I've just been watching the live streaming of the Embra Festival fireworks show on t'internet. Nice pictures but I couldn't hear the music for the racket going on outside, you'd think someone was having a fireworks show or something. Oh. Right.
According to the blurb, they were supposed to be trialling silent fireworks this year - WTF is that all about? Half the point of any good fireworks show is seeing how many car alarms you can set off with the explosions. Well, maybe they did use them, but I live five miles from Embra Castle and I could hear the odd thud even from here.
Anyway, for those of you who missed it, here's a firework.
And remember kids, don't try this at home!
Sunday, 31 August 2008
Taking the Waters
This arrived today from my South African son-in-law currently living in New Zealand. I feel it travels well...
How To Shower Like a Woman
Take off clothes and place them sectioned in laundry basket according to lights and darks.
Walk to bathroom wearing long dressing gown.
If you see husband along the way, cover up any exposed areas.
Look at your womanly physique in the mirror - make mental note to do more sit-ups/leg-lifts, etc.
Get in the shower.
Use face cloth, arm cloth, leg cloth, long loofah, wide loofah and pumice stone.
Wash your hair once with cucumber and sage shampoo with 43 added vitamins.
Wash your hair again to make sure it's clean.
Condition your hair with grapefruit mint conditioner enhanced.
Wash your face with crushed apricot facial scrub for 10 minutes until red.
Wash entire rest of body with ginger nut and jaffa cake body wash.
Rinse conditioner off hair. Shave armpits and legs.
Turn off shower.
Squeegee off all wet surfaces in shower.
Spray mould spots with Tile cleaner.
Get out of shower.
Dry with towel the size of a small country.
Wrap hair in super absorbent towel.
Return to bedroom wearing long dressing gown and towel on head.
If you see husband along the way, cover up any exposed areas.
How To Shower Like a Man
Take off clothes while sitting on the edge of the bed and leave them in a pile.
Walk naked to the bathroom.
If you see wife along the way, shake willy at her making the 'woo-woo' sound.
Look at your manly physique in the mirror.
Admire the size of your willy and scratch your bum.
Get in the shower.
Wash your face.
Wash your armpits.
Blow your nose in your hands and let the water rinse them off.
Fart and laugh at how loud it sounds in the shower.
Spend majority of time washing privates and surrounding area.
Wash your bum, leaving those coarse bum hairs stuck on the soap.
Wash your hair.
Make a Shampoo Mohawk.
Wee.
Rinse off and get out of shower.
Partially dry off.
Fail to notice water on floor because curtain was hanging out of bath the whole time.
Admire willy size in mirror again.
Leave shower curtain open, wet mat on floor, light and fan on.
Return to bedroom with towel around waist.
If you pass wife, pull off towel, shake willy at her and make the 'woo-woo' sound again.
Throw wet towel on bed.
I KNOW YOU'RE LAUGHING CAUSE MOST OF IT'S TRUE!!!!!!
Take off clothes and place them sectioned in laundry basket according to lights and darks.
Walk to bathroom wearing long dressing gown.
If you see husband along the way, cover up any exposed areas.
Look at your womanly physique in the mirror - make mental note to do more sit-ups/leg-lifts, etc.
Get in the shower.
Use face cloth, arm cloth, leg cloth, long loofah, wide loofah and pumice stone.
Wash your hair once with cucumber and sage shampoo with 43 added vitamins.
Wash your hair again to make sure it's clean.
Condition your hair with grapefruit mint conditioner enhanced.
Wash your face with crushed apricot facial scrub for 10 minutes until red.
Wash entire rest of body with ginger nut and jaffa cake body wash.
Rinse conditioner off hair. Shave armpits and legs.
Turn off shower.
Squeegee off all wet surfaces in shower.
Spray mould spots with Tile cleaner.
Get out of shower.
Dry with towel the size of a small country.
Wrap hair in super absorbent towel.
Return to bedroom wearing long dressing gown and towel on head.
If you see husband along the way, cover up any exposed areas.
Take off clothes while sitting on the edge of the bed and leave them in a pile.
Walk naked to the bathroom.
If you see wife along the way, shake willy at her making the 'woo-woo' sound.
Look at your manly physique in the mirror.
Admire the size of your willy and scratch your bum.
Get in the shower.
Wash your face.
Wash your armpits.
Blow your nose in your hands and let the water rinse them off.
Fart and laugh at how loud it sounds in the shower.
Spend majority of time washing privates and surrounding area.
Wash your bum, leaving those coarse bum hairs stuck on the soap.
Wash your hair.
Make a Shampoo Mohawk.
Wee.
Rinse off and get out of shower.
Partially dry off.
Fail to notice water on floor because curtain was hanging out of bath the whole time.
Admire willy size in mirror again.
Leave shower curtain open, wet mat on floor, light and fan on.
Return to bedroom with towel around waist.
If you pass wife, pull off towel, shake willy at her and make the 'woo-woo' sound again.
Throw wet towel on bed.
I KNOW YOU'RE LAUGHING CAUSE MOST OF IT'S TRUE!!!!!!
Friday, 29 August 2008
Village Fête
Now that the Embra Festival is drawing to a close once more, the weather has, naturally, taken a turn for the better. In fact it's been downright sweltering. I'd love to be able to strip off my top and do a bit of Naked Blogging, but those pervy neighbours would just totally get off on my beautiful man-boobs. What to do?
Aha! If I hunt around, I can emulate Adam and Eve and cover my modesty with, er, ivy leaves.
Sorted!
Er...
Sorry if you were drinking tea, coffee or wine. Just send me the dry-cleaning bill.
If this doesn't win me a prize at the Village Fête, well, I won't be at all surprised.
What did surprise me is that Anna is moving to San Francisco. Blimey!
Aha! If I hunt around, I can emulate Adam and Eve and cover my modesty with, er, ivy leaves.
Sorted!
Er...
Sorry if you were drinking tea, coffee or wine. Just send me the dry-cleaning bill.
If this doesn't win me a prize at the Village Fête, well, I won't be at all surprised.
What did surprise me is that Anna is moving to San Francisco. Blimey!
