Yeah yeah, OK, blog on blog on. Nagged as I am by n’er do wells who got up early and, failing spectacularly distracting flooding and being blessed with the sleep patterns of the undead, trolled over to here to find that I have been customarily detached from my keyboard thus depriving them of the guilty pleasures of my spilling the beans on all aspects of my random life.
Funnily enough I got an email the other day from someone else (not a blogger, as far as I am aware) who said, and I quote directly: “sorry about this, but I feel like having a little vent, and as you are one of the guys on the ‘bothered to write back the once’ list, and you seem to have the intelligence to understand what I’m talking about, I’m venting to you…”
Oh good. Am I right to summarise the gist of their slightly rambling email as “I think you’re quite nice and a bit soft so I’m going to unload all my angst on you. P.s. I’m not mad“. Yes, thought so.
Little do they know that I am every so slightly unhinged myself…the fools. I sit here typing right now with two incense sticks (Jasmine flavour, if indeed incense can be called “flavoured”) smoking sweetly into my lovely flat. This is the fault of the Isley brothers and MSN. I could tell you why but to be honest, it would be quite a long story and I’d prefer you to make up your own plot-lines the best of which I could then pinch and ruthlessly misrepresent as my own if the chance for cheap approbation or easy money came along. Mind you, MSN is also partially responsible for me chatting away at 3am whilst quaffing Henri Bardouin Pastis and contemplating sending naughty photos of myself far and wide (in the end all participants remained fully clothed throughout – something that will be corrected in due course, I am that much of a tart).
Trolling around my local market yesterday, as I do on Saturdays to buy my fish and vegetables, I chose to wear my official Blogger hoody I got from the very nice people at Google as a thank you for being one of their Pro Bloggers many years ago when they waved wads of cash around at Evan and his boys and sucked Blogger into their do-no-harm-honest-guv clutches. This is a damn good hoody. Big f.o. “Blogger” logo on the front of it, with lots of lovely Google words down the side of the arm (I used to have a picture of me in it but I can’t find it right now – the one above is another one from my blog of the time – I’ve been blogging since…aw….er, dunno years way before Google was popular as a search engine).
Anyway, as I walked around the market I’ve discovered a new game; spot the blogger. 🙂 You see, *they* are the ones that walk into lampposts as they crane their neck to see what it says on my Blogger hoody. It’s not a common top, in fact this particular one was only given out to a few hundred people worldwide (according to Google) and if you’re a blogger you’ll instantly recognise the logo and the wording. LOL. Before Paul McKenna’s mind-bending redesigned my thinking I used to take full advantage of being a computer programmer and dressed almost entirely in geek chic. That is to say, I looked a bloody mess in various T-shirts with pithy sayings like “No, I will not fix your computer”, “Computer says no” and the slightly more unnerving “I read your email”. Hoodies were De Riguer. Then Paul “you are laying on a sunny beach” McKenna and his CD of mind-melting doom worked his magic and now I mostly live inside a variety of “proper” shirts…albeit without a tie, can’t go too far.
What else? Ah, *more* damn wedding industry websites. I have accidentally become the local “bloke that does web sites for people who sell stuff to people who are getting married”. Jewellery, dresses, limos, bridal hire. lol. Perhaps the irony of the fact I have been married twice escapes whatever forces of Karma are at work in my great celestial plan, or perhaps that is the plan; a kind of funny ha ha joke by some stand-up comedian of a god. Meh.
…and I’ve started getting my book typeset. Woo hoo. Plus I am on the hunt for a suitably edgy artist to draw me some pictures to offset the non-stop flow of conciousness that eases out of my strife-riven fingers whenever they get placed in front of a keyboard and fuelled by muse.
Oh, and I spoke to a very nice tax lady who seems to think that as they have apparently made a humungous cock-up they will not now arrive at my doorstep like government-sanctioned thieves and take away my extensive vintage boxer short collection and fully arranged spice racks in lieu of the infeasibly large payments they had previously demanded (with seven days notice) to support the
chancellor’s prime minister’s war on Iraq/Afghanistan/Iran/Terror/the British public [delete as appropriate].
Hoorah! No loin cloth and Big Issue selling for me!
Right, I’m off to cook some herrings. Laters aligators.