During a drive to work a few days ago, I passed (I say passed, but realistically, I was doing my impression of a fighter pilot and flew past at mach 99 with my body moulding to the chair) a bus.  On the bus was an advert which was trying to tempt me away from my comfy, fast, quicker than you vehicle.  It read “How is your drive?  Wouldn’t you rather be relaxing on this bus!!”.

I should probably mention why this advert is as sensible as smearing myself in squashed ants and then goading the cage of anteaters to come and have a go if they think they are hard enough.  Yeah sure…they are in a cage, but if that cage is open, I am going to become a tasty starter, main and if am lucky, dessert.  It is sensible in no way at all because on the route that the bus takes there is an estate that if I was wearing full body armour and armed with a sub machine gun, I would still be shouted at for not being man enough.  Another way to say it is that they aren’t all there.  There is something missing in the brain department.  They are, for a better word, friggin nuts.

And they are on that bus.  Going round and round in circles all day because they haven’t worked out how to get off of it yet.  They only got on because they had seen someone they wanted to mug.

And if I got on that bus, the last thing I would be doing is relaxing.  No, I would be staring straight ahead worried that if I was to make eye contact, I would be for no good reason, turned in to a pate.  And it wont be the tasty liver and bacon one.  It’ll be some weird one that no one will eat and gets thrown away at the end of the night when the host says “hmmm…that wasn’t very popular!  Well, it is Sy’s innards mixed in with sheep dip…we may as well bin it then.”

It is realistic that I would have my mobile phone stashed in my underwear which means that the faces I pull when I get a call are going to land me in trouble should Crazy McPsycho sitting next to me sees me pulling those faces while he is about to eat his BK Burger he bought from mugging some school kid.  My face of unadulterated ecstacy as he sucks the mayo off of the burger bun is never going to end well for me.

My wallet would be stored between my butt cheeks and my door keys would be tied around my testicles.  It’s the only place they wont check to see if you have anything worth nicking, and the way I walk from this should technically make me fit in fairly well with the surroundings of societies decay.

Nope.  There is no chance I will be getting on that bus.  They will find any reason to start.  Take today for instance.

There I was, happily feeding my daughter a yoghurt.  A vanilla yoghurt with strawberry bits in (you know, just in case you are one of those people that say “Well, you didn’t SAY it had strawberry in!”).  During feeding this to her, as you can imagine, she wore as much as she ate.  And while wearing, she decided to clean her hands and face on my jeans.  positioning wise, you could say “Above the knee’s but below the MummyDaddy department”.  I think you get the idea just where that stain appeared.  Yes, it looked like I had been helping myself, but had been very careless with the result and didn’t bother changing.

So had I got on the bus from hell then, just what would have happened?  Actually, I think I would have been safe.  If I had also not showered, worn clothes that fitted me when I was 11 and had so many dubious stains on my clothes that scientists would be confused as to whether they should be checking my brain functions, or checking my clothes for a penicillin replacement, I am confident I would have come out the other side with a clean get away.

So sorry Mr Councilman.  I will stick to the car for now.  It’s safer, more expensive and I get to pass wind without being stared at.

An open letter to my cats by me, Sy…aged 34 and almost a half.

There are three cats.  They are:

Charlie (the mother.  Female…just in case someone needs confirmation on that). 

Danni (the daughter.  As the name suggest, female.  I think the daughter bit may have also explained that too). 

Yogi (the son.  Also referred to by myself as “The Boy”, “Oi…Stupid” and “GET OUT THE FRIGGIN BIN DIPSHIT!”.  He is a boy…give you a clue, the answers in the name).

And they are driving me mad.  So in some stupid attempt to hope and pray that they read the Internet and visit this site instead of just look at cat porn, I am posting this letter.

Dear Charlie, Danni and Yogi.