Farty's Friday Chart
Oh FSM I'm so fucking depressed right at this minute...
According to experts, i.e. layabouts with nothing better to do, Embra is the unhappiest place in Britain. Which is why we have the biggest, the longest and the best comedy festival in the world: to cheer us the fuck up.
I couldn't figure out how to get the full title and artist into one diagram, so you get two this week. Good luck, you'll need it.
According to experts, i.e. layabouts with nothing better to do, Embra is the unhappiest place in Britain. Which is why we have the biggest, the longest and the best comedy festival in the world: to cheer us the fuck up.
I couldn't figure out how to get the full title and artist into one diagram, so you get two this week. Good luck, you'll need it.
Wednesday, 27 August 2008
Do You Believe In Fête?
If so, you really need to get baking with those toothpicks, paperclips and etceteras. Especially the etceteras1. Belgian Waffle is holding a very special Village Fête and the closing date is August 31st.
I think it's all a clever ruse to get around EU rules about having to destroy your fucking cake after exhibiting it at a cake exhibition-type-place. Such as a fête.
In your face, Brussels!
Still can't think of a suitable entry, dammit...
1 Such as carved vegetables.
I think it's all a clever ruse to get around EU rules about having to destroy your fucking cake after exhibiting it at a cake exhibition-type-place. Such as a fête.
In your face, Brussels!
Still can't think of a suitable entry, dammit...
1 Such as carved vegetables.
Tuesday, 26 August 2008
Absent Friends part 2
Why do bad things happen to good people?
Scott was in our gang. We didn't see him at school because he went to a really posh school across town, while we went to the local comprehensive. But that was totally ok, for after school and at weekends, when he wasn't at rugby practice in the school playing fields, we would all meet up and get up to our usual shenanigans. So much for the class war; Scott was just one of the gang, and we loved him as a brother.
Sometimes, on a clear summer night, I'll get out the binoculars, lie down on the back lawn and gaze up into the sky. I see cold, hard stars blazing back at me. I know that each of those points of light is another sun, zillions of miles away, hot as hell, with, like as not, its own retinue of planets circling it; each of those worlds has at least the possibility of supporting life. And I wonder what makes us so special?
One day Scott came to tell us that his family was moving away. Not far, just the other side of town, but far enough away that he wouldn't be able to come play with us any more. But on the bright side, both he and I would be attending the same all-boys high school, so I'd still get to see him there. Pity about the rest of the gang though.
What is it that possesses people to bare their souls to complete strangers? I can understand telling your nearest and dearest, or conversely hiding it from them, but why do I feel safe sharing this with you, my imaginary friends? It's like a diary that talks back to you. It's quite disconcerting when I think about it.
Summer passed, and high school began. Scary stuff at first, but Scott was there too, so we could support each other. My God, he was funny! Always ready with a quip and a smile, and to bend the rules a bit, just like we'd done in the gang. An example: to get to the school, you had to catch the bus into Davidson's Mains, then walk a very long way from the village up the road towards Barnton, just to reach the end of the school drive. It must have taken a good twenty minutes, which no doubt the gym master thought was good for us. Character building or some shit. I just found it a pain in the arse. Of course the rich kids, the ones whose parents had cars, were dropped off at the school itself. Bastards.
But there was another bus stop just on the other side of the wall. The eight-foot high wall. The eight-foot high wall that bordered the strip of private property between the school and the busy, four-lane main road. Not to mention the fence. Hmmm. Twenty-minute walk, twice a day, or nip across the playing fields, over the fence, through the trees and over the wall onto the narrow pavement? Decisions, decisions...we hardly ever got caught, but that belt really stung our hands.
Of course that was then, when the building was new and the boys had no influence over school policy. Those boys have long since grown up and found places on the toon cooncil, or as lawyers, architects, movers and shakers. Nowadays there's a clearly signposted, carefully sculpted hole in the wall; a paved path up to the gate in the fence; even a pedestrian crossing at the road. It's no fun at all.
Scott had an older sister, Elaine. She was quite pretty, in a distant way. I suppose I might have fancied her if I'd been a couple of years older, or she'd been younger. She had a boyfriend at their new house, I remember that. They went out together every weekend.
Now I can tell this part as I remember it, finding out drips and draps and then piecing it all together like a jigsaw, or I can present the finished picture. To tell the truth, after forty years I forget which pieces appeared in which order, but it went something like this...
One Monday morning, Scott wasn't at the bus stop by the wall. He wasn't in the playground either. It was only when the bell went and we all trooped into assembly that we found out - the headmaster announced that one of the boys had died over the weekend and there would be a memorial service shortly. That boy was Scott.
Now at first I'm pretty sure I got the impression that he'd been climbing over the wall on his way to (or possibly from) rugby practice, slipped and fallen under the wheels of a car. Then, when I heard he'd died at home, I thought he must have passed away in his sleep. Except...that didn't really explain why his father had been arrested. Had Scott been smothered? No, it was worse. Much worse.
Do you ever just have to put your head in your hands and sob? It's not fair. Scott was a good kid. He didn't deserve this, no matter what he did, this should not have happened to him. Or anyone.
There's a good reason for my initial confusion; everyone was confused. On Saturday night, Elaine's boyfriend waited for her to show up for their date. And waited. And waited. Nada. There were no mobile phones back then, this was in olden times (the sixties). So he waited until Sunday morning before calling her at home. No answer. He made a trip to the house. The lights were on, even although it was broad daylight, but when he rang the doorbell there was only silence. So he called the police.
They were reluctant at first to take any action; after all, the family might have gone away for the weekend. Maybe one of the neighbours suddenly remembered hearing unearthly screams during the night? I really don't know.
Having kicked the door down, the police were understandably at a loss. There was so much blood and gore, and so many body parts that they had trouble at first working out just how many victims there had been. Eventually they figured out that Scott, Elaine and their gran had been butchered; their mum had sustained head wounds but was still breathing; and their dad had, upon coming to his senses, slit his wrists in desperation. But somehow he survived.
Was there a trial? There was no point; it was clearly an act of madness. He was incarcerated in Carstairs Hospital for the Criminally Insane with no hope of reprieve.
