Something for the Weakened

Archive for April, 2006

The Third Imam

April 30th, 2006 by

Do-d-do, d-do d-do,

Do-d-do, d-do d-do,

Do-d-do-d-do, d-do d-do,

Do-do, d-do-d-do-d-doo.

I could have been Dainsh, you know. Admiral Akbar.


April 29th, 2006 by

It’s incredible how out of touch I feel with music at the moment. It’s something that’s sort of crept up on me, though it probably started when Radio One stopped having any presenters who didn’t make me feel nauseous using only the power of their own voices. Sure, I still listen to the radio, but odd little things stuck away in the depths of the Radio Two and Three schedules hardly keeps me at the vanguard of what the hip young things about town are listening to. Too some extent it’s not a bad thing – they’re normally listening to the audio equivelant of dog shit anyway. But I like to at least recognise that dog shit so that I can happily poar scorn on it from my high and mighty position. The problem that’s really made itself apparent to me is that I no longer feel that knowledgable about the weird and wonderful stuff coming onto the market either. I must now either resolve to start huning down my obscurities again or admit defeat and make do with the tunes I have. I think I know which one it shall be. I’ll be out back with my rut ladder if you want me.

Half-Hearted Facial Topiary

April 27th, 2006 by

Yes, it’s that time of year again, when I attempt some kind of chin growth. I’d rather hoped that the fact that my whiskers have been growing a lot faster since I last tried this endeavour would lead to an instant beard. Of course, this hasn’t been the case. Despite having had the beginnings of a shrub spewing forth from my jaw for the past week, only one person seems to have noticed that there’s anything there. And they spent most of that time mocking it. But I’m not perturbed and the experiment shall continue until it’s obvious conclusion – my getting pissed off at my inability to grow convincing facial hair and shaving the bloody thing off. I sometimes wonder why I bother, but until I come up with a reason I shall continue with these annual bouts of fuzzy cheeks. No, that’s just your dirty mind.


April 24th, 2006 by

About a week ago I was wandering around, about middayish, when I noticed a peculiar pain in my hip. Accepting the little agonies that life inflicts upon us with age, I continued about my business. I’d been walking a little more than usual anyway, so thought no more of it. As the afternoon continued the pain went away, and I thought no more of it until I got the phone call. My grandmother had had a fall and broken her hip, presumably about noon time. I didn’t put the two events together until a few minutes later when I realised my extraordinary psychic abilities. Bow before me mere mortals, lest I be forced to wreack telekinetic havoc. You want proof of my power? Injure another family member and I’ll tell you where!

Where on their body that is. Not that you’ve beaten them up in Swindon or something.


April 23rd, 2006 by


April 23rd, 2006 by


April 23rd, 2006 by

Has it really been that long? Golly, how crap of me. I’ve been spending the time awash on a sea of apathy, buffetted by the winds of disappointment and raked by the rocks of grumpiness. Not entirely back on top form, but my brain is very nearly my own again. Tomorrow I shall use it here properly. Then you’ll all be sorry.


April 12th, 2006 by

Oh, nothing. Forget about it.

Since Last I Wrote;

April 11th, 2006 by

Helped win a book about Harold Shipman and a cheap Spirograph knock off in a quiz. Realised how rapidly I’m approaching poverty. Sulked. Witnessed a woman being chased following a crack deal gone awry and turned into a chocolate teapot the moment she asked for help (thankfully there were people present with an ounce more nouse who helped to calm the situation). Went to work. Developed peculiarly itchy legs – both legs at different times and in different places. Consumed unhealthy amounts of cheese. Tidied up a bit. Visited the absurd sale in Virgin – half their CDs at three ninety nine! Meataphorical poor house doors opened in front of me. Existential crisis (crises?). Wrote blog.

There, three days mapped out for you with the unpleasant bits carefully edited out for your sensitive eyes. Is my life not wonderful?


April 8th, 2006 by

So, it’s supposedly the Queen’s eightieth in a couple of weeks. Shouldn’t it be hundred and sixtieth, what with her having the two birthdays a year and everything?

God, I’m so alone.