I love you.  There is no doubt of this, as if I didn’t, I would have enjoyed you with a side of fries by now.  But as with all types of love, be it tough, gentle or the kind that ends with the court telling me I am not allowed within 30 miles of Megan Fox, the abuse of said love always comes with a price.  Some examples of your abuse of my good nature:

Charlie.  My first born daughter.   I let you have your children on my side of the bed.  I lovingly watched as you ate the placentas from the kittens on the part of the bed where my mouth generally lays.  It was disgusting.  It was like watching an asthmetic grown man try and eat 4 huge steaks through a straw.  Impressive while being just a little obscene and wrong.  Have you not heard how bad red meat is for you in such big quantities?  But regardless.  As you sat there licking the goo from your children on to the side of the bed I sleep on, meaning I was going to be sleeping in the juices from your womb, I knew we had something special.  So please.  Explain to me one thing.  At 4am, when you make that calling noise to me until I wake up and then get louder and louder…well…it’s 4am.  Another way of saying it would be “WHAT THE HELL!!!”.  And then you decide that you must have a bath with me.  Fine.  I have no problem with this.  BUT.  There is a limit.  There is a limit to our friendship.  The line generally gets classed as “crossed” when you do the following:

When I get out of the bath and am drying myself, I have to bend over to dry my legs.  Your affection is noted, but rubbing your head against my naked rear until you are burrowing in to the no entry area is of the uncomfortable side.  Especially when you purr louder when you do it.  The other day it looked like my backside had a black beard.  Your malting hair attaching to my still wet arse made a face resembling an evil Santa clause.  So please.  Don’t.  There are no toys for children in that area.

Danni.  I remember when the other two kittens left.  Yes, left.  I did not give them away, nor did I make a financial gain from them.  That new bike I bought was from money raised in other ways…which was not raised from selling the video of your mother eating a placenta or 4 on the Internet at www.dirtycatseatingwombmeat.com.  They decided to leave.  Get over it.  But no, once they left, you would not talk to me for 2 months.  You ran from me and spurned all my advances.  Over time, you found a new love for me.  Fine, sticking you in a really small cage and prodding you with a half a cucumber 18 times a day was maybe not the way to prove my love to you, but as you saw, it worked and we are now close.

So why. WhywhywhywhyWHY do you insist on hiding from me until I am about to walk down the stairs and then jump in front of me “purring”.  Purring?  I know it is fake.  You are trying to kill me.  You don’t do it any other time apart from when I am at the top of the stairs and would fall to my death of I trip.  Oh, and that one other time.  Yeah you remember.  When all those knives were laying on the floor with the handles facing downwards and all those blades facing upwards.  And somehow, all the lights in the area had somehow been broken.  And you made loads of noise so I got up in the middle of the night and couldn’t see anything.  And I could smell cucumber as I got closer.  And then there you were.  Pouncing on me.  Interesting.  If I didn’t know any better….

Yogi.  Geez boy.  What are you on!  There is absolutely nothing going on in your head.  Your vacant stare wreaks of “dropped on my head as a kitten”.  Which yes, sadly it is true.  Actually, you were dropped 4 times.  But it is your fault.  Falling off of the top of the stairs and landing almost 2 meters down would do that to anyone.  But honestly, you are nuts.  If you were human, I would be using you as a paperweight which has an extra bit for lubricating stamps.  The title of this website is a testament to what is missing in your head.  So how about changing.  Just a little bit, but changing.  The things I want changed?  Stop stealing food from the table.  The bin.  The kitchen counter.  The shops.  Everywhere.  And if you feel like a tasty snack of the small still alive bird variety, eat the damn thing outside.  It’s not a toy.  Bringing it in the house and then using it to mop the floor, counters and any piles of clothes I have out is frankly disgusting.  So don’t.

If this behaviour by all three of you continues, I will be forced to take action.  And I don’t mean one with a karate chop action.

I read an interesting a news article (because that’s all I have in life after painting my nipples blue and making penguin noises) that said that a Serbian woman was cured of a deadly heart condition after being struck by lightning.

