Was it something I said? Was it asking for people to sign up as followers? Did they feel betrayed? Oh where have my followers gone?
Or have I just failed another basic computer literacy test and completed frazzled my blogvironment?
I think I shall make me a cup of tea in my "Three Little Kittens" mug.
20/01/2010
17/01/2010
Genetic imperatives number one: the fork dismantle.
There are certain things that men are programmed to do. It's not learnt behaviour, but actually encoded in that ol' double helix. I plan to share a few of them with the more sensible gender so that they might come to realise that men are not idiots through choice or indolence, but are, in fact, slaves to their ancestry.
Todays' genetic imperative: the fork dismantle.
At some stage in every man's life he will own a bicycle (Baby Girl enquires why they are called "pushbikes" - I shrug and say "IMDB it"). Usually that bike will be owned during late puberty. And at some point the owner will grab a spanner and rotate the handlebars through 180 degrees in two planes - turning them upside down and back-to-front. "Customising", it might be called, or "marking ones territory".
Having successfully engineered a situation where the handlebars will suddenly invert themselves just as the rider is attempting to overtake a bendy bus on the inside (or, in the case if this gene-slave, while attempting to hitch a tow on the passenger rail of a number 23 Routemaster Bus
belting towards Barking Station at about 90 mph), the imperative takes further hold. Stick transfers from Airfix models of Messcherschmidt Me190s on the crossbar? Already done it. Clothes peg a playing card to the back forks so your bike makes the sound of a fat man's trousers surrendering at the seams? Kids' play.
No, there is one major operation that every male biker owner can, and indeed must, perform.
He will take a spanner, and undo the nut that attaches the front fork to the frames.
When separated, he will find a circle of ball-bearings in grease. He will poke the ball bearings with a pencil, a screwdriver or, best of all, a finger. One of the ball bearings will dislodge. In attempting to replace it, the would-be pushbike ride-pimper will watch it disappear onto the floor. If found at all, it will be covered in: toffee papers; grit; guinea-pig droppings; small parts from the undercarriage of the Airfix Messerschmidt Me109 (perm any three from four). It will never fit back in. The front forks will never operate smoothly again. The bike will develop a distinct, and irrestible, right-to-left tendency which will one day send the idiot male headfirst into a hedge, a telegraph pole, or the path of a shopping trolley.
We can't help it.
We are made that way.
Unlike the bike, of course.
Todays' genetic imperative: the fork dismantle.
At some stage in every man's life he will own a bicycle (Baby Girl enquires why they are called "pushbikes" - I shrug and say "IMDB it"). Usually that bike will be owned during late puberty. And at some point the owner will grab a spanner and rotate the handlebars through 180 degrees in two planes - turning them upside down and back-to-front. "Customising", it might be called, or "marking ones territory".
Having successfully engineered a situation where the handlebars will suddenly invert themselves just as the rider is attempting to overtake a bendy bus on the inside (or, in the case if this gene-slave, while attempting to hitch a tow on the passenger rail of a number 23 Routemaster Bus
belting towards Barking Station at about 90 mph), the imperative takes further hold. Stick transfers from Airfix models of Messcherschmidt Me190s on the crossbar? Already done it. Clothes peg a playing card to the back forks so your bike makes the sound of a fat man's trousers surrendering at the seams? Kids' play. No, there is one major operation that every male biker owner can, and indeed must, perform.
He will take a spanner, and undo the nut that attaches the front fork to the frames.
When separated, he will find a circle of ball-bearings in grease. He will poke the ball bearings with a pencil, a screwdriver or, best of all, a finger. One of the ball bearings will dislodge. In attempting to replace it, the would-be pushbike ride-pimper will watch it disappear onto the floor. If found at all, it will be covered in: toffee papers; grit; guinea-pig droppings; small parts from the undercarriage of the Airfix Messerschmidt Me109 (perm any three from four). It will never fit back in. The front forks will never operate smoothly again. The bike will develop a distinct, and irrestible, right-to-left tendency which will one day send the idiot male headfirst into a hedge, a telegraph pole, or the path of a shopping trolley.We can't help it.
We are made that way.
Unlike the bike, of course.
16/01/2010
Oh. it's good...
... to be back on the WorldWideInterweb. Last Sunday evening, just acknowledging an email from Helen at bookersatz (http://bookersatz.blogspot.com/) and the Interweb went *pop*. And just for a moment, I thought it was me who had broken it. Imagine the shame, the guilt, the TV opportunities, of being the person who broke the Interweb.
