as disgusting as baby photos … ACK!) I thought I'd start my November archive trawl with these photos of the best pussy I ever stroked, the late, great Kate.
Warm, fluffy, nuzzly pussy. All a growing boy needs.
Excuse me for a second while I delve into the smelly old box marked "Used Novembers" and see what comes crawling out …
Ah! The winter storms post. I liked that one:
"In winter, I love walking our desolate local beaches in really huge storms. Like that one in Ryan's Daughter.
Any chance I get, if the weather forecast sends us a big one, I'm off to see Mother Nature throw a wobbly. To stand there and let her get all shouty at me. I love it …
One of the best I ever found was at Walberswick, some years back.
It was February. There was a thunderstorm … and I mean a fucking huge storm! All howling and swirling black sky and searing lightning. It tore over the marshes and up the valley like the wrath of God.
There's a wrecked concrete breakwater at the harbour mouth (it's the one under Peahen's bottom on that picture I posted of her). I clambered over the barrier and walked right out to the end. It's all twisted, rotting concrete with rusted reinforcing bars sticking out, and this HUGE sea towered over it.
Every massive wave pounded and smashed into it with an enormous BOOM. The whole structure shuddered and shook. It was brilliant! (and very, very cold and wet) …
It was a totally stupid thing to do but I just clamped my legs round a concrete beam and sat there for ages watching the storm, letting the waves try and knock me off while the sky tore itself to bits all around me. And it was one of the most fantastic feelings I've ever had …"
Who needs drugs to get high?
My favourite Dive quote from November:
"Okay; let's get sweary …"
Runner-up:
"Kerblooey!"
"Blam!"
"Luke, I am your father."
"Pow!"
"Flash Gordon approaching! Open fire ! All weapons!"
"Boom!"
"Mwah hah hah haaa …"
Also revealed that month was my sordid past as a bomb-maker in "Blowing Shit Up".
These days people get a free holiday in Gitmo for knowing how to make bombs, but when I was a kid we ALL knew.
And we made the buggers and blew shit up with 'em.
What is the world coming to?
On the 11th, Lynn crash-landed on the Planet in bizarre fashion.
Having left a nice little comment on my blog I checked hers out only to find a desperate plea from a potential suicide. Yikes!
After some confusion it turned out that this was the first chapter of Lynn's novel "Under A Train", which she quickly amended to make plain it was fiction, not a real blogger about to top herself. Whew!
I'm so glad you joined us, Lynn.
And Lynn was followed swiftly by the more conventional landings of Monsieur Benaut and the lovely Betty. Blogging was getting jollier by the day.
Anyone wanting to see a cute picture of me as a toddler can check out that months "Tom Purdew" tale.
Here's November's extract from my Encyclopædia Profanica:
"I'll quote from the Guardian (I'm sure they won't mind).
"After more than five years of delicate and dangerous excavation on Derbyshire moorland, potholers have confirmed that Britain's biggest cave lies hidden below a fissure known for centuries as the Devil's Arsehole."
Why our dear Mister Knudsen sprang to mind I have no idea, but I'm relieved to discover that the Devil's Arsehole has not yet been bowdlerised by prudish nearby residents. I have great affection for rude historical names since my old mate Babs, up in Shetland, pointed out a standing stone to me, in front of which a small sign read (in a splendid attempt at the local vernacular) "The White Stane Of Willie."
I was disgusted to hear that Slut's Hole Lane, near my brother's house in Attleborough has now been re-named something inoffensive due to residents' complaints. This is a growing problem in crowded little Britain. We need to fight to keep our filthy places filthy.
The most famous example of this is a street I pass along every working day.
For centuries, fragrant ladies have plied their venerable trade there, offering such exotic delights as "penny up the wall" knee-tremblers, as a result of which, the place was officially known by the delightful soubriquet of (cover your eyes, Robyn) "Gropecunte Lane".
Unfortunately, when the Bank of England was located there, they renamed it Threadneedle Street (still a lingering trace of the old profession in the new name)."
I also took another pop at stupid parents for scaring the shit out of me with close-up photos of babies whenever I hit the "next blog" button:
"Religious blogs and those with fucking babies all over them scare me. Stop breeding, you ignorant fuckers. The world cannot possibly feed your snivelling, ugly children.