A couple of years ago, I heard that Scott's mum, who suffered brain damage and never fully recovered, had finally passed away. His dad, now in his eighties, applied for permission to be released, under supervision, to attend the funeral. The authorities duly convened a committee to discuss the pros and cons of allowing an old man to bury his wife. Whether by bureaucratic idiocy or sheer, petty small-mindedness, the meeting was held the day after the funeral. For all I know, maybe it was something like that which set him off in the first place.
When I heard this latest snippet, I thought, "Good. Serves the old bastard right." But by the time I started composing this post, a few months ago (yes really), it had occurred to me that this old man has had four decades to consider the consequences of his actions, and the loss of his beautiful children. I pity him and yes, finally, I forgive him too.
Why do bad things happen to good people? Scott should have been a dad himself by now; perhaps even a grandad. But now he'll always be a laughing, joking twelve-year-old boy. I miss you, Scott Anderson.
Scott was in our gang. We didn't see him at school because he went to a really posh school across town, while we went to the local comprehensive. But that was totally ok, for after school and at weekends, when he wasn't at rugby practice in the school playing fields, we would all meet up and get up to our usual shenanigans. So much for the class war; Scott was just one of the gang, and we loved him as a brother.
Sometimes, on a clear summer night, I'll get out the binoculars, lie down on the back lawn and gaze up into the sky. I see cold, hard stars blazing back at me. I know that each of those points of light is another sun, zillions of miles away, hot as hell, with, like as not, its own retinue of planets circling it; each of those worlds has at least the possibility of supporting life. And I wonder what makes us so special?
One day Scott came to tell us that his family was moving away. Not far, just the other side of town, but far enough away that he wouldn't be able to come play with us any more. But on the bright side, both he and I would be attending the same all-boys high school, so I'd still get to see him there. Pity about the rest of the gang though.
What is it that possesses people to bare their souls to complete strangers? I can understand telling your nearest and dearest, or conversely hiding it from them, but why do I feel safe sharing this with you, my imaginary friends? It's like a diary that talks back to you. It's quite disconcerting when I think about it.
Summer passed, and high school began. Scary stuff at first, but Scott was there too, so we could support each other. My God, he was funny! Always ready with a quip and a smile, and to bend the rules a bit, just like we'd done in the gang. An example: to get to the school, you had to catch the bus into Davidson's Mains, then walk a very long way from the village up the road towards Barnton, just to reach the end of the school drive. It must have taken a good twenty minutes, which no doubt the gym master thought was good for us. Character building or some shit. I just found it a pain in the arse. Of course the rich kids, the ones whose parents had cars, were dropped off at the school itself. Bastards.
But there was another bus stop just on the other side of the wall. The eight-foot high wall. The eight-foot high wall that bordered the strip of private property between the school and the busy, four-lane main road. Not to mention the fence. Hmmm. Twenty-minute walk, twice a day, or nip across the playing fields, over the fence, through the trees and over the wall onto the narrow pavement? Decisions, decisions...we hardly ever got caught, but that belt really stung our hands.
Of course that was then, when the building was new and the boys had no influence over school policy. Those boys have long since grown up and found places on the toon cooncil, or as lawyers, architects, movers and shakers. Nowadays there's a clearly signposted, carefully sculpted hole in the wall; a paved path up to the gate in the fence; even a pedestrian crossing at the road. It's no fun at all.
Scott had an older sister, Elaine. She was quite pretty, in a distant way. I suppose I might have fancied her if I'd been a couple of years older, or she'd been younger. She had a boyfriend at their new house, I remember that. They went out together every weekend.
Now I can tell this part as I remember it, finding out drips and draps and then piecing it all together like a jigsaw, or I can present the finished picture. To tell the truth, after forty years I forget which pieces appeared in which order, but it went something like this...
One Monday morning, Scott wasn't at the bus stop by the wall. He wasn't in the playground either. It was only when the bell went and we all trooped into assembly that we found out - the headmaster announced that one of the boys had died over the weekend and there would be a memorial service shortly. That boy was Scott.
Now at first I'm pretty sure I got the impression that he'd been climbing over the wall on his way to (or possibly from) rugby practice, slipped and fallen under the wheels of a car. Then, when I heard he'd died at home, I thought he must have passed away in his sleep. Except...that didn't really explain why his father had been arrested. Had Scott been smothered? No, it was worse. Much worse.
Do you ever just have to put your head in your hands and sob? It's not fair. Scott was a good kid. He didn't deserve this, no matter what he did, this should not have happened to him. Or anyone.
There's a good reason for my initial confusion; everyone was confused. On Saturday night, Elaine's boyfriend waited for her to show up for their date. And waited. And waited. Nada. There were no mobile phones back then, this was in olden times (the sixties). So he waited until Sunday morning before calling her at home. No answer. He made a trip to the house. The lights were on, even although it was broad daylight, but when he rang the doorbell there was only silence. So he called the police.
They were reluctant at first to take any action; after all, the family might have gone away for the weekend. Maybe one of the neighbours suddenly remembered hearing unearthly screams during the night? I really don't know.
Having kicked the door down, the police were understandably at a loss. There was so much blood and gore, and so many body parts that they had trouble at first working out just how many victims there had been. Eventually they figured out that Scott, Elaine and their gran had been butchered; their mum had sustained head wounds but was still breathing; and their dad had, upon coming to his senses, slit his wrists in desperation. But somehow he survived.
Was there a trial? There was no point; it was clearly an act of madness. He was incarcerated in Carstairs Hospital for the Criminally Insane with no hope of reprieve.
A couple of years ago, I heard that Scott's mum, who suffered brain damage and never fully recovered, had finally passed away. His dad, now in his eighties, applied for permission to be released, under supervision, to attend the funeral. The authorities duly convened a committee to discuss the pros and cons of allowing an old man to bury his wife. Whether by bureaucratic idiocy or sheer, petty small-mindedness, the meeting was held the day after the funeral. For all I know, maybe it was something like that which set him off in the first place.
When I heard this latest snippet, I thought, "Good. Serves the old bastard right." But by the time I started composing this post, a few months ago (yes really), it had occurred to me that this old man has had four decades to consider the consequences of his actions, and the loss of his beautiful children. I pity him and yes, finally, I forgive him too.