I am assuming that her “Deadly heart condition” was actually called  “Still being alive”.  The fact that her heart was still beating, which was putting a real crimper on the whole being dead thing which was in some way preferential?  That kind of deviancy would normally be solved by a nice dose of electricity I guess.  But surely there are better and a lot easier ways to do it.

According to a statistic that I have in no way just made up, more people cure that horrible ailment of a beating heart by frantically waving the national flag of the honourable country Djibouti at a male squirrel who is in the process of showing the girlie squirrels his impressive array of nuts than they do by being hit by lightning.  Plus, squirrels are not limited to a one time one place type event that lightning is, so the chances of enjoying success are greatly increased.

So what’s going on?  Did she run about in a lightning storm doing the “Anti-Heart Dance”?  This medieval dance is done by picking a particularly feisty electrical storm and then holding hands with 4 of your closest friends and running around in circles shouting “Lightning lightning you’re so weak, you couldn’t even hit me if I dressed like a leak!”.

The most important part of this game is that you have to dress in a full metal bodysuit and not actually as a leak, which kind of messes up the lyrics a bit.  I am guessing she didn’t play this game as…well…I just made it up.  But y0u know, it sounds fun which is surely the important thing, and in the highly unlikely event that I ever feel the need to stop my heart working, I will see what I can do about getting 4 friends to give it a go with me.  Anyone up for it?

Of course, I am sure if I was to read the actual news story rather than making this crap up and spend my spare time watching Spongebob Squarepants cartoons, I would probably find out it is actually about something other than her trying to top herself.  But sadlyI am not so sure I care because when is her life going to become more important than watching Spongebob?  He lives in a pineapple under the sea you know.  How many of you can say you do?  Yup.

So there you have it.  When in doubt, try sucking on a lightning bolt.  It’s the cure to all the ailments you can have in life.

I know secretly you are interested to read the real story about the woman who got hit by lightning, so HERE you are.  I am too good to you people.  I hope you appreciate it as much as I appreciate this coffee I am about to drink.

There are some things a man should not do.  This is not a sexuality thing, it is purely that for the most part, we are completely crap at it.  In this instance, it was me baking a birthday cake for my daughter’s first birthday.  Of course, had she eaten any of it, I am confident that it would have also been her last birthday.

The day started so well.  By well, I mean that we had hired a tin that would mean that the cake would be already in a mould of  monkey and my wife started to make the cake mixture.  Thus I was not involved.  Therefore, well.

Then I got involved.

Then it all kind of went to hell.  “Kind of” being another way of saying “completely”.

Following all the instructions to make sure the cake did not stick to the tin, I eagerly placed the tin in the oven.  I was eager because I had promised myself a beer, and couldn’t have it until I had finished this part.  So, cracking open the beer, I stood back to marvel at my ability to turn up late, do the last part of the job and merrily swigged on my beer.

30 minutes later I removed the tin from the oven.  Ah yes.  Look at it.  I am a genius!  So turning it over on the stand, I removed the monkey from the tin on to the stand.

By removed, I mean shook violently.  But it was stuck like an ant that has stood on superglue.  Ah crap.  And being the shape it was, I couldn’t even encourage it out with a spatula.  But it is OK, because about 2 minutes of encouragement of the vigorous shaking later, it came out.  Well, half of it did.  The other half was stuck to the bottom of the tin.

So.  Cake screwed.  May as well have another beer.

It was about this time I said to my wife “Hey, you know…I saw an awesome Spongebob cake at the shop.  Lets just go buy that, and I will take the credit for making it!”.  This was met with as much approval as the time I asked her if she would dress up as a banana and let me broadcast her peeling herself on the Internet.  Instead, it was agreed (she told me how it was going to be) that she would go bath our daughter and put her to bed while I made more cake mixture and put it in another tin.  A round tin.  A standard as you like cake tin.

What could go wrong!  I should probably open another beer.

So making the next lot of mixture, I get the cake tin and pour the mixture in to it.