And then I realised that the snow had played havok with the telephone and that it was nothing to do with me at all.
It took BT five days to get everything back and running, five days in which I have been taking surreptitious glances at the online world (or, at least, those parts of it which we are grown-up enough to be allowed to see) in the office at lunchtimes, and wishing that I could get back online, write a blog entry or two, update my bookblog (http://rashdallsmixedpicklesreviews.blogspot.com/), work on my Open University course... and now I can. Except I am just about to motor off to Suffolk for the next 24 hours, so all shall remain silence until at least tomorrow evening. Opportunity and accessibility - why can't they coincide?
And then I realised that the snow had played havok with the telephone and that it was nothing to do with me at all.
It took BT five days to get everything back and running, five days in which I have been taking surreptitious glances at the online world (or, at least, those parts of it which we are grown-up enough to be allowed to see) in the office at lunchtimes, and wishing that I could get back online, write a blog entry or two, update my bookblog (http://rashdallsmixedpicklesreviews.blogspot.com/), work on my Open University course... and now I can. Except I am just about to motor off to Suffolk for the next 24 hours, so all shall remain silence until at least tomorrow evening. Opportunity and accessibility - why can't they coincide?
03/01/2010
So souk me
Am I the last person to have adopted a recession mentality? I did something yesterday that I have never done before, and I think it is all because I have spent the best part of the year reading money-saving ideas in the Daily Telegraph's Saturday "Weekend" and "Your Ackers" sections. In fact, in ALL their sections. And all the other papers to. The recession have proved a Godsend to previously out-of-work scrimpage scribes who couldn't even sell a featurette to the Harrow Observer during the conspicuous consumption days that preceded Lehman Bros et al. But I digress.
I, as I said, have never done it before. The Baby Girl, my nest-flown youngest, has always been adept at it. Entering a "book" (did you see what I did there? "book" is predictive text spelling for "cool", hence the way forward for Standard English) boutique (ah, I show my age) she will find a dress that she really likes and then explain to the Beleagured Shop Manageress that as it is the last one on the rail, the BSM is going to be plagued by customers saying "Have you got this in red? Have you got it in a 14? Have you got it in this size and colour but with spots on?" and when the BSMA has to admit they don't, the plague of customers will leave, disgruntled and vowing never to return. Far better, TBG explains, to sell it to me for 25% of the ticket price, and save disappointing so many people. The BSM, grateful for having her turnover preserved, readily agress and, indeed, reduces the price even further in the hope that TBG will call again and save her from eventual financial ruin.
Me, I can't do that.
Strike that last and make it "Couldn't".
Went into a large-office-stationers-who-don't-only-sell-staples-despite-what-you-might-think and stared lovingly at a laptop for about ten minutes. My laptop is five years old, has 250mb of RAM a 25gb hard-drive of which 8gb is empty, crashes more frequently than a car insurance scammer, and takes so long to boot up that if I want to know how Brentford got on in an evening kick-off, it is quicker to get out the car and drive to the Royal Oak on the corner of the ground and find a gruntled or disgruntled supporter and ask them what the score was.
So I've been thinking about a new laptop for a while. And I looked and looked at the one in the shop that had the spec I wanted until one of the assistants came up to me and asked if he could help.
"Not really," I replied, "I was only thinking that if this laptop was £300 I'd be really tempted." He smiled, and said nothing. I smiled, and said nothing, but harder. Eventually he cracked. "I can't get it down to three hundred," he said, "but what about three-ten?"
So here I am, writing my last blog on my old laptop and about to set up my new one.
Am I cheap, or just hopping on the Souk Market bandwagon? I don't know, but I do feel quietly proud of myself. I'm sure TBG will give me a pat on the back too.
I, as I said, have never done it before. The Baby Girl, my nest-flown youngest, has always been adept at it. Entering a "book" (did you see what I did there? "book" is predictive text spelling for "cool", hence the way forward for Standard English) boutique (ah, I show my age) she will find a dress that she really likes and then explain to the Beleagured Shop Manageress that as it is the last one on the rail, the BSM is going to be plagued by customers saying "Have you got this in red? Have you got it in a 14? Have you got it in this size and colour but with spots on?" and when the BSMA has to admit they don't, the plague of customers will leave, disgruntled and vowing never to return. Far better, TBG explains, to sell it to me for 25% of the ticket price, and save disappointing so many people. The BSM, grateful for having her turnover preserved, readily agress and, indeed, reduces the price even further in the hope that TBG will call again and save her from eventual financial ruin.