If I see another fucking baby blog, I'm going Godzilla on this stinking planet."
I sometimes get dizzy thinking how tolerant and easy-going I am.
Nestling in the heart of November's crap-shower is one of my very favourite comment-fests, where Robyn and me get down and dirty about religion. I love that one.
And check this one out for schoolday reminiscences and sex in the art room.
And this one for the truth about Thanksgiving and why I love Christina Ricci.
Best comments from November, 2006:
Old Knudsen:
"Natalie Portman makes me feel like a pedo"
"Is this Club Suck? Ok Mr Dive, get to work on me lad."
Sassy:
"Die, Bitch!"
"Nice privy."
"Cute pig, and great Arsehole."
Robyn:
"I excuse myself and go to the old fart mommy store with elastic waists and shoulder pads."
"Gosh, I never thought I'd have a Marxist Pal" … Robyn, I never thought I'd have a Christian, Middle-American Mom as a pal. It's a scary world.
"I missed, and most of it ended up all over the floor smelling quite like whiskey"
"When it comes to playing the horn, I think you can blow and suck at the same time."
Ms.Mac:
" I made an absolutely hilarious comment about George Clooney and my arse earlier but Blogger ate it."
Lynn (eloquent as ever):
"blah di blah di blah"
Rich:
"Rebel Rebel and Bowie never gets old!!"
"How about a date with my ex wife?"
Peahen:
"You barely paused to pull on your "PantsMan" mask, tights and cape"
"I'm Spartacus."
So, November goes back in the box.
Farewell to swearing, pussy, teenage sex, lots of pictures of my 3D work, bomb-making, non-dating, misery, the Devil's Arsehole, US mid-term elections, Marxism, dressing up as Hawai'i 5-0, driving "The Italian Job" style and a bit more swearing for good measure.
November was also National Blog Posting Month where we had to do a post every day.
Never again!
Warm, fluffy, nuzzly pussy. All a growing boy needs.Excuse me for a second while I delve into the smelly old box marked "Used Novembers" and see what comes crawling out …
Ah! The winter storms post. I liked that one:
"In winter, I love walking our desolate local beaches in really huge storms. Like that one in Ryan's Daughter.
Any chance I get, if the weather forecast sends us a big one, I'm off to see Mother Nature throw a wobbly. To stand there and let her get all shouty at me. I love it …
One of the best I ever found was at Walberswick, some years back.
It was February. There was a thunderstorm … and I mean a fucking huge storm! All howling and swirling black sky and searing lightning. It tore over the marshes and up the valley like the wrath of God.
There's a wrecked concrete breakwater at the harbour mouth (it's the one under Peahen's bottom on that picture I posted of her). I clambered over the barrier and walked right out to the end. It's all twisted, rotting concrete with rusted reinforcing bars sticking out, and this HUGE sea towered over it.
Every massive wave pounded and smashed into it with an enormous BOOM. The whole structure shuddered and shook. It was brilliant! (and very, very cold and wet) …
It was a totally stupid thing to do but I just clamped my legs round a concrete beam and sat there for ages watching the storm, letting the waves try and knock me off while the sky tore itself to bits all around me. And it was one of the most fantastic feelings I've ever had …"
Who needs drugs to get high?
My favourite Dive quote from November:
"Okay; let's get sweary …"
Runner-up:
"Kerblooey!"
"Blam!"
"Luke, I am your father."
"Pow!"
"Flash Gordon approaching! Open fire ! All weapons!"
"Boom!"
"Mwah hah hah haaa …"
Also revealed that month was my sordid past as a bomb-maker in "Blowing Shit Up".
These days people get a free holiday in Gitmo for knowing how to make bombs, but when I was a kid we ALL knew.
And we made the buggers and blew shit up with 'em.
What is the world coming to?
On the 11th, Lynn crash-landed on the Planet in bizarre fashion.
Having left a nice little comment on my blog I checked hers out only to find a desperate plea from a potential suicide. Yikes!
After some confusion it turned out that this was the first chapter of Lynn's novel "Under A Train", which she quickly amended to make plain it was fiction, not a real blogger about to top herself. Whew!