The mixture starts leaking out of the bottom of the tin.  Sod it.

Pouring the mixture back in to the bowl, I turn the base of the cake tin around…just incase I put it in the wrong way…and pour the mixture back in to the tin.

Yet more mixture escapes.  Highly amused, I pour the mixture (what was left of it!) back in to the bowl and take a step back to look at the carnage.

The kitchen counter looks like a cake had been horribly murdered.  It’s soft gooey innards splattered all over the counter, running down the cabinet doors and on to the floor.  You could almost imagine the screams that must have taken place as the poor mixture was abused, beaten and destroyed.  I started to feel like a murderer who was pleased with his work, but wondering how to hide the evidence.

Using my head, I put greaseproof paper in to the tin to stop it leaking.  This worked great…except that after cooking, the paper was stuck to the side of the cake, so on removing the paper from my awesome looking cake, I also removed dirty great chunks of cake.

I was left with something that resembled the thing you find on the grass in a field of cows…but the cows have been on a diet of extra hot curry while eating marmalade sandwiches.  It literally looked crap.

By now, I was several beers for the better and found the whole thing highly amusing.  My wife, obviously enjoying my abject failure, decided I really should carry on and start icing it.  I accepted because by now, it was more of a joke than a cake. 

First thing first…filler.  So making a bowl of icing so thick you could plaster the walls with it, I started to fill in the big chunks of missing cake in order to make something that was actually round rather than star shaped.  Perfect (well, I was pretty much drunk by this point).

But he needs ears.  I mean, how many monkeys do you know without ears!?  Ah-ha!  Taking chunks of the original destroyed cake, I cut two ears and jam toothpicks through them and in to the side of the cake.  There.  Ears.  Damn I am THAT good.

Right.  Chocolate sprinkles around the top to make the fuzzy face.  Ah man, I am a genius!  Of course, I failed to mention that by now, on top of the empty beer cans, myself and the good wife have now managed to make a wine bottle empty itself.  I have also eaten most of the chocolate sprinkles because I have the munchies from the alcohol.

OK.  Cocoa powder all over the sides to make it the right colour.  Except that I missed most of the side of the cake and now the floor is a pretty brown colour.  Being the lazy arse genius that I am, I vacuumed up the powder.  This worked well…except that I now get a smell of hot chocolate every time I vacuum anywhere in the house.

There.  One cake made with all the love and attention of someone with the motor skills of a sloth which took some LSD and got very much involved. 

It looked absolutely horrendous.  But we decided that screw it…it’s made and it will be used for the party.  This went well because I had used so much filler…erm…icing…on it to patch up the edges that there was about as much sugar in it as you would get in one of those pamphlets that tells you “this much sugar will kill you”.

So naturally I gave the sugar overload to the kids at the party.  It was like giving the roadrunner a huge does of laxative and told that the nearest toilet is 200 miles away, so he better get running.  I have a high level of confidence that by now, there are a few kids in my neighbourhood walking up to strangers saying they need a fix while looking at them with bloodshot eyes and shaking uncontrollably.

I took a photo of the cake, but I am honestly going to need some serious begging before I show you it.  Honestly…it’s THAT bad!  Tasted great, just looked like a mix between a deformed monkey and a car crash.

In the last year, I have been dribbled on, sneezed on, vomited on, coughed on, punched repeatedly in the face, kicked repeatedly in the fun department and had the freedom to leave the house late at night with no warning taken away.

Another way of saying that is “A year in the life of living with my daughter….” rather than “I am the top prisoners personal bitch”.

Yup.  Nearly a year ago I became a proud Dad.  Since then, I have become painful with my digital camera, and am the typical proud father who doesn’t care about your kids because mine is even greater than I am.

But, being a father instead of just the super awesome guy I was has opened my eyes a little.  I noticed that someone so small (that’s my daughter, not me) can seemingly make everything bigger…and in some cases more painful.

Take the list at the top of the post for instance.  Let’s go through them.