Why do bad things happen to good people? Scott should have been a dad himself by now; perhaps even a grandad. But now he'll always be a laughing, joking twelve-year-old boy. I miss you, Scott Anderson.
Sunday, 24 August 2008
Random Crap
Ok. Whenever a thought strikes me, I note it down in my moby; just a couple of words or so, an aide-mémoire so that when I sit down here I can write it up in a post.
Somehow, this has run up to 48 points, many of which make no sense at all. Maybe I should sign up to Twatter and send them off as soon as they happen? Oh. Too late. Oh, well...
Jade Goody has got cancer. Now I feel bad, as if my calling her a fat ugly bitch somehow contributed to her present condition. No, wait. I didn't call her ugly. So that's alright then. But she is ugly. Damn. Now I have said it. I feel bad. Forgive me?
So who remembers Red Hat Lady from last months wedding? I was asked to email my most excellent photos to one of the bridesmaids. Who sent them on to her dad. Who forwarded them to his best mate. Who is Red Hat Lady's dad. Did I mention that I left the captions on the pictures? And that her dad is the one ogling her boobs? The dirty old pervert!
The Olympics are over for another four years, thank FSM. I only got around to watching ten minutes of Women's Beach Volleyball, after Mrs Farty went to bed. You need plenty of stamina, good hand-eye co-ordination and strong wrists for that game. And a box of tissues.
Apparently an Embra bloke called Chris Hoy has won some medals for pedalling really fast. Really, really fast. He trained at Scotchland's only velodrome, at Meadowbank stadium in Embra. And the cooncil are commemorating his achievement by naming the brand new velodrome after him. The new velodrome in Glasgow, where the 2014 Commonwealth Games will be held. And Meadowbank? Will be demolished and sold off to the highest briber, so that yet more flats/apartments can be built. Cunts.
Oh! Oh! Esmée Denters is releasing her first album soon! Squeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Shoelace burglar. Need I say more? Ok. Twat shoelace burglar.
Feminine logic. Mrs Farty took the kitchen clock down to clean it, turned it around and declared that we'd need to get a new one.
"Why?"
"Because the back is filthy."
"But no-one can see the back, so no-one will know."
"I'll know."
Some poor author (and former Children's Laureate) has had her book pulled from the shelves after three (3) parents complained about the use of the word "twat". But not until 150,000 copies had been sold. Now the publishers are changing the word to "twit".Fucksake! Oh, for goodness' sake! It's political correctness gone mad differently sane, I tell you!
Trapper keeper. WTF is that?
Pensioners are demanding that the road sign for old people crossing, a pair of hunched figures hobbling on walking sticks, is changed because it's too condescending. As it says in the Telegraph article, "A spokesman for the Department for Transport said that the sign was not intended to depict elderly people, but those who were frail." I must be getting old, I could swear that sign says "Elderly People".
Anyhoo, old people are much more mobile these days than we give them credit for. Vide:
Calling ugly ducklings everywhere! (Does that include Ms. Goody?) The mayor of Mount Isa is looking for ugly women to redress the gender imbalance in his town, where men outnumber women by five to one. The local ladies are, predictably, up in arms and calling for the mayor's resignation. "It paints the women here as second rate and suggests that men will settle for anything. He has put everyone down," said Rikki Loccisano, who unaccountably refused to be photographed.
Now. Who can tell the difference between this:
...and this?
Anybody? No? You at the back? That's right. The first one is a cute, cuddly otter and the second one is a vicious, hungry, brutal crocodile. Or is it vice-versa? And just how drunk would you have to be to get them confused? Two words: Darwin Awards.
Phew! That's brought it right down to 39. Sigh.
Somehow, this has run up to 48 points, many of which make no sense at all. Maybe I should sign up to Twatter and send them off as soon as they happen? Oh. Too late. Oh, well...
Jade Goody has got cancer. Now I feel bad, as if my calling her a fat ugly bitch somehow contributed to her present condition. No, wait. I didn't call her ugly. So that's alright then. But she is ugly. Damn. Now I have said it. I feel bad. Forgive me?
So who remembers Red Hat Lady from last months wedding? I was asked to email my most excellent photos to one of the bridesmaids. Who sent them on to her dad. Who forwarded them to his best mate. Who is Red Hat Lady's dad. Did I mention that I left the captions on the pictures? And that her dad is the one ogling her boobs? The dirty old pervert!
The Olympics are over for another four years, thank FSM. I only got around to watching ten minutes of Women's Beach Volleyball, after Mrs Farty went to bed. You need plenty of stamina, good hand-eye co-ordination and strong wrists for that game. And a box of tissues.
Apparently an Embra bloke called Chris Hoy has won some medals for pedalling really fast. Really, really fast. He trained at Scotchland's only velodrome, at Meadowbank stadium in Embra. And the cooncil are commemorating his achievement by naming the brand new velodrome after him. The new velodrome in Glasgow, where the 2014 Commonwealth Games will be held. And Meadowbank? Will be demolished and sold off to the highest briber, so that yet more flats/apartments can be built. Cunts.
Oh! Oh! Esmée Denters is releasing her first album soon! Squeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Shoelace burglar. Need I say more? Ok. Twat shoelace burglar.
Feminine logic. Mrs Farty took the kitchen clock down to clean it, turned it around and declared that we'd need to get a new one.
"Why?"
"Because the back is filthy."
"But no-one can see the back, so no-one will know."
"I'll know."
Some poor author (and former Children's Laureate) has had her book pulled from the shelves after three (3) parents complained about the use of the word "twat". But not until 150,000 copies had been sold. Now the publishers are changing the word to "twit".
Trapper keeper. WTF is that?