I'm so glad you joined us, Lynn.
And Lynn was followed swiftly by the more conventional landings of Monsieur Benaut and the lovely Betty. Blogging was getting jollier by the day.
Anyone wanting to see a cute picture of me as a toddler can check out that months "Tom Purdew" tale.
Here's November's extract from my Encyclopædia Profanica:
"I'll quote from the Guardian (I'm sure they won't mind).
"After more than five years of delicate and dangerous excavation on Derbyshire moorland, potholers have confirmed that Britain's biggest cave lies hidden below a fissure known for centuries as the Devil's Arsehole."
Why our dear Mister Knudsen sprang to mind I have no idea, but I'm relieved to discover that the Devil's Arsehole has not yet been bowdlerised by prudish nearby residents. I have great affection for rude historical names since my old mate Babs, up in Shetland, pointed out a standing stone to me, in front of which a small sign read (in a splendid attempt at the local vernacular) "The White Stane Of Willie."
I was disgusted to hear that Slut's Hole Lane, near my brother's house in Attleborough has now been re-named something inoffensive due to residents' complaints. This is a growing problem in crowded little Britain. We need to fight to keep our filthy places filthy.
The most famous example of this is a street I pass along every working day.
For centuries, fragrant ladies have plied their venerable trade there, offering such exotic delights as "penny up the wall" knee-tremblers, as a result of which, the place was officially known by the delightful soubriquet of (cover your eyes, Robyn) "Gropecunte Lane".
Unfortunately, when the Bank of England was located there, they renamed it Threadneedle Street (still a lingering trace of the old profession in the new name)."
I also took another pop at stupid parents for scaring the shit out of me with close-up photos of babies whenever I hit the "next blog" button:
"Religious blogs and those with fucking babies all over them scare me. Stop breeding, you ignorant fuckers. The world cannot possibly feed your snivelling, ugly children.
If I see another fucking baby blog, I'm going Godzilla on this stinking planet."
I sometimes get dizzy thinking how tolerant and easy-going I am.
Nestling in the heart of November's crap-shower is one of my very favourite comment-fests, where Robyn and me get down and dirty about religion. I love that one.
And check this one out for schoolday reminiscences and sex in the art room.
And this one for the truth about Thanksgiving and why I love Christina Ricci.
Best comments from November, 2006:
Old Knudsen:
"Natalie Portman makes me feel like a pedo"
"Is this Club Suck? Ok Mr Dive, get to work on me lad."
Sassy:
"Die, Bitch!"
"Nice privy."
"Cute pig, and great Arsehole."
Robyn:
"I excuse myself and go to the old fart mommy store with elastic waists and shoulder pads."
"Gosh, I never thought I'd have a Marxist Pal" … Robyn, I never thought I'd have a Christian, Middle-American Mom as a pal. It's a scary world.
"I missed, and most of it ended up all over the floor smelling quite like whiskey"
"When it comes to playing the horn, I think you can blow and suck at the same time."
Ms.Mac:
" I made an absolutely hilarious comment about George Clooney and my arse earlier but Blogger ate it."
Lynn (eloquent as ever):
"blah di blah di blah"
Rich:
"Rebel Rebel and Bowie never gets old!!"
"How about a date with my ex wife?"
Peahen:
"You barely paused to pull on your "PantsMan" mask, tights and cape"
"I'm Spartacus."
So, November goes back in the box.
Farewell to swearing, pussy, teenage sex, lots of pictures of my 3D work, bomb-making, non-dating, misery, the Devil's Arsehole, US mid-term elections, Marxism, dressing up as Hawai'i 5-0, driving "The Italian Job" style and a bit more swearing for good measure.
November was also National Blog Posting Month where we had to do a post every day.
Never again!
Thursday, August 09, 2007
The Year Of Living Rantily Pt.III
Woohoo!
Continuing the furtive delve inside the fœtid sack that is my first year of blogging, we reach October, 2006: The birth of Blogville!
The month when other people started landing on the Small Glass Planet.
And we shall hear from them later in this post.