Being dribbled on:

We have all had that injection given by a dentist 10 minutes before he rams his hand down your throat and while feeling around inside your lungs says “So.  How are you?  Been up to much?” while you dribble uncontrollably all over yourself.  But compared to a baby, it’s nothing.  To my daughter, the act of dribbling involves two things.  1) Has Dad just got dressed?  and 2) Where is the food that makes me dribble like an over excited Saint Bernard dog?  It goes everywhere.  I swear some days I can be at work after not seeing her for hours and yet it is still dripping from my hair.

Being sneezed on:

Everyone sneezes differently.  You have those people that feel it is an embarrassment to sneeze, so a noise like someone squashing a plum with a spoon leaves their head.  Others feel the need to shake their head as they sneeze…I am guessing in some attempt to act like a sprinkler system for their germs?  And then there are the ones that make a noise so loud you would think that they were being beaten with a potato masher at the same time.  Not my daughter though.  She prefers the “Oh, look.  There is Dad.  Right in front of me.  I wonder what that tickling sensation is in my nose?  Oh…hang on…..” and then with one deft move, she tilts her head back and then with one fluid motion (literally!), she projectile snots all over me.  Normally straight at my face, but again, if I have just got dressed, I am left with congealed snot all over me until I change.  It’s when I dont notice and a few hours after being at work, I take a toilet break and when I look in the mirror, there it is.  A new lifeform.  I once found something resembling the early hours of penecillin on my shirt.

Being vomited on:

Now, I already did a post about one of these incidents which is HERE.  But it still amazes me how something so small can somehow empty it’s entire stomach out in one move.  And to date, she has never EVER thrown up when she isn’t sitting on me.  Maybe I should get the hint and change my clothes/cologne/deodorant…or maybe even start using the latter two.  I am more concerned about the smug look she has on her face just after the removal of breakfast/lunch/cat hair from her stomach.  It is like the whole thing was planned.  Granted, normally I am very ill or very drunk when I throw up, but I can’t say I ever smiled, winked and trotted off to play with my toys after doing it.

Being coughed on:

When I cough, I cover my mouth.  When other people cough they may keep their mouth closed and be quiet and unassuming.  Other people need everyone to share the leftovers from their lunch by coughing so hard you end up with half masticated chicken and a piece of their lung on your face.  Not my daughter.  It’s a game.  Recently she will crawl up to me, climb on me, smile and then cough right in my face.  And again.   And again…actually, until I copy her.  Then she will wander off.  Happy in the knowledge that I am now like a trained poodle who does whatever she demands.  I have never seen myself as poodlesque, but there is time.

Being punched in the face:

Living with my daughter is like being in a relationship with an S&M master.  I have been less bruised after spilling my pint over the local nutter in the pub than I have with stupidly taking a nap when my daughter is crawling about the bed.  She will in general just crawl over and hit me as hard as she can.  So far I am only mildly bruised.  Unlike my wife.  She, for some reason, decided that she would be safe to grab a cheeky two minute nap by giving our daughter a mobile phone to play with.  Except now…my wife has a black eye.  Yup, Mum isn’t paying me attention, so I will crack her in the head with this phone.  You can see the looks of “oh, the poor woman…accusing the child when her husband is blatantly beating her” all over strangers faces.

Being kicked in the fun department:

Unsurprisingly, in the last yeah my daughter has grown.  So will someone please explain to me how the hell she manages to keep her feet in just the position that when she is tired and trying to nap on me that she can kick me square in the joy department.  I am confident that if I was to ask her if she wanted a brother or sister, her answer would be “By the time I have finished, you wont have anything left to make another baby with”.  Another thing that confuses me is why do baby shoes seem to all have metal toecaps?  They sure as hell aren’t soft.  If she doesn’t end up in a job that involves kicking (preferably not me), I will actually be a little disappointed.