Pensioners are demanding that the road sign for old people crossing, a pair of hunched figures hobbling on walking sticks, is changed because it's too condescending. As it says in the Telegraph article, "A spokesman for the Department for Transport said that the sign was not intended to depict elderly people, but those who were frail." I must be getting old, I could swear that sign says "Elderly People".Anyhoo, old people are much more mobile these days than we give them credit for. Vide:
Calling ugly ducklings everywhere! (Does that include Ms. Goody?) The mayor of Mount Isa is looking for ugly women to redress the gender imbalance in his town, where men outnumber women by five to one. The local ladies are, predictably, up in arms and calling for the mayor's resignation. "It paints the women here as second rate and suggests that men will settle for anything. He has put everyone down," said Rikki Loccisano, who unaccountably refused to be photographed.
Now. Who can tell the difference between this:
...and this?
Anybody? No? You at the back? That's right. The first one is a cute, cuddly otter and the second one is a vicious, hungry, brutal crocodile. Or is it vice-versa? And just how drunk would you have to be to get them confused? Two words: Darwin Awards.
Phew! That's brought it right down to 39. Sigh.
Saturday, 23 August 2008
An Important Notification !
From: Virgin Media Billing Center Centre (Virgin is based in the UK, twatface)
To:mrfarty@blueyonder.co.uk (Mr Farty isn't the account holder)
Subject: An Important Notification ! (Space before a punctuation mark? Come on!)
Date: 23 Aug 2008 10:28
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Dear Customer: (Why so formal? Just call me Mr Farty!)
Weapologize apologise (see above) if u you (txt spk in a formal document? I dnt thnk so!) had any trouble accessing our services. In the last month we have worked day and night, (no comma needed) for the improvement of our services. We want to do our best, and make it as simple as possible for us, but especially for you, our valued customer. From the beginning of this year we have had a big number of solicitations (who still uses that word outside the phishing community?) and because of this it was necessary to replace the old database server with a new one, which has the information (what information?) about our new clients, and where some of our clients are going to get moved. Please verify your information in the (Missing definite article) next 48 hours and to (conjunction in place of a preposition) help us avoid the lock-out of your services. We require all old accounts-holders (we're people, people!) to verify their information on file with us. To verify your account details now, please visit our secure server webform (Is that a word?) by clicking on (missing preposition) the hyperlink below :
http://kamiserv.biz/ (disguised as)
https://www.virginmedia.com/update/info/myaccount
If you choose to ignore our request, you leave us no choice but totemporary temporarily (Jeez, Louise, don't tell me you trust a spellchecker!) suspend your account. (I think I'll risk it.) We appreciate your business and hope to keep you as a customer for life.
Virgin Media Online is so easy; no wonder it's number one ! (There's that extra space again)
Weapologize apologise (UK, not US) for any inconvenience.
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Please note: Virgin Media will Never (Leading Caps In Mid-Sentence) ask for (missing preposition again!!) your credit card ATM pin. Don't give it to anyone. (Don't worry. I won't.)
©2008 Virgin Media, Inc. All Rights ReservedTM
To:
Subject: An Important Notification ! (Space before a punctuation mark? Come on!)
Date: 23 Aug 2008 10:28
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Customer: (Why so formal? Just call me Mr Farty!)
We
http://kamiserv.biz/ (disguised as)
https://www.virginmedia.com/update/info/myaccount
If you choose to ignore our request, you leave us no choice but to
Virgin Media Online is so easy; no wonder it's number one ! (There's that extra space again)
We
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Linky Love
Um. I was gonna post somethimg, but then I got sucked into Jenny The Bloggess and, well, then went blog-hopping from there. There was another of the Mr Men, Mr Nostril or something, and Jozet at Halushki, you should read her beautifully-written post on Creek Glass. And of course BOSSY and a quick look at Scotch Roundup, then on to Cat, Peter and Misssy and what do you know, it's well after midnight.
I'm off to bed now.
Nighty-night!
Sleep tight!
Don't let the buggies bite!
And if they bite,
Squeeze them tight,
And they'll no' bite
Another night!
I'm off to bed now.
Nighty-night!
Sleep tight!
Don't let the buggies bite!
And if they bite,
Squeeze them tight,
And they'll no' bite
Another night!
Friday, 22 August 2008
Farty's Friday Chart
Song Titles Illustrated
Excellent! This picture contains clues to both the artist and the title. And even Merkans will have heard of it. Probly.
Excellent! This picture contains clues to both the artist and the title. And even Merkans will have heard of it. Probly.
Tuesday, 19 August 2008
LOLCAKE
Original photo found on Cake Wrecks. Thanks to Julie S.
Update: I just searched in Google Images for Olympics Free Logo - guess who's the number one (1) hit in 1,590,000? Help Ma Boab!
Sunday, 17 August 2008
Finish That Sentence
1. My uncle once: told me I was rubbish in bed.
2. Never in my life: have I wanted to be on Big Brother.
3. When I was five: we still had black-and-white TV. And two channels. The content was far superior to today's.
4. High school was: worthy of several posts all on its own. The drugs, the bullying, the sexual liaisons, the murders - and that was just the teachers!
5. I will never forget: Mrs Gray, my English teacher. Hubba.
6. Once I met: myself coming the other way. So now I know the time machine works.
7. There’s this girl I know: she's amazing - beautiful, intelligent, witty, charming; brown eyes flecked with gold, gazing out from beneath a short, blonde fringe as she squeezes my hand and describes all the wonders she's seen that day and tells me of her fantastic plans for the next, before she flies off to gladden someone else's heart.