Duck! Here come October's lowlights:
October, '06 was the home of probably the all time classic Dive rant: "Jean-Paul Sartre", from which I lift the following extract regarding the use of mobile phones on trains; and specifically trains that have me on them:
"Now … heads up, mobile phone users. If you don't want to be wearing that thing up your arse, here's a little piece of advice (this is best read slowly and clearly, as if to a small child):
• First up: the concept of the "telephone":
If you speak into your "telephone", the person you're connected to can hear your voice coming out of their "telephone". Just because they may be miles away doesn't mean you have to SHOUT to make them hear you.
Related to this point: If you cannot hear them clearly over the noise of the train, shouting at them is unlikely to resolve the problem. They will, in all likelihood, be holding their phone at arms length because you're so fucking LOUD! It also causes other mobile users around you to stick a finger in their ear and raise their own voices, and is therefore counterproductive.
The urge to talk loudly if you cannot hear somebody else speaking is caused by "Basic Stupidity".
We now move on to "Advanced Stupidity".
• "Hi. It's me. I'm on the train".
Whoever is waiting for you at the end of your journey (and one day it might be me, with a nasty headache and a baseball bat), you need only call them if you MISS the train, or if it breaks down. Should your partner be so insecure and pathetic that they need to be constantly informed of your whereabouts, ditch them NOW and get a life. Grow up, for Chrissakes!
"Postgraduate Stupidity" includes the following:
• The constant, repetitive and loud barking of the word "Yeah" merely informs those around you that you are a moron who would lose a drooling contest with George Bush.
• Using your inane laugh as punctuation when you speak merely highlights the fact that the tedious drivel spewing from your mouth does SO not justify your whinnying cackle at the end of every boring sentence. If you were that funny, we would all be laughing. Look around you. We are not …
• Secretaries: If your boss fucks off early, leaving you slaving late in the office, then phones you from the train to ask about some email or tell you something he should have told you before he left: get a new job. He is a worthless piece of shit who clearly does not deserve you.
• In the thousands of train journeys I have suffered since the dawn of mobile technology, I could count on the fingers of one hand the words I have heard bellowed into phones that actually needed to be said. THINK before letting a carriage full of annoyed people know how utterly worthless your life is and how fucking BORING you are.
• Your ringtone is neither cool nor amusing."
Jean-Paul Sartre was right: "L'enfer, c'est les autres".
Momentous moment! The day I wrote that I also flicked away at the old "Next Blog" button, wading through acres of kittens, babies and talentless wank until I was suddenly confronted with the first intelligent American I had ever come across (I've since built up a surprisingly large collection, all of whom you can find in my sidebar). Hence Sassy's link in my "boffo blogs" and her comments on the above post concerning muffin-tops and sumo girls in stretch pants.
That day, via Sassy, I discovered the lovely Robyn and the piquant Old Knudsen, and via Robyn, the man who proved that men of my age can look good: half-man/half-coffee bean: Rich. Suddenly we had a strange little neighbourhood going and blogging had found a purpose.
A couple of posts later came one about the strange stuff I've put into my mouth over the years that included the line "Egrets: I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention". Sorry, but that still makes me giggle.
Then came some helpful advice for parents:
"One thing that scares me about random searching in the blogsphere (and there are many scary things in here, especially American God-nuts with guns) is the sheer, mind-buggering volume of people who want to show the world photographs of their babies.
Please allow me to draw you good folks gently to one side and whisper a word of advice:
(a) Even your close relatives find your baby pictures teeth-grindingly boring.
(b) The planet doesn't want and cannot feed any more people. Stop breeding, you fuckers!
(c) Your baby is really ugly."
Other nasty things lurking in the bottom of the October bag:
(If you're terminally bored or new to the Planet, click on the links) …
The 'Train Stiffy" post most of you will know … my first porno piece … ahem …
And "Gene Puddle" highlighted the perils of partying in rural Norfolk (Deliverance Country) … Dawn of the Dead with party dresses on. Brrrrr …
October also contains lots of photos of my architectural work and of the little recording studio where I sit and type this crap at the world.
Plus the cartoon that made me who I am and a photograph of Batman's willy (yes, you heard).
And talking of tedium, one of my personal favourite posts, "Lost In Translation" can be glossed over by anyone less of a language fetishist than myself.
At last, we reach "Pretentious Twat"!
