Irony

My iron blew up today.

I've never been good with the things. Well, that's not true. I'm great at making pleats with them. But can I make a shirt look fresh as the day I brought it? No.

I tried starching once. And made a wrinkle map of the Himalayas. It was great.

An ex once offered to buy me an iron for my birthday, and was amazed when I told him I owned one.

My flatmate actually asked me to stop borrowing hers as "it was all funny afterwards".

Law And The Lady

(boring post to prove I read books)

Wilkie Collins writes the best Victorian stuff. Law And The Lady was amazing - plucky female detective, poison make-up, gothic houses, and a crippled genius in a hydraulic wheelchair.

Yay. After all that, time for an X-Men graphic novel.

Two sober parties

In a fortnight. Hideous. Everything's normal, and then, all of a sudden, you're the dullest person in the room, and someone's dancing wearing only a pair of semi-transparent pink y-fronts.

Last night, I went home, stone cold sober, and thought "fuck it, i'll have a pot of jelly". The bottom of the boat made a scraping noise as it was pushed out.

And I always wanted to be an athlete...

And now, I am. I appear to be very dull though. James Goss, Athletics Coach

a heap of broken images

Looks as though most of the pictures have gone missing. It's something to do with my designer's domain expiring. While he's in Venice. It's all very confusing.

Meanwhile, I'm getting used to waking at 5.30 every morning. Today I've watched CSI, filled in a job application, and built a Lego Digger! Brilliant.

N'ill

Being ill is brilliant. It involves sofa, duvet and endless DVD. It means cracking open the whisky at 10am, cos it's medicinal. It means poor personal hygiene, endless pizza, and sleeping wherever and whenever, cos you're ill.

Being not-quite-ill is rubbish. I've now had a fortnight of it. A whole fortnight of fevers, a hatred of booze and fags, listlessness, and pounding, mashing headaches.

It's frankly boring. Especially when the pain begins at 5.30am. Which means three solid hours of banging pain before work. Which means three hours of squinting at CSI through an ice pack and sunglasses. Bah.

I went and bought a thremometer. It was a Boots toddler forehead thermometer. It told me I was dead. Or, on closer reading of the packet, over the age of six.

Seeing an NHS Doctor in Cardiff involves a special magic I just don't possess. But now, something must be done.

Why? Apart from it destroying my social life, it's got irritating. Yesterday, I developed The Cough. I've had several coughs in my life. The worst was the one where I cracked ribs. But yesterday's cough had a whole new timbre to it.

"Goodness," I thought as I hacked away on the bike ride home, "It's almost as though I'm coughing hard enough to -"

And then I threw up.

Bizarre spam

"Help. I am trapped in a Cillit Bang factory."

Water thief!

BBC's News's Water Calculator is brilliant, especially for armchair activists.

Law and order

Poor the police. The Met have had a tough year. From the giddy heights of July 7th, to yesterday's awful press conference. Could they have seemed more like fascist scum if they tried?

The lovely thing about the internet is you can look back at how the story unfolded, and watch the Met's statements gradually unravel, their fumbling attempts to blacken their victims, and then the brothers finally got to tell their story. Shut the fuck up, indeed.

Meanwhile, my personal trainer, who went up to the Met for a job interview last week, has decided not to join. Well, would you?

Training

After a brilliant training course at work, and invitation to a course of an entirely different kind turned up. It has the baffling title of "Sex & Your Cock".

Did you misread it too? Yeah. Weird naked vision of Madhur Jaffrey.

Email of the week

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