8. Once, at a bar: stay there till closing time. It beats fighting through the crowd again.
9. By noon, I’m usually: ready for chilli nachos.
10. Last night: it was dark.
11. If only I had: lady boobs, my life would be complete.
12. Next time I go to church: it'll be to dance at Margaret Thatcher's funeral.
13. What worries me most: is that they'll find out about the portal.
14. When I turn my head left I see: flashes.
15. When I turn my head right I see: that it's time for my meds.
16. You know I’m lying when: I'm in a horizontal position.
17. What I miss most about the Eighties is: sharing a chillum with friends.
18. If I were a character in Shakespeare I’d be: Bottom. Duh.
19. By this time next year: I'll be a year older.
20. A better name for me would be: Fat Freddie.
21. I have a hard time understanding: creationists.
22. If I ever go back to school, I’ll: take an AK-47 with me.
23. You know I like you if: a bulge appears under my kilt.
24. If I ever won an award, the first person I would thank would be: the one who handed me the award.
25. Take my advice, never: take my advice.
26. My ideal breakfast is: in bed. With Hollaby Wallaby.
27. A song I love but do not have is: Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands by Bob Dylan.
28. If you visit my hometown, I suggest you: stay on the bus/train/boat/plane.
29. Why won’t people: STFU?
30. If you spend a night at my house: just ignore the screams.
31. I’d stop my wedding for: Nadine Coyle crying: "It should have been me!"
32. The world could do without: humans.
33. I’d rather lick the belly of a cockroach than: have it lick my belly.
34. My favourite blonde is: Hollaby Wallaby.
35. Paper clips are more useful than: snot. But sometimes you have to use what's available.
36. If I do anything well it’s: news to me.
37. I can’t help but: poke fun, it keeps the shadows at bay.
38. I usually cry: "Fore!" Just as they're in mid-swing.
39. My advice to my child/nephew/niece: don't get caught.
40. And by the way: it's your turn.
(Thanks to Mr Angry for the meme).
2. Never in my life: have I wanted to be on Big Brother.
3. When I was five: we still had black-and-white TV. And two channels. The content was far superior to today's.
4. High school was: worthy of several posts all on its own. The drugs, the bullying, the sexual liaisons, the murders - and that was just the teachers!
5. I will never forget: Mrs Gray, my English teacher. Hubba.
6. Once I met: myself coming the other way. So now I know the time machine works.
7. There’s this girl I know: she's amazing - beautiful, intelligent, witty, charming; brown eyes flecked with gold, gazing out from beneath a short, blonde fringe as she squeezes my hand and describes all the wonders she's seen that day and tells me of her fantastic plans for the next, before she flies off to gladden someone else's heart.
8. Once, at a bar: stay there till closing time. It beats fighting through the crowd again.
9. By noon, I’m usually: ready for chilli nachos.
10. Last night: it was dark.
11. If only I had: lady boobs, my life would be complete.
12. Next time I go to church: it'll be to dance at Margaret Thatcher's funeral.
13. What worries me most: is that they'll find out about the portal.
14. When I turn my head left I see: flashes.
15. When I turn my head right I see: that it's time for my meds.
16. You know I’m lying when: I'm in a horizontal position.
17. What I miss most about the Eighties is: sharing a chillum with friends.
18. If I were a character in Shakespeare I’d be: Bottom. Duh.
19. By this time next year: I'll be a year older.
20. A better name for me would be: Fat Freddie.
21. I have a hard time understanding: creationists.
22. If I ever go back to school, I’ll: take an AK-47 with me.
23. You know I like you if: a bulge appears under my kilt.
24. If I ever won an award, the first person I would thank would be: the one who handed me the award.
25. Take my advice, never: take my advice.
26. My ideal breakfast is: in bed. With Hollaby Wallaby.
27. A song I love but do not have is: Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands by Bob Dylan.
28. If you visit my hometown, I suggest you: stay on the bus/train/boat/plane.
29. Why won’t people: STFU?
30. If you spend a night at my house: just ignore the screams.
31. I’d stop my wedding for: Nadine Coyle crying: "It should have been me!"
32. The world could do without: humans.
33. I’d rather lick the belly of a cockroach than: have it lick my belly.
34. My favourite blonde is: Hollaby Wallaby.
35. Paper clips are more useful than: snot. But sometimes you have to use what's available.
36. If I do anything well it’s: news to me.
37. I can’t help but: poke fun, it keeps the shadows at bay.
38. I usually cry: "Fore!" Just as they're in mid-swing.
39. My advice to my child/nephew/niece: don't get caught.
40. And by the way: it's your turn.
(Thanks to Mr Angry for the meme).
Friday, 15 August 2008
Everybody Is Someone Else's Weirdo
Mummy, there's a man at the door with a bill!
Don't be silly, dear, it must be a duck.
Redneck: What a Scotchman gets when he goes skiing in March, if he thinks the only protection he'll need is apack crate of condoms.
Jabba the Hutt off Star WarsTM has a gay uncle Zero. Why not have a gay, purple, tattooed, 500-kilo alien? Maybe people will stop complaining now about Jar-Jar Fucking Binks. But I doubt it.
A woman had to be cut free after impaling herself on a statue of Kali, the Hindu goddess of destruction. Allegedly she "fell onto the statue while staggering around". Is it bad for my karma if I laugh?
Z-list sleb Jade Goody, who created a Big Bother a couple of years ago by referring to a Bollywood icon as a "dog", "The Indian" and "Poppadom", is to appear in "Bigg Boss". This is some kind of Indian TV show where people are locked up in a house together; wonder where they got that idea from? Did I mention it's hosted by Bollywood icon Shilpa Shetty? Can't wait till it's repeated on Dave...
"Day three hundred and twelve, four am. The fat white bitch is in the kitchen with her head in the oven, but we've switched the gas and water pipes. Vote now to choose between blasting loud Indian music into the house and putting curry powder in the milk again. Who goes mad? You decide." Viewing figures should go through the roof.
TV isn't what it used to be, innit?
Don't be silly, dear, it must be a duck.
Redneck: What a Scotchman gets when he goes skiing in March, if he thinks the only protection he'll need is a
Jabba the Hutt off Star WarsTM has a gay uncle Zero. Why not have a gay, purple, tattooed, 500-kilo alien? Maybe people will stop complaining now about Jar-Jar Fucking Binks. But I doubt it.
A woman had to be cut free after impaling herself on a statue of Kali, the Hindu goddess of destruction. Allegedly she "fell onto the statue while staggering around". Is it bad for my karma if I laugh?
Z-list sleb Jade Goody, who created a Big Bother a couple of years ago by referring to a Bollywood icon as a "dog", "The Indian" and "Poppadom", is to appear in "Bigg Boss". This is some kind of Indian TV show where people are locked up in a house together; wonder where they got that idea from? Did I mention it's hosted by Bollywood icon Shilpa Shetty? Can't wait till it's repeated on Dave...