Hokay, so the post itself explains an awful lot about Dive, but it's the comment-fest underneath that restores my faith in the essential, potty-mouthed silliness of our wonderful Blogville citizens.
Lastly, there's everbody's favourite, the Culty Church of Fornication, where I'm trapped on a train with terrifying evangelist nutjobs and a sweet little old lady madly pimping her pretty daughter at me.
Best comments from October, 2006:
Old Knudsen:
"I want to hang around with you so I can become cool by association." (my personal favourite)
Robyn:
"exactly what does "twat" mean"
"You British people and your fucking Queen's English"
"Where's that British dictionary? Now I have to look up "tossers.""
"Apologies to the Mexicans and Canadians and their stupid languages"
"middle Ohio--Walmart on a Tuesday night, I don't know, around 10:30 or so. If it isn't Amish day, it's inbred day."
Sassy:
"Life is too short to be sensible"
"Probe. Goes better with "anal.""
"So you squeeze his willy, and it comes out of HIS mouth? I don't understand. Hee hee hee hee."
"Oh, oh, and the BUTT PLUG???? Eeeeeewwww."
Peahen:
"Mmm sweet but strangely salty..."
So that was October … Mad pimp old ladies, sex with witches, voyeurism, butt plugs, linguistic pedantry and plenty of swearing.
Welcome to Blogville. Please Drive Carefully.
Continuing the furtive delve inside the fœtid sack that is my first year of blogging, we reach October, 2006: The birth of Blogville!
The month when other people started landing on the Small Glass Planet.
And we shall hear from them later in this post.
Duck! Here come October's lowlights:
October, '06 was the home of probably the all time classic Dive rant: "Jean-Paul Sartre", from which I lift the following extract regarding the use of mobile phones on trains; and specifically trains that have me on them:
"Now … heads up, mobile phone users. If you don't want to be wearing that thing up your arse, here's a little piece of advice (this is best read slowly and clearly, as if to a small child):
• First up: the concept of the "telephone":
If you speak into your "telephone", the person you're connected to can hear your voice coming out of their "telephone". Just because they may be miles away doesn't mean you have to SHOUT to make them hear you.
Related to this point: If you cannot hear them clearly over the noise of the train, shouting at them is unlikely to resolve the problem. They will, in all likelihood, be holding their phone at arms length because you're so fucking LOUD! It also causes other mobile users around you to stick a finger in their ear and raise their own voices, and is therefore counterproductive.
The urge to talk loudly if you cannot hear somebody else speaking is caused by "Basic Stupidity".
We now move on to "Advanced Stupidity".
• "Hi. It's me. I'm on the train".
Whoever is waiting for you at the end of your journey (and one day it might be me, with a nasty headache and a baseball bat), you need only call them if you MISS the train, or if it breaks down. Should your partner be so insecure and pathetic that they need to be constantly informed of your whereabouts, ditch them NOW and get a life. Grow up, for Chrissakes!
"Postgraduate Stupidity" includes the following:
• The constant, repetitive and loud barking of the word "Yeah" merely informs those around you that you are a moron who would lose a drooling contest with George Bush.
• Using your inane laugh as punctuation when you speak merely highlights the fact that the tedious drivel spewing from your mouth does SO not justify your whinnying cackle at the end of every boring sentence. If you were that funny, we would all be laughing. Look around you. We are not …
• Secretaries: If your boss fucks off early, leaving you slaving late in the office, then phones you from the train to ask about some email or tell you something he should have told you before he left: get a new job. He is a worthless piece of shit who clearly does not deserve you.
• In the thousands of train journeys I have suffered since the dawn of mobile technology, I could count on the fingers of one hand the words I have heard bellowed into phones that actually needed to be said. THINK before letting a carriage full of annoyed people know how utterly worthless your life is and how fucking BORING you are.
• Your ringtone is neither cool nor amusing."
Jean-Paul Sartre was right: "L'enfer, c'est les autres".
Momentous moment! The day I wrote that I also flicked away at the old "Next Blog" button, wading through acres of kittens, babies and talentless wank until I was suddenly confronted with the first intelligent American I had ever come across (I've since built up a surprisingly large collection, all of whom you can find in my sidebar). Hence Sassy's link in my "boffo blogs" and her comments on the above post concerning muffin-tops and sumo girls in stretch pants.
