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» Mistaken Identity
Thur man's having a laugh, right?
When Pulp Fiction was out, I was the proud owner of a jet-black Uma Thurman bob. 'Wow! You look just like Uma Thurman!' New York's trendiest and finest would coo at me. Fast forward six months to Leamington Spa, where it's grown out a bit and gone a bit lighter. I sit in a bar. The man next to me says: 'You look just like that famous person off the telly.'
'Uma Thurman?' I ask.
'No, no. Oh - what's her name... Victoria Wood.'
(Mon 4th Jun 2007, 21:04, More)
Thur man's having a laugh, right?
When Pulp Fiction was out, I was the proud owner of a jet-black Uma Thurman bob. 'Wow! You look just like Uma Thurman!' New York's trendiest and finest would coo at me. Fast forward six months to Leamington Spa, where it's grown out a bit and gone a bit lighter. I sit in a bar. The man next to me says: 'You look just like that famous person off the telly.'
'Uma Thurman?' I ask.
'No, no. Oh - what's her name... Victoria Wood.'
(Mon 4th Jun 2007, 21:04, More)
» Putting the Fun in Funeral
There'll be hell to pay for *you*, vicar
Very sombre funeral in suburbia for my uncle. Everybody measuring their words very carefully. Until my cousin decided that he 'really needs a stiff one'. I think he meant drink, not corpse.
Very sombre funeral for my aunt, who was a melodramatic, lovely, loving, laugh-a-minute, exhuberant old dame. So the vicar gave a eulogy for the damned, pointing out how she never got along with her children, didn't love them and how the funeral directors had lost the CD with 'Let's face the music and dance' on it, so she'd be going out to a classical-lite rendition of fecking 'Greensleeves'. And this from one of God's own children... who never knew about her ability to hand-jive with full-on emphesyma and laugh her head off while coughing up a lung, or the first time she got stoned aged mid-60s by smoking a whole hallucinogenic reefer with some young lads she'd taken under her wing. RIP you crazy diamond.
(Mon 15th May 2006, 22:58, More)
There'll be hell to pay for *you*, vicar
Very sombre funeral in suburbia for my uncle. Everybody measuring their words very carefully. Until my cousin decided that he 'really needs a stiff one'. I think he meant drink, not corpse.
Very sombre funeral for my aunt, who was a melodramatic, lovely, loving, laugh-a-minute, exhuberant old dame. So the vicar gave a eulogy for the damned, pointing out how she never got along with her children, didn't love them and how the funeral directors had lost the CD with 'Let's face the music and dance' on it, so she'd be going out to a classical-lite rendition of fecking 'Greensleeves'. And this from one of God's own children... who never knew about her ability to hand-jive with full-on emphesyma and laugh her head off while coughing up a lung, or the first time she got stoned aged mid-60s by smoking a whole hallucinogenic reefer with some young lads she'd taken under her wing. RIP you crazy diamond.
(Mon 15th May 2006, 22:58, More)
» Ignoring Instructions
Blue blood
Copper sulphate. Lovely stuff you got to play with at school on a little petridish to go on top of your bunsen burner. So very blue, so very pretty, so don't you dare touch it or it'll burn right through your skin. So what does class clown Justin do? Starts chucking it round, some lands on the back of his hand, and we watch it melt, replacing lily white man flesh with a lovely gaping bloody hole. For someone whose voice had just broken, he couldn't half scream like a girl.
Speaking of girls, Impulse is much better saved for spraying round your pits for attracting the likes of Justin, NOT sprayed all over the aforementioned bunsen burner. When a man you've only just met suddenly goes up in flames, that, my friends, is Impulse.
(Thu 4th May 2006, 21:37, More)
Blue blood
Copper sulphate. Lovely stuff you got to play with at school on a little petridish to go on top of your bunsen burner. So very blue, so very pretty, so don't you dare touch it or it'll burn right through your skin. So what does class clown Justin do? Starts chucking it round, some lands on the back of his hand, and we watch it melt, replacing lily white man flesh with a lovely gaping bloody hole. For someone whose voice had just broken, he couldn't half scream like a girl.