"Day three hundred and twelve, four am. The fat white bitch is in the kitchen with her head in the oven, but we've switched the gas and water pipes. Vote now to choose between blasting loud Indian music into the house and putting curry powder in the milk again. Who goes mad? You decide." Viewing figures should go through the roof.
TV isn't what it used to be, innit?
Thursday, 14 August 2008
Observation #2
One of these cities is Birmingham, West Midlands, England. Historically important for meh; well-known for the Bull Ring (which seems a bit short on bulls), Spaghetti Junction (I see no pasta sauce) and Cadbury's chocolate; exports include: Ozzy Osbourne (musician), Jasper Carrott (comedian) and Cat Deeley (babe).
The other one is Birmingham, Alabama, USA. Historically important for its civil rights struggle; well-known for its steel production, its high murder rate and the Nascar Nextel Cup; exports include: Spider
Even a complete and utter numpty could tell them apart.
Especially if they lived there.
And worked on the local council.
And were responsible for printing and distributing 720,000 leaflets to the local residents, with a picture of Birmingham plastered across the middle.
Surely?
Oh, dear.
Wednesday, 13 August 2008
Abandon The North!
A Tory think-tank says that northern cities such as Liverpool, Sunderland and Hull are beyond revival and that millions of northerners should migrate to London and the southeast of England, following a massive building program to house them all.
Rather than ruin what's left of the southeast landscape with three million new slums, I would respectfully suggest that we could:
- Build a huge, fortified wall north of Oxford to keep them out.
Or move Hadrian's Wall a bit further south.
- Inundate the North of England, drowning the northerners.
Work in hand, have you seen the news?
- Jack up the cities of Liverpool and Hull and drive them south.
Except that the thieving scousers would nick the wheels.
- Abandon the North to the rats and wolves.
There are no wild wolves in the UK, but we're working on that.
Do you have a better idea?
Monday, 11 August 2008
Invisibility News
Yes, Tefal-heads have come a step closer to producing a fully working invisibility cloak just like in Harry Potter. Well, sort of. Depending on which article you read, the boffins have either stumbled upon the new meta-material or spent years of their lives turning theory into practice. Stumbled. You know, like Oppenheimer stumbled upon the atom bomb.
The structure, described in Nature, works in the infrared spectrum, but the same principle should work with visible light..."It’s just a question of fabrication." Just the one teensy problem there. This isn't a "switch it on, switch it off" cloaking device, it's a passive meta-material. Light falls on it and presto! It bends the light away. My guess is they've already built dozens of working prototypes, but can't find any of them.
Anyways, it's great, because this new technique can hide tanks, aircraft and even warships. It must be true, it was on the internet!
Here's an earlier attempt at invisibility. Still needs some work, methinks.
The structure, described in Nature, works in the infrared spectrum, but the same principle should work with visible light..."It’s just a question of fabrication." Just the one teensy problem there. This isn't a "switch it on, switch it off" cloaking device, it's a passive meta-material. Light falls on it and presto! It bends the light away. My guess is they've already built dozens of working prototypes, but can't find any of them.
Anyways, it's great, because this new technique can hide tanks, aircraft and even warships. It must be true, it was on the internet!
Here's an earlier attempt at invisibility. Still needs some work, methinks.
Sunday, 10 August 2008
Observation
Thanks to John G for the inspiration.
Georgia USA
Georgia ROTW
I wonder how manyrednecks Merkans think their own Georgia has just been invaded by the commies?
I wonder how many
Friday, 8 August 2008
Tuesday, 5 August 2008
Absent Friends
It's mental, innit? Kids might hurt themselves playing conkers, so the powers that be decide to cut down all the horse chestnut trees. You don't want them to get molested or slashed, so you ban them from going out alone; but then don't have the time to take them to the park for a game of football. No wonder kids spend so much time in their rooms, on the computer, getting chatted up by pervs.
It was all so much simpler when we were young. I still fondly remember when our own "gang" used to go to the nearby park - still a good ten minutes from home - and play on the swings, seeing if we could swing so hard that we could loop the loop. Many was the time we'd get hit on the head by the seat, but we just got up and kept playing, maybe a bit concussed but what the hey, that's life.
On the other side of the park, we could trot under the railway bridge, then climb up the banking on the other side, through a gap in the fence and onto the railway line. Digging deep in our pockets, we could usually find a few pennies - proper, big old pennies, not your modern, tiny little crap - to lay on the tracks. And when the train came along - Bam! Sometimes the coins would come shooting out sideways, although I don't recall anyone ever getting hit by one. We'd scramble to pick them up while they were still hot and see whose had been spread out the most.
Then on we'd go to the next railway bridge, the one over the canal. The trains hardly ever used that one, but we didn't care. If you went part-way across, you could climb over the side and swing yourself underneath, then climb up inside the bridge into a secret world that, barring the graffiti evidence, no-one else even knew existed. That was our own little den. We took great delight in walking across the criss-crossing network of struts from one side of the canal to the other, trying not to use our hands to steady ourselves and daring each other to look down at the assembled prams, bikes and other detritus lining the bottom.
Sometimes we'd take a rod to the canal and go fishing. It didn't seem to matter whether you used a spinner or a fly, all we ever caught were pike. Completely inedible, even the cat wouldn't touch them, but it passed the time and gave us something to do. We would walk for miles, sometimes as far as the tire dump. Once we saw the dump in flames, thick, black, stinking smoke rising far into the sky above us. Did we hide indoors from the toxic fumes? Did we hell! We tried to get as close as we could. We would have toasted marshmallows over the flames if the police hadn't stopped us.
Or we'd wander up to the new flats at Wester Hailes, and play in the gutted wreck of a van. No wheels, no windows, no seats, but even in those days there was always some spoilsport ready to chase us off. "Eek!" we'd scream in mock fear. "Here comes Homo Jim!" And we'd run off, laughing with delight, as the fat, wheezing old fool tried to catch us. We didn't even know what a homo was, it might as well have been Injun Joe for all the difference it made.
Did it do us any harm? Or did it teach us how to get along together with our peers, to work as a team, looking out for each other and having fun while we were at it? Kids today really don't know they're born. Would I be ten again today, if I could? In this world, swaddled in cotton wool?
Would you?