That day, via Sassy, I discovered the lovely Robyn and the piquant Old Knudsen, and via Robyn, the man who proved that men of my age can look good: half-man/half-coffee bean: Rich. Suddenly we had a strange little neighbourhood going and blogging had found a purpose.
A couple of posts later came one about the strange stuff I've put into my mouth over the years that included the line "Egrets: I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention". Sorry, but that still makes me giggle.
Then came some helpful advice for parents:
"One thing that scares me about random searching in the blogsphere (and there are many scary things in here, especially American God-nuts with guns) is the sheer, mind-buggering volume of people who want to show the world photographs of their babies.
Please allow me to draw you good folks gently to one side and whisper a word of advice:
(a) Even your close relatives find your baby pictures teeth-grindingly boring.
(b) The planet doesn't want and cannot feed any more people. Stop breeding, you fuckers!
(c) Your baby is really ugly."
Other nasty things lurking in the bottom of the October bag:
(If you're terminally bored or new to the Planet, click on the links) …
The 'Train Stiffy" post most of you will know … my first porno piece … ahem …
And "Gene Puddle" highlighted the perils of partying in rural Norfolk (Deliverance Country) … Dawn of the Dead with party dresses on. Brrrrr …
October also contains lots of photos of my architectural work and of the little recording studio where I sit and type this crap at the world.
Plus the cartoon that made me who I am and a photograph of Batman's willy (yes, you heard).
And talking of tedium, one of my personal favourite posts, "Lost In Translation" can be glossed over by anyone less of a language fetishist than myself.
At last, we reach "Pretentious Twat"!
Hokay, so the post itself explains an awful lot about Dive, but it's the comment-fest underneath that restores my faith in the essential, potty-mouthed silliness of our wonderful Blogville citizens.
Lastly, there's everbody's favourite, the Culty Church of Fornication, where I'm trapped on a train with terrifying evangelist nutjobs and a sweet little old lady madly pimping her pretty daughter at me.
Best comments from October, 2006:
Old Knudsen:
"I want to hang around with you so I can become cool by association." (my personal favourite)
Robyn:
"exactly what does "twat" mean"
"You British people and your fucking Queen's English"
"Where's that British dictionary? Now I have to look up "tossers.""
"Apologies to the Mexicans and Canadians and their stupid languages"
"middle Ohio--Walmart on a Tuesday night, I don't know, around 10:30 or so. If it isn't Amish day, it's inbred day."
Sassy:
"Life is too short to be sensible"
"Probe. Goes better with "anal.""
"So you squeeze his willy, and it comes out of HIS mouth? I don't understand. Hee hee hee hee."
"Oh, oh, and the BUTT PLUG???? Eeeeeewwww."
Peahen:
"Mmm sweet but strangely salty..."
So that was October … Mad pimp old ladies, sex with witches, voyeurism, butt plugs, linguistic pedantry and plenty of swearing.
Welcome to Blogville. Please Drive Carefully.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
The Year Of Living Rantily Pt.II
So, continuing the crap-fest that is my trawl through the first year's effluent from Small Glass Planet, we reach September, 2006.
September was a bit of a quiet month. I was still developing my ranty Dive persona and he wouldn't come into full sweary action until the following month.
I was also still writing for my audience of one (Hi, Pea) and it would be a couple more weeks before I moved to Blogville proper and shared my neighbourhood with Robyn, Sassy, Rich and a certain Scottish curmudgeon.
So: September …
This was the month that - as a retired rock musician still desperately clinging to the tattered shreds of my reputation - I was ignominiously slapped across the face with a dose of reality upon discovering that the world had moved on.
I was now officially a has-been and just to rub my nose in it, my elderly Mother and her gang (The Mad Bints) were somewhat cooler than me.
September also saw the launch of my "non-Dive" reminiscences series "Tom Purdew" (from À la recherche du temps perdu), the second installment of which described the true story of our nuclear war evacuation drill, where we were "evacuated" into the heart of a target zone.