Me, I can't do that.
Strike that last and make it "Couldn't".
Went into a large-office-stationers-who-don't-only-sell-staples-despite-what-you-might-think and stared lovingly at a laptop for about ten minutes. My laptop is five years old, has 250mb of RAM a 25gb hard-drive of which 8gb is empty, crashes more frequently than a car insurance scammer, and takes so long to boot up that if I want to know how Brentford got on in an evening kick-off, it is quicker to get out the car and drive to the Royal Oak on the corner of the ground and find a gruntled or disgruntled supporter and ask them what the score was.
So I've been thinking about a new laptop for a while. And I looked and looked at the one in the shop that had the spec I wanted until one of the assistants came up to me and asked if he could help.
"Not really," I replied, "I was only thinking that if this laptop was £300 I'd be really tempted." He smiled, and said nothing. I smiled, and said nothing, but harder. Eventually he cracked. "I can't get it down to three hundred," he said, "but what about three-ten?"
So here I am, writing my last blog on my old laptop and about to set up my new one.
Am I cheap, or just hopping on the Souk Market bandwagon? I don't know, but I do feel quietly proud of myself. I'm sure TBG will give me a pat on the back too.
31/12/2009
22/11/2009
I'm so bored...
... with all this talk about football, and handball, and whether or not matches should have video referees.
Yes.
I am suffering from Thierry Ennui.
Yes.
I am suffering from Thierry Ennui.
01/10/2009
If you believe...
... they put a clown on the moon (clown on the moon).
Well,not exactly the moon, but them pesky Ruskies have put a clown in space. Any clown-phobics out there? He's up there, looking down at you!
Nah, don't panic, he can't reach you with his squirty flower; if he pressed the squeezy bulb the reaction would send him flying off in the vague direction of Uranus (did you see what I did there?).
Speaking of which, in order to avoid offending the sensibilities of the Moral Majority, from 2010, Uranus is to be renamed...
Urectum.
That joke used by kind permission. Thanks, Luke. And now back to our regular broadcast.
The Russians didn't send him up there as some kind of Commmedia dell'arte skit - no, Mr Baggysleeves paid Brer Oligarch thirty million US red-noses (thats 22,000,000 battered boaters sterling) for the privilege.
Dat's an offal lotta buckets full of silver confetti being chucked at an audience, brothers and sister. Are we on a wavelength here?
You bet we are. I'm off to paint my face white with a teardrop trickling from the corner of my eye. That teardrop isn't make-up by the way. That's me crying 'cause I chose the wrong career.
Now where's that square-wheeled car of mine? (*parp*)
Well,not exactly the moon, but them pesky Ruskies have put a clown in space. Any clown-phobics out there? He's up there, looking down at you!
Nah, don't panic, he can't reach you with his squirty flower; if he pressed the squeezy bulb the reaction would send him flying off in the vague direction of Uranus (did you see what I did there?).
Speaking of which, in order to avoid offending the sensibilities of the Moral Majority, from 2010, Uranus is to be renamed...
Urectum.
That joke used by kind permission. Thanks, Luke. And now back to our regular broadcast.
The Russians didn't send him up there as some kind of Commmedia dell'arte skit - no, Mr Baggysleeves paid Brer Oligarch thirty million US red-noses (thats 22,000,000 battered boaters sterling) for the privilege.
Dat's an offal lotta buckets full of silver confetti being chucked at an audience, brothers and sister. Are we on a wavelength here?
You bet we are. I'm off to paint my face white with a teardrop trickling from the corner of my eye. That teardrop isn't make-up by the way. That's me crying 'cause I chose the wrong career.
Now where's that square-wheeled car of mine? (*parp*)
01/09/2009
29/08/2009
One of the problems...
with being so vain;
every time I go to cross the road, and it says "Look right", I stop and think "Yes, I do, don't I?"
every time I go to cross the road, and it says "Look right", I stop and think "Yes, I do, don't I?"
16/08/2009
A conundrum.
Why are they called "energy-saving" light bulbs...
when my eyes have to work twice as hard to read anything under them?
when my eyes have to work twice as hard to read anything under them?
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