So there you have it.  Kids.  They are something to be amazed at while being a weapon of mass destruction all rolled up in to one cute little package.  Cue attaching a couple of pictures.  If you come here for the witty writing, I apologise for never managing it.  If you come here to escape stories and photos of other peoples kids…erm…too late, just don’t look below this point.

 

In something you read everyday in the highbrow newspapers, a woman in Ghana married her dog because she said it reminded her of her late father.  I would question why he is late, but it will end up being a witch hunt about his watch being on a different time zone or something.  But regardless…

She is quoted as spouting:

For so long, I’ve been praying for a life partner who will have all the qualities of my dad. My dad was kind, faithful, and loyal to my mum, and he never let her down.  I’ve been in relationships with so many men here in Togo, and they are all the same – skirt-chasers and cheaters. My dog is kind, and loyal to me and he treats me with so much respect.

That is all well and good, but the last time I looked, a dog is also something that humps your leg repeatedly, steals food from your plate, drags itself along the floor to scratch it’s arse and then buries things in the garden while slobbering in your shoes.  It tries to escape constantly and will sleep with any other dog it sees.  It also hates cats, postmen and the name Humphrey.

So.  Qualities that she wants in a husband…because they remind her of her father?

If as a kid, my Dad was to spend his days dry humping my friends legs, I would be questioning anyone marrying him…and lets not even go there with the whole “why isn’t he in prison” thing.  There is more chance of me marrying a statue of a sausage sandwich than a someone that reminded me of one of my parents.

But really.  Has she not worked this out?  It’s a dog.  A friggin DOG!  Why not marry a newspaper instead?  It’s informative, and rather than scratch it’s own arse on the carpet, she could use it to clean hers in the event of a failure in the stocking of toilet roll.

I asked my wife why she married me.  She said it is because she wanted to marry someone that reminded her of her worst nightmares.  I should also mention that I have also on occasion tried to dry hump her leg like a dog, but have never quite managed it because I always seemed to finish before I got near her leg, but I guess that is something I need to work on.  But weirdly, she does ask me to bark once in a while.  But then, she also tells me to shut up.  So I am not sure where she is going with that.  Or me for that matter.

But back to the mad dog marrying nutter.  What will the kids look like?  As much as I am confident that I am not half dog, I still like my ears being played with and I have a tail.  OK, so it is on the wrong side, but it’s still a tail, and it does wag when I get excited.  But what will hers come out like?

I am taking a wild guess on “Completely bloody nuts”, which means that when they grow up, they will be just like their mother.

Should you feel the need to read about the happy litter couple, then head HERE.  Don’t feel you have to.  You already know it is about a woman who marries a dog.  Even the ending is the same.

Every year, when the summer sun comes out and I get the unbelievably stupid idea that I can do DIY.   That I, the master of disaster, can actually take something and improve it.

It happens every year without fail.  And every year I manage to fail. 

I get all “Yeah!  Fixing stuff!” without that memory of absolute abject failure of every previous attempt that has ended with many a trip to the emergency room.  The last trip to the emergency room involved me having a large chunk of metal removed from my head.  Which got in there via the process of my wife smashing my head in for being a complete imbecile.

Therefore the thought of “Lets get the extra strength no more nails out and stick wood to other pieces of wood…in the name of fixing stuff” was never going to work out well.  For me.  For my wife. 

For my ego.

It’s was to be a simple process.  Unclog the nozzle where it has dried up from the last time I used it, which was sometime in the neolithic era judging by the weird tools that were attached to it from my last attempt.  Stick the glue on one piece of wood, attach it to the other piece of wood and revel in the glory of my work.  Be loved by my wife for fixing stuff.  Show all my friends my amazing ability and accept the glory they placed upon me.

It went well.  By well I mean…

I found a screwdriver and jammed it with all my might (which is about as powerful as a 1 legged mouse doing the 100m hurdles) in to the top of the clogged up nozzle.  This left the entire length of the screwdriver covered in glue.   I love that screwdriver.  So I felt I needed to save it.  So placing down the tube, I rush to the bathroom to save my beloved screwdriver. 

