GIVE ME FIVE BEES FOR A QUARTER











It’s just past midnight, and in approximately eight hours, I will show up to work dishevelled and exhausted (because that’s what I do every Monday). But it’ll be different from every other Monday, because tomorrow I have to help my colleague with her filing. Here is a list of some things off the top of my head that I would actually prefer to do other than her filing:

1. Kiss a scorpion.

2. Eat a live budgie.

3. Watch Twilight.

4. Jam a paperclip in my eye.

5. Run naked through the streets of Tillydrone.

6. Undergo rectal surgery.

7. Clone myself and then fight to the death.

8. Be reincarnated as Mother Theresa.

9. Run through a minefield wearing clogs.

10. Place my balls on a set mouse trap.

11. Watch every episode of The Mighty Boosh.

12. Have sex with a corpse.

The only reason I’m doing her filing over anything from that list is because unfortunately it’s not my choice. I don’t have that option, Although it isn’t my job, I have to pick up for my colleague’s slack or the whole world will descend into chaos. Maybe if she didn’t spend half the time on Marks & Spencer’s website or on the phone to her friends/family I wouldn’t have to do her filing, but that’s a fool’s dream. When you’re a pro-skiver like me, you learn to divvy up the amount of time you spend slacking so that you don’t actually fall behind on the work you’re supposed to be doing. Maybe I’ll suggest a few tips to her. Or maybe I’ll just take a scorpion to work tomorrow and make out with it until it stings my face and I get to go to hospital and thus avoid all the fucking filing.

Anyone know where I can get a scorpion this time of night?



I was at work the other day and I noticed that a coworker had a strange colour of nail polish on her fingernails. I don’t usually notice trivial aesthetic details like these; like when a chick colours her hair from a dark shade of brown to a slightly lighter shade of brown. Sorry I didn’t notice, I guess I forgot to bring in my booklet of hair-colour swatches today to compare. But my colleague’s fingernails caught my attention because they weren’t quite red, but they weren’t quite black either. They were a sort of muddy red. To me, it looked like she’d smeared congealed blood over her fingernails. Perhaps she moonlights as a serial killer. I have made a mental note not to go to any more work functions that take place after dark. I’m not taking any chances with a woman who favours Congealed Blood as her preferred nail polish colour. That’s just asking for trouble.

But this leads me nicely into what I wanted to talk about, and that’s that putting on nail polish is just one of many things women do that I have never understood. I guess they do it so the ends of their fingers match their top or their eyes or something, whatever. But what’s even worse is when they paint their toenails. Why? Why do you do this? Here’s a tip for everyone in the world: there is nothing you can do to make your feet look good. A foot is a foot, and a foot will always be ugly. Unless you’re a deviant and you pleasure yourself at the sight of a foot (and if you are, and you’re reading this, just end yourself), then you should be of the opinion that a foot is pretty much on the same level of attractiveness as a scrotum.

LOOK AT THIS. NOTHING CAN MAKE IT BETTER. NOTHING!

LOOK AT THIS. NOTHING CAN MAKE IT BETTER. NOTHING!

There is nothing you can do to make a foot attractive. Putting nail polish on them just draws attention to something that’s pretty unsightly in the first place. Stop doing it. You don’t see men wrapping their ballsacks in ribbons and dipping them in paint, so knock that shit off.

Thanks.



{January 11, 2009}   Yeah so

The people you work with are just people you were just thrown together with. I mean, you don’t know them, it wasn’t your choice. And yet you spend more time with them than you do your friends and your family. But probably all you’ve got in common is the fact that you walk around on the same bit of carpet for eight hours a day.



{January 10, 2009}   A stern warning

I was in Zavvi yesterday, doing my bit to ease the company through its clearout liquidation sales, and I picked up a couple of DVDs. I bought one DVD based on the premise, the blurb on the back, which sounded interesting enough for a horror movie:

“The Deaths of Ian Stone:

Ian Stone encounters a mysterious creature and is forced into the path of an oncoming train. Rather than facing certain death, Ian finds himself reborn into a new life where he is murdered each day by horrifying pursuers and will be forced to die every day until he can solve the mystery of his own life.”

The Deaths of Ian Stone

The Deaths of Ian Stone

For £2.50, I thought sure, why not. So I bought it and I watched it last night. After I patiently sat through the duration of the movie, all 84 minutes of it, I pressed the eject button, removed the disc, and made sure I would never watch it ever again.

The Death of the DVD

The Death of the DVD

This film starts off promising and, for the first 30 minutes or so, is actually pretty good. But it rapidly devolves into steaming pile of shit after that, when it transpires that our protagonist, the charming Ian Stone, is not a poor human in a bad situation, but rather the strongest “Harvester” ever known; a kind of immortal vampire that feeds on fear – until, of course, he finds true love and learns to feed on that instead, turning on his own kind. So they punish him by somehow stealing his memories and killing him over and over again. It’s never really explained why reality shifts on each death and he starts a new life all over (in order: hockey player, office worker, cab driver, an ex heroin junkie, a current heroin junkie), each less appealing than the last.

The Harvesters alternate between looking like normal human beings, albeit with a tendency to stare at you like a lunatic, to clouds of swirling black death with claws, to characters that look like they just walked off the set of the Matrix, kitted out in latex and sunglasses. And it is impossible to fear a man wearing PVC, no matter how many claws he has. He just looks like a berk.

From this...

From this...

...to this? Seriously?

...to this? Seriously?

Worse, when Ian Stone rediscovers that he’s a Harvester and becomes the harbinger of death for his own kind, I thought his “dark avenger” look was silly instead of intimidating. He looked like a Slipknot fan with too much make-up on, in dire need of a shower. I wish I could find a picture of how laughable it is, but a Google image search isn’t turning one up.

Anyway, I’ve droned on about this enough. Don’t rent this movie. Don’t buy this movie. I’ve shattered my copy of the film, and I’m going to keep it in my collection as a constant reminder not to impulse-buy films, even if they are at clearout sale prices.



et cetera