As bugger-all else happened in September, I'll reproduce most of it here:
"1964 …
Hey! That's me! Down there on the left. Little brother Phil on the right. And doesn't Mum look way cool in her hornrims and home-made coat? Dig our cute shoes and cheesy identical costumes.
And those strange little labels … What's that about?
Well, kids; here's some history: this is what happens in a nuclear war. Really! Her Majesty's Government has decreed that we are to take part in a nuclear war evacuation exercise! Woohoo!
It's early morning. Several streets of our sleepy little town are abuzz with unusual activity. Mums are laying out the Sunday best. Dads are dusting off the Box Brownies. Hyperactive kids are flying round the house, making airplane noises and bumping into things. Our Mum is making sure we all look our best, because the TELEVISION PEOPLE will be there! Note the rag she carries (in Phil's hand) for emergency spit-washes.
By mid-morning we are all out on the pavement, the Mums checking out one another's clothes. Everyone is decked out in their finery, ready to get nuked. The whole street! This is so weird.
Nobody talks above a whisper. We might miss the siren. Tension mounts as the clock ticks toward the hour …
There it is! The unearthly rising tone wailing out from the church tower, telling us we have FOUR MINUTES until the bombs hit us.
Four minutes …
The same siren sounds every Sunday morning, telling grown-ups everywhere to send the kids out to play while they furtively fumble for four minutes; the added thrill of pretending it's the real thing.
But this day is different …
This day the bombs are coming …
We might even be on television!
As the siren wails on, wardens tell us to walk slowly to the top of the street, keeping in order like it's a school trip. Then we file along the main road to the coach station where we spend around twenty minutes being loaded up, street by street, into lovely old fifties charabancs, gleaming with strips of chrome. They judder into life and we're off, excitedly staring out of the windows at the spooky streets of our partially depopulated town, wondering the same thing we wonder every day: if we will actually get to see a mushroom cloud or if it will all be over in an instant, just a big flash like lightning …
And where do the government plan to send us when the bombs rain down?
We are headed, rather curiously, to Reydon School, a forty minute drive away.
From the coach windows, we can see across Sole Bay to the Sizewell Nuclear Reactor. There are American airbases dotted around the region. Some Dads point out that at least it will be quick, being evacuated into a target area.
Too young to understand that this is the way our government intends to protect us during the imminent nuclear armageddon, we troop into the assembly hall and tuck in to lukewarm banana custard, served by school dinnerladies with lots of make-up and new hair-dos. The banana custard will obviously have some miraculous anti-radiation effect. The school dinnerladies, like the coach drivers, will no doubt be there at work during the apocalypse … After our curious meal, anticlimactically, we file back onto the coaches for the long drive home.
We do get on the telly that night. Crowded round the little wooden cabinet, doors open to reveal the flickering, almost spherical nine-inch screen … Look! There's Mum shoving us back on the coach! Not her most dignified moment, but at least it was us and not somebody from the next street …
Back in the real world, that morning, our four minutes are up before we even reach the top of the road.
KERBLOOEY!
The big light comes on, then all the lights go out, including yours and mine.
This is living every day with the very real terror of MAD. Mutually Assured Destruction (it's okay that all our people get killed, because all of theirs will be dead, too) …
I kinda miss the old Cold War. That Dr. Strangelove frisson … Hearing the rumble of the Soviet Bears, their long bodies full of bombs, flying down our coast every day, shadowed by our fighter planes. The thrill of wondering if you actually need to do your homework when you could well be dead by morning …"
The Bears no longer fly and I do kinda miss the old Cold War; the new one is crap.
So … Coming up next is October, 2006, and it's a doozy!
Swear-fests, rants, confessions, comments, Robyn typing the "F" word, Old Knudsen being … well … Old Knudsen.
Don't miss it!
Ciao.
September was a bit of a quiet month. I was still developing my ranty Dive persona and he wouldn't come into full sweary action until the following month.
I was also still writing for my audience of one (Hi, Pea) and it would be a couple more weeks before I moved to Blogville proper and shared my neighbourhood with Robyn, Sassy, Rich and a certain Scottish curmudgeon.
So: September …
This was the month that - as a retired rock musician still desperately clinging to the tattered shreds of my reputation - I was ignominiously slapped across the face with a dose of reality upon discovering that the world had moved on.