Speaking of girls, Impulse is much better saved for spraying round your pits for attracting the likes of Justin, NOT sprayed all over the aforementioned bunsen burner. When a man you've only just met suddenly goes up in flames, that, my friends, is Impulse.
(Thu 4th May 2006, 21:37, More)
» Secret Santa
Post troll thong
We have an office post-troll. He's pushed his trolley for well over 30 years. He's a short warty man, who pinches your hips after his lunchtime pint and only has three phrases: a) 'Alright', b) 'Yep' and c) 'No I'm bloody not'(normally in response to the greeting question 'Are you alright?' if the answer is not a).
Post-Troll is not the sort of man you could ever imagine being involved with any sort of lady. Ever.
Two years ago, he got given a pair of squashie boobs. He was quite embarrassed. Although he should maybe have been grateful.
Having correctly suspected the Ape-man of Accounts of being the guilty santa, he asked him. Ape-man denied all knowledge, and blamed me.
I hate Secret Santas. But I always try to buy a nice, thoughtful gift for my recipient.
Last year, I got an edible thong. In front of the whole office. Cue tumbleweeds of embarrassment. Cue me raging round the office trying to find the culprit.
Cue me finding out it was Post-Troll, who, after a year of civil 'alright yeps' had been storing up his misdirected dish best served cold for 365 whole days. Hideous.
(Sun 17th Dec 2006, 22:40, More)
Post troll thong
We have an office post-troll. He's pushed his trolley for well over 30 years. He's a short warty man, who pinches your hips after his lunchtime pint and only has three phrases: a) 'Alright', b) 'Yep' and c) 'No I'm bloody not'(normally in response to the greeting question 'Are you alright?' if the answer is not a).
Post-Troll is not the sort of man you could ever imagine being involved with any sort of lady. Ever.
Two years ago, he got given a pair of squashie boobs. He was quite embarrassed. Although he should maybe have been grateful.
Having correctly suspected the Ape-man of Accounts of being the guilty santa, he asked him. Ape-man denied all knowledge, and blamed me.
I hate Secret Santas. But I always try to buy a nice, thoughtful gift for my recipient.
Last year, I got an edible thong. In front of the whole office. Cue tumbleweeds of embarrassment. Cue me raging round the office trying to find the culprit.
Cue me finding out it was Post-Troll, who, after a year of civil 'alright yeps' had been storing up his misdirected dish best served cold for 365 whole days. Hideous.
(Sun 17th Dec 2006, 22:40, More)
» School Trips
Hunters
I specified on the exchange trip form that I was a vegetarian. So which French family did I get to stay with? The village hunting enthusiasts. Every wall in every room, including my bedroom, was covered in wild-eyed, taxidermied corpses. Every meal was stew. Meat stew. 'Peek it out!' They told me, helpfully.
They were also alcoholics. The words 'un aperitif?' were bandied around like 'bonjour'. These two aspects of traditional French life fused beautifully on a trip to the delightful French glass-making factory, where Monsieur le Murdereur drove down country lanes, pissed as un fart at 80 miles per hour, only to spy a pheasant in a field about 100m (two seconds) back.
We reversed at great speed, he leapt from the car, and failing to find his trusty gun in the boot, he leapt through the corn shooting at the long-since-flown pheasant with an imaginary gun, going 'bang' and laughing his head off.
And people wonder why we hate the French?
(Sun 10th Dec 2006, 0:50, More)
Hunters
I specified on the exchange trip form that I was a vegetarian. So which French family did I get to stay with? The village hunting enthusiasts. Every wall in every room, including my bedroom, was covered in wild-eyed, taxidermied corpses. Every meal was stew. Meat stew. 'Peek it out!' They told me, helpfully.
They were also alcoholics. The words 'un aperitif?' were bandied around like 'bonjour'. These two aspects of traditional French life fused beautifully on a trip to the delightful French glass-making factory, where Monsieur le Murdereur drove down country lanes, pissed as un fart at 80 miles per hour, only to spy a pheasant in a field about 100m (two seconds) back.
We reversed at great speed, he leapt from the car, and failing to find his trusty gun in the boot, he leapt through the corn shooting at the long-since-flown pheasant with an imaginary gun, going 'bang' and laughing his head off.
And people wonder why we hate the French?
(Sun 10th Dec 2006, 0:50, More)