Naturally, the thing to do would be to use a cloth or something to wipe it off. 

So.  Using my fingers, I wipe the extra strength glue off of the screwdriver.

Except by “wiped off”, I actually mean “Smeared it all over the screwdriver”.  And also my hand.  So I ran the water in the sink.  Except I used my hand that was covered in glue to turn the tap on as my other hand was holding the screwdriver.

The water was about as helpful as punching myself in the head repeatedly would be to world peace.  Although the tap handle is no longer a pretty chrome colour, but is more of a smeared dirty white colour.

It was not going what you could call “swimmingly”.  And now the glue was starting to dry.  Rapidly.

It was at around this time I wandered in to the kitchen to ask my wife if she had any ideas.  At around the same time the cat decided she wanted to say hello, so jumping to the table near me, managed to almost knock a glass of water over on to my open laptop.  A little worried about this, I picked up my cat to put him on the floor.

But because I am a stupid arse, I used my glued up hand.

To the casual passing by observer, it now looked like I was trying to massage my cats testicles.  This was obviously not the case…because a year before I had them chopped off, which meant for me to do that, I would be in a vet’s office with my hand in a bin full of old animal parts having a good rummage around.  Yeah, it sounds appealing…but in the grand scheme of things, it was not the time or the place to go all animal porn. 

Yes, my hands were now attached to my cat.  In a place I would rather they weren’t.  

I wont go in to the process of removing myself from the poor little guy.  Use your imagination, and add in a lot of scratching, screaming and a look of total fear.  Now try to imagine what the cat did too.

During all this, the tube of extra strength no more nails emptied itself on to the wooden counter and dried nicely.  And it won’t come off.  The screwdriver is ruined…unless I need something to unclog a tube of no more nails.

I have decided to employ a blind kleptomaniac elephant to do the rest of the DIY in the house.  It sure as hell can’t go any worse.

The cat has not come near me since, and his eyes are still watering.

It is amazing that I remembered to write this post.  I have had recently, what can only be described as a frontal lobotomy.  Or maybe a frontal enema due to the complete lack of memories in my head recently which have fallen out and are left nowhere to be seen.  But then…frontal enema?  It sounds messy.  And painful.  And I for one am only willing to let YOU all try it.

One of the up sides of my new found memory lapse is that I forget where I work, or I forget what I was doing at work as soon as I leave for the day.

This in effect sounds great, but does come with it’s flaws.  Just the other day someone asked me where I work.  I couldn’t remember.  I had absolutely NO idea. And then they said “is it at an airport?”.  Well, if you already know, just why the hell are you asking me!  And how did he know that I worked there?  I had just met him.  Was it because I was making plane noises while running about the street in my underwear and wearing some Biggles goggles firing my imaginary machine gun at the evil red baron?  Anyway, this policeman who asked…why did he even need to know?  People need to calm down on the public nudity thing.  I am a great physical specimen to show the world.  OK, so it shows the world what happens if you jam your gut so full of KFC that no kind of enema, even that frontal painful sounding one, would work.  but the kids need to know the wondrous world of evils of fast food.

I thought I was alone in this memory thing, but even my Sat Nav doesn’t know where I work.  When I click the “Take me to work” button, the cars goes all transformer on me and turns in to a bed.  Fine, so I get paid to work hard sleep, but hell…I have to at least be IN the office to do this.

Putting aside my physical inadequacies and the issues that my car and crap nav have, I am still concerned over my memory.

On the walk from my car to the work canteen, I thought “Lets go all crazy and buy a sandwich!”.  So there I was standing in front of the sandwiches and thought to myself “Why the hell am I standing here?”.  I had actually forgotten I was hungry.  Was this because of the woman in the incredibly small shorts who had obviously just come back from holiday that I saw prior to entering the canteen?  I should probably mention that she weighed about 400lbs.  The shorts…they didn’t, well, couldn’t…cover much.  Either way, it wasn’t pretty.  And I don’t mean that rose bush in winter not pretty, I mean that “oh my god…that is…but she…there was…here comes lunch to clean my shoes with!” not pretty.  Sure, everyone has the right to wear what they want, thus my underwear, goggles and plane moment…but I did it late at night so no one would see.  I didn’t think anyone would call the police.

