I Never Forget a Face

A friend sent me a link to this charming, and, it has to be said, strangely erotic, little vignette from you tube (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CgD6W1wCqyY). For those of you who can't view it, it's footage of British bob-sledder Gillian Cooke inadvertently exposing her arse during a recent championship. I'm afraid my hurried description doesn't really do the clip justice; it has an undeniable olde-worlde charm. There's so much pneumatic rutting on the internet these days, that's it's nice to revert to a bit of saucy, seaside postcode nudity from time-to-time.

After studying it for continuity errors for an hour or so, it occurred to me that Gillian's non-reaction to the event was rather surprising. One would have to assume that the air was chilly to say the least, and yet she appeared unaware of the icy blast whistling around her Racecourse Ground.* I suspect she was heroically ignoring the situation, which makes sense. What was she supposed to do? Jump on a milking-stool and start shrieking? The alternative explanation is that she was so "in the zone" that she didn't feel a thing.

Whatever was going through her mind is of academic interest only. The really pleasing aspect is the knowledge that élite female athletes wear thongs to compete. Hubba hubba...

* home of the Wrexham (sorry about that)

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.