It was all so much simpler when we were young. I still fondly remember when our own "gang" used to go to the nearby park - still a good ten minutes from home - and play on the swings, seeing if we could swing so hard that we could loop the loop. Many was the time we'd get hit on the head by the seat, but we just got up and kept playing, maybe a bit concussed but what the hey, that's life.
On the other side of the park, we could trot under the railway bridge, then climb up the banking on the other side, through a gap in the fence and onto the railway line. Digging deep in our pockets, we could usually find a few pennies - proper, big old pennies, not your modern, tiny little crap - to lay on the tracks. And when the train came along - Bam! Sometimes the coins would come shooting out sideways, although I don't recall anyone ever getting hit by one. We'd scramble to pick them up while they were still hot and see whose had been spread out the most.
Then on we'd go to the next railway bridge, the one over the canal. The trains hardly ever used that one, but we didn't care. If you went part-way across, you could climb over the side and swing yourself underneath, then climb up inside the bridge into a secret world that, barring the graffiti evidence, no-one else even knew existed. That was our own little den. We took great delight in walking across the criss-crossing network of struts from one side of the canal to the other, trying not to use our hands to steady ourselves and daring each other to look down at the assembled prams, bikes and other detritus lining the bottom.
Sometimes we'd take a rod to the canal and go fishing. It didn't seem to matter whether you used a spinner or a fly, all we ever caught were pike. Completely inedible, even the cat wouldn't touch them, but it passed the time and gave us something to do. We would walk for miles, sometimes as far as the tire dump. Once we saw the dump in flames, thick, black, stinking smoke rising far into the sky above us. Did we hide indoors from the toxic fumes? Did we hell! We tried to get as close as we could. We would have toasted marshmallows over the flames if the police hadn't stopped us.
Or we'd wander up to the new flats at Wester Hailes, and play in the gutted wreck of a van. No wheels, no windows, no seats, but even in those days there was always some spoilsport ready to chase us off. "Eek!" we'd scream in mock fear. "Here comes Homo Jim!" And we'd run off, laughing with delight, as the fat, wheezing old fool tried to catch us. We didn't even know what a homo was, it might as well have been Injun Joe for all the difference it made.
Did it do us any harm? Or did it teach us how to get along together with our peers, to work as a team, looking out for each other and having fun while we were at it? Kids today really don't know they're born. Would I be ten again today, if I could? In this world, swaddled in cotton wool?
Would you?
Monday, 4 August 2008
Merkan-English Dictionary #15
Probly. I've run out of fingers to count on.
Let's try some linky stuff.
Aubergine
Or eggplant if you'reweird Merkan.
Picturestolen from courtesy of BOSSY.
Egg
Plant
Merkans call this a backhoe. (For why?) Brits call this particular plant a Jacob.
Oh, you wanted a living plant?
Living plants
Not to be confused with the other kind of Triffid.
Triffid
This kind of Triffid is found in space.
Space explorer
This is a space explorer. He really went up into space.
Scotty
This is aScotch Canadian space explorer actor. He very nearly made it into space. But the engines couldnae take it.
Falcon 1
This was the Falcon spaceship he was on. Not to be confused with the other kind of Falcon.
Millennium Falcon
Falcon
Or indeed this type of falcon.
Clear as mud?
Let's try some linky stuff.
Or eggplant if you're
Picture
Merkans call this a backhoe. (For why?) Brits call this particular plant a Jacob.
Oh, you wanted a living plant?
Not to be confused with the other kind of Triffid.
This kind of Triffid is found in space.
This is a space explorer. He really went up into space.
This is a
This was the Falcon spaceship he was on. Not to be confused with the other kind of Falcon.
Or indeed this type of falcon.
Clear as mud?
Friday, 1 August 2008
Scotch Roundup
Boffins have discovered that the world's oldest joke is about my favourite subject. Phew knew?
In China, web censorship remains in place despite promises to the international media that all restrictions would be lifted. I wonder exactly how many hacks will storm off back home in protest? I won't be holding my breath.
A fourteen-year-old schoolgirl has won the right in court to wear religious jewellery to school, as it's part of her faith. Good for her. I wonder if I can get away with wearing a pirate fish pendant to work on Fridays? Arrrgh!
I was hoping that Tony Hawks would be visiting Embra for this year's book festival, but nae joy. In case you think I've spelt his name wrong, visit the skateboarding section of his website. But not while drinking coffee.
Prince Jug-ears has extended his green credentials by converting his Aston Martin to run on leftover wine. Oxymoron, anyone?
I have yet to be convinced that there's any intelligent life on Earth. Apollo astronaut Ed Mitchell claims that aliens have visited us. Allegedly NASA experts have described them as 'little people who look strange to us' with 'a small frame, large eyes and head.'
Hellooooooo?
Lastly, the gorgeous, pouting Carole Vorderman has kindly written a small post over here for a very reasonable fee. Do pay her a visit and leave some kind comments, please.
Toot toot!
In China, web censorship remains in place despite promises to the international media that all restrictions would be lifted. I wonder exactly how many hacks will storm off back home in protest? I won't be holding my breath.
A fourteen-year-old schoolgirl has won the right in court to wear religious jewellery to school, as it's part of her faith. Good for her. I wonder if I can get away with wearing a pirate fish pendant to work on Fridays? Arrrgh!I was hoping that Tony Hawks would be visiting Embra for this year's book festival, but nae joy. In case you think I've spelt his name wrong, visit the skateboarding section of his website. But not while drinking coffee.
Prince Jug-ears has extended his green credentials by converting his Aston Martin to run on leftover wine. Oxymoron, anyone?
I have yet to be convinced that there's any intelligent life on Earth. Apollo astronaut Ed Mitchell claims that aliens have visited us. Allegedly NASA experts have described them as 'little people who look strange to us' with 'a small frame, large eyes and head.'
Hellooooooo?
Lastly, the gorgeous, pouting Carole Vorderman has kindly written a small post over here for a very reasonable fee. Do pay her a visit and leave some kind comments, please.
Toot toot!
Farty's Friday Chart
A nice simple one for a change. Definitely a song title this time.
Name that tune.
Name that tune.