I was now officially a has-been and just to rub my nose in it, my elderly Mother and her gang (The Mad Bints) were somewhat cooler than me.
September also saw the launch of my "non-Dive" reminiscences series "Tom Purdew" (from À la recherche du temps perdu), the second installment of which described the true story of our nuclear war evacuation drill, where we were "evacuated" into the heart of a target zone.
As bugger-all else happened in September, I'll reproduce most of it here:
"1964 …
Hey! That's me! Down there on the left. Little brother Phil on the right. And doesn't Mum look way cool in her hornrims and home-made coat? Dig our cute shoes and cheesy identical costumes.
And those strange little labels … What's that about?
Well, kids; here's some history: this is what happens in a nuclear war. Really! Her Majesty's Government has decreed that we are to take part in a nuclear war evacuation exercise! Woohoo!
It's early morning. Several streets of our sleepy little town are abuzz with unusual activity. Mums are laying out the Sunday best. Dads are dusting off the Box Brownies. Hyperactive kids are flying round the house, making airplane noises and bumping into things. Our Mum is making sure we all look our best, because the TELEVISION PEOPLE will be there! Note the rag she carries (in Phil's hand) for emergency spit-washes.
By mid-morning we are all out on the pavement, the Mums checking out one another's clothes. Everyone is decked out in their finery, ready to get nuked. The whole street! This is so weird.
Nobody talks above a whisper. We might miss the siren. Tension mounts as the clock ticks toward the hour …
There it is! The unearthly rising tone wailing out from the church tower, telling us we have FOUR MINUTES until the bombs hit us.
Four minutes …
The same siren sounds every Sunday morning, telling grown-ups everywhere to send the kids out to play while they furtively fumble for four minutes; the added thrill of pretending it's the real thing.
But this day is different …
This day the bombs are coming …
We might even be on television!
As the siren wails on, wardens tell us to walk slowly to the top of the street, keeping in order like it's a school trip. Then we file along the main road to the coach station where we spend around twenty minutes being loaded up, street by street, into lovely old fifties charabancs, gleaming with strips of chrome. They judder into life and we're off, excitedly staring out of the windows at the spooky streets of our partially depopulated town, wondering the same thing we wonder every day: if we will actually get to see a mushroom cloud or if it will all be over in an instant, just a big flash like lightning …
And where do the government plan to send us when the bombs rain down?
We are headed, rather curiously, to Reydon School, a forty minute drive away.
From the coach windows, we can see across Sole Bay to the Sizewell Nuclear Reactor. There are American airbases dotted around the region. Some Dads point out that at least it will be quick, being evacuated into a target area.
Too young to understand that this is the way our government intends to protect us during the imminent nuclear armageddon, we troop into the assembly hall and tuck in to lukewarm banana custard, served by school dinnerladies with lots of make-up and new hair-dos. The banana custard will obviously have some miraculous anti-radiation effect. The school dinnerladies, like the coach drivers, will no doubt be there at work during the apocalypse … After our curious meal, anticlimactically, we file back onto the coaches for the long drive home.
We do get on the telly that night. Crowded round the little wooden cabinet, doors open to reveal the flickering, almost spherical nine-inch screen … Look! There's Mum shoving us back on the coach! Not her most dignified moment, but at least it was us and not somebody from the next street …
Back in the real world, that morning, our four minutes are up before we even reach the top of the road.
KERBLOOEY!
The big light comes on, then all the lights go out, including yours and mine.
This is living every day with the very real terror of MAD. Mutually Assured Destruction (it's okay that all our people get killed, because all of theirs will be dead, too) …
I kinda miss the old Cold War. That Dr. Strangelove frisson … Hearing the rumble of the Soviet Bears, their long bodies full of bombs, flying down our coast every day, shadowed by our fighter planes. The thrill of wondering if you actually need to do your homework when you could well be dead by morning …"
The Bears no longer fly and I do kinda miss the old Cold War; the new one is crap.
So … Coming up next is October, 2006, and it's a doozy!
Swear-fests, rants, confessions, comments, Robyn typing the "F" word, Old Knudsen being … well … Old Knudsen.
Don't miss it!
Ciao.
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