In Your Facebook

It's been a wee while again since I last blogged. Sorry about that. I've been having an affair with Facebook. I resisted as long as I could but a friend posted some pictures on there in which I had a supporting role. And being the massive narcissist that I am, I could not not see them. This meant signing-up. Clever 'eh? That's how they get you.

Anyways, I became addicted like that [clicks fingers]. I did feel bad about neglecting you though all the time I was filling my Facebook boots. I'm not prepared to give it up just yet, you understand, but I'm sure we can reach an accommodation - a sort of I.T ménage à trois. What's the worst that can happen?

I'll Be Back

I've been away for a long weekend. It was the August bank holiday here in the UK yesterday - the traditional end of the Summer. We spent the weekend under canvas as is our wont at this time of year. The weather, for once, was tremendous.

We spent the weekend pursuing very low-impact pastimes: croquet, crabbing, eating and drinking, and a bit of camp football. I don't mean we were mincing up the wing à la Quentin Crisp. I mean we were playing on the campsite, which necessitates careful reining in of the male instinct to twat the leather off the ball irrespective of the tactical advantage to be gained. We did quite well in this regard.

Gene Slacker

It's been a splendid weekend in London. The sun shone and the sap was high. The wife and I spent the time constructively. We went to a barbie on Saturday evening. And Sunday we spent crabbing. Everyone was in rare form down at the coast yesterday. Even the crabs seemed to be enjoying the process. We then popped the tin hat on this world-beating weekend by charging around to our local for a brace of sharpeners last thing Sunday evening.

Sadly the pub was empty. That's the way to plays here in the UK on those rare occasions when the sun's cracking the stones. Our average denizen can't resist pouring drink down himself like a man whose lungs are on fire as soon as the temperature crawls above twenty Celsius. By the time we pitched up then, the rest of the vulgar mob had shot off home to assume the recovery position. I suppose it's for the best. I don't want to be harangued after a trying day crabbing.

Post Mortem

I've been away for a long weekend at the Cambridge folk festival, which is why no posts. I'm back at my desk now however. I don't think it's overstating matters to say that I'm absolutely shattered. Physically, mentally, spiritually, and financially I'm at my lowest ebb. This is a short, bleak post as a consequence. Sorry. I really don't have a positive or mildly amusing thing to say.

Porn Free

There's not much happening chez me at the moment, so I've forgone the usual format today and have decided to list some punning porn star names. I know it's trivial. I'm not a comprehensive twat, you know.

Okay, here goes...

Dr Evadne Minge

Fuckinem Alice (I may have overstepped the mark here)

John Vein

King Conkers

Shafter Askey (one for the kids, there)

Fellatio Hornblower

Suck Norris

Dolly Partem

Screw Edwards

Princess Michael of C*nt

Wank Hilliams

Jizz Taylor

Toss Hogg

Wristo Stoychkov

Forrest Hump

The Vapours

I suffered a migraine yesterday. All right, I over-egging the situation somewhat. I was on the foot-slopes of migraine. The initial symptoms didn't make it to maturity. I dodged a bullet there, I you tell.

For those who've never been afflicted, it's a nightmare - absolutely debilitating. For me, it begins with an inability to see properly. I can see. My brain just can't make sense of the picture. Firstly, I'm unable to read, and quickly thereafter I lose depth and finally I develop a kind of tunnel vision. The next stage is paisley visual hallucinations. By now, I need to get home because stage three is photo-phobia - a hugely popular and now slightly passé migraine symptom. The final iteration involves a stupefying headache, right down the centre of the noggin. This is sometimes accompanied by nausea.

I used to get migraines regularly in my late teens, and then, as suddenly as they'd entered my life, they withdrew. I haven't had a sniff of a problem for nigh-on twenty years. The keen amateur mathematicians among you will be a able age me from the above facts. Yesterday really put the wind up me, I'm unafraid to admit. What surprised about the whole episode was how phlegmatic I was as a youngster about the whole thing.

I remember getting my first one. I quickly and accurately assessed my own symptoms as they unfolded. And then I just sat it out. Had yesterday's been my first migraine, I'd have been convinced I was dying. Absolutely convinced.

It's not unlike a trip, the migraine. I mean a trip in the "wow, man" sense - not four hours in Whitstable. Luckily, no-one's felt moved to record a psychedelic album rendering the experience. If they had, it would sound like someone feeding a chalk goat through a slate mincer.

Cobb(L)ers

We're in the midst of an Ashes series here in England (let's not pretend the Celtic fringe are in the least bit interested in cricket because thems am not). For any foreigners reading this, the Ashes is a series of cricket matches played between England & Australia. Doesn't sound like much, does it? It's HUGE. It means so much to the respective countries that it's hard to quantify its impact on the collective psyche.

England have today beaten Australia in the second test (match), which enabled anyone with access to an Aussie male to let him have it le big style.

English and Australian men have a sibling mentality toward one another, particularly when it comes to sport. The Australians in particular won't thank me for pointing this out, but they and the English are essentially the same race, which is why they squabble so much. I am able to distance myself somewhat from "Englishness" by dint of my Irish lineage, but even I find it difficult not to gloat when England have the upper hand.

Australia are breath-takingly better than England at most sports you care to mention. The reason for this is that they take sport seriously, in a way that the English cannot bring themselves to do. To take sport that seriously is taken to be very gauche. So when the English lord it over the Aussies on the back to a rare victory, it's taken to be a bit of good natured ribbing. To the Aussies, however, it's no laughing matter.

It's this dichotomy that causes such problems between the two nations. The English can't believe the Aussies really take sport as seriously as they appear to. And the Aussies can't believe the English don't. It reminds one slightly of when an American starts up about God, thanking Him for a successful business meeting or a bountiful lunch table. It's toe-curlingly embarrassing for the English, this - really excruciating. The same is true, to a lesser extent, with Aussie sport fetishisation. Come on, mate, let it go. It's just a game.