Where was I going with that last paragraph?  You know…shock bloody horror, I cant friggin remember!

It started with a sniff.

Then a sneeze.

Then even a cough or two mixed in with a sore throat.

And then my nose exploded.  Well OK, I don’t mean exploded.  It is still very much attached to my face and looks the same as it always has.  But what the hell is trying to escape from it?

I hate colds.  OK, so show me a person that enjoys them…but really…I hate them.  I mean honestly, the idea of some being from another world climbing up my nose and blocking it up, and then what I can only describe as it having “A not so tidy stomach” trying to escape on a minute by minute basis through my nostrils.  But that isn’t good enough.  I have to help it along by aid of a good hardy blow. 

I can only liken the sound I am making as a noise like an elephant trying to dislodge a pineapple from it’s trunk . I then get lightheaded and make my daughter cry with the noise.

But it isn’t only the nose thing, it’s the feeling hot constantly.  That’s OK, I put a fan on.  But the fan…well, it’s not so good.  And by not so good, I mean if you were to stand in say 45c heat in India and get the local asthmatic to blow on you through a blocked tube.  It’s useless.  So I am sweating and leaking.  Not from the same place I should add.  Yet.

I need vitamins.  So I have been drinking a berocca a day.  For those that have no idea what it is, it’s one of those “I have 30000% of your RDA of every vitamin known to mankind!” type tablets that you stick in water and stare as it fizzes until you realise you need to get a life.  The downsideupside to this is that after taking it, the next time you pee, it is like you are Luke Skywalker preparing for battle.  I stand at public urinals making noises like a lightsabre and moving too and fro as my pee turns from “charming” to “It glows in the dark!”.  To this day I haven’t been beaten up by some guy that thinks I am coming on to him…maybe because he can see I am having way too much fun with myself to be interested in whatever the hell he is doing.

But sadly, a few days later I am feeling worse.  I can’t breath through my nose at all and sleeping at night is becoming a bit of a worry as I am concerned I will shut my mouth (it’s unlikely but hey!) and then wont be able to breath…and I will die of a common cold.

Along comes the vapour rub.  That stuff that you can put on night or day, but you only put it on at night as some smart arse will say “*sniff* Vicks vapour rub?  Do you have a cold?” while looking at you with your red eyes watering all over the place, a voice like Joan Rivers on crack and a nose so red from blowing it that you can almost see the arse of the alien that has climbed up there trying to escape mid poo. Of course, had they just seen that you haven’t showered for 3 days (or is that just me when I am ill?), they would have been able to tell.

But regardless, the night came and I gave myself a good rub.  Of the vapour rub obviously.  I decided that I wouldn’t wash my hands as they now smelt so good and with my hands near the pillow, I could take full advantage of the vapoury goodness.

Until I had an itch.

Down there.

Without a care in the world, I had a scratch.

*tick* *tock* went the clock for about ten seconds.

Hmmm…that’s…oh my….argh….why did someone just get a meat tenderiser and crack me in the manhood with it!  So in my infinite wisdom, I tried to rub off any that may have got on the little guy….with the same hands that did the damage in the first place.

It wasn’t fun.  So climbing out of bed, I get to the bathroom via a hopping motion of a rabid bunny with only one leg.  It was about this point my wife woke up, and hearing the water running in the bathroom and a voice saying “Oh yeah…yeah…that’s better…ahhh…a little bit more…uh-huh” she opened the bathroom door to see her husband with his joy department sat over the edge of the sink and is splashing cold water on to soothe the pain.

“I had a vapour rub moment!” I said coyly.  She went back to bed, probably to note that she needs to get a divorce.