Arrrrghh!! What is that pain in the soles of your feet when you just come in from walking about and sit down? Is it something to do with circulation? It is so bloody sore, maybe I need to go to casualty.

I wrote a post about the play that we just did but when I tried to publish it, the computer crashed, so I wrote it on a piece of paper and will publish it when I get a chance. It is basically thankyou for all the support. But I mangaed to dress that up as lamb, somehow.

Today, when I walked into uni there was more dry rice scattered for the pigeons, I saw a woman doing it the other day and desperately wanted to hang about to see if it was all just urban legend about the rice then expanding in their stomachs and them exploding but I had to go because I was late. And today there were no sodding pigeons anywhere, probably staying out of the rain like clever pigeons or blown away by the gales.

Oooh. Or maybe they all exploded the other day.

Oooh.

It is autumn and as quick as my new leaf was turned, it blew away. It was so windy this morning I just stayed in bed.

Autumn is unravelling with me still inside it, it's making me dizzy.

When I tell her she's glowing, it's radiance instead of radiation. It's not blushing or anything that might be painfully extracted from her embarrassment. It's those eyes and that big smile. I'm truly happy and maybe more excited for her than she is for herself. Because unlike her, all I see when I look at her is good and sweet. Those eyes and that big smile. She is glowing again.

It is happening more often now. I saw a survey which said that when a group of sixty year olds were asked what the happiest decade of their lives was they said their sixties. Behind that, their fifties and behind that, their forties, descending all the way to their twenties. Is it that in this one year we are that little bit closer to being sixty? I don't think so, uft, I hope not.

I'm happy to be back, happy to be with new people. Happy that my friends are happy. Happy watching them smile with each other, thinking of them smiling when I'm not around. I think that, rather than the fact that we are all one year closer to being sixty (!), we are just enjoying ourselves and each other even more. Myself, I like the possiblities that Glasgow brings. Saying that, university hasn't started yet, September is a beautiful month in Scotland and the winter still seems far off somewhere, dancing around the north pole. Not pole dancing, incidentally.

I can't wait to have you all back. I miss you terrible like. But I wonder again, when you get back, will your eyes be even bigger? Will your brains be exploding with new information and new details of foreign smells and sights? Will you have a tan? A mullet? A Norwegian prince? A slab of Yak butter? Stories? Photos? Diaries?

I can't wait.

I am looking forward to the summer and being brown and bare feet in the sand. Missing you, my "I'm so sorry I can't be there, you have all my thoughts." Seeing you again and all those colours to dance with. Travelling and staying put. Barcelona. Tarragona. Pamplona. (Bully's gonna get ya!) Spain rocks.

We are looking for a new house but before we find one, there is a man downstairs called Mr. Blair who has to get to know ours first... I don't think he's any relation so I'll put the eggs away for now.

For the duration, I am still and still thinking about you and still writing even though it doesn't all appear here.

In tribute to the birthday girl, I finish on a joke...
What did the inflatable teacher say to the inflatable boy when he brought a pin into the inflatable school?
You've let me down, you've let yourself down but worst of all you've let the whole school down...

I'll get my coat. See you in September.

Make, Do and Mend with all your favourite stars.

Celebrity "Guess Who?" rocks my world...

1. Take one game of "Guess Who?" - available in Prestwick airport apparently.
2. Play game until even the hilarious new rules bore you.
3. Of a boring Sunday afternoon, cut out pictures of your favourite celebrities, three of each celebrity (one for the blue board, one for the red board and one for the cards).
4. Cut two of each to size so that they will fit into the flip up cases that previously held "Guess Who?" favourites like Phillippe and Anne (the ultimate).
5. Insert famous faces into slots replacing former "Guess Who?" characters.
6. Take a deck of playing cards and stick the remaining celebrities onto the required number of cards (depending on whether you have travel "Guess Who?" or the full version, which is larger.)
7. Play.
8. Laugh.
9. Shout at people who think Joey from Friends would have a poodle or Avril Lavigne, while on holiday in France, would eat snails instead of a hamburger... no.

Pacheen.

Is a fire growing out of a jar that has just been de-lidded. The jar is melting and the fire is spreading with intesity and purpose. A friendly fire. I like to watch the shapes and colours changing, I like to feel the warmth the fire wraps me in.
I spilt on the fire and doused a bit, I didn't think.

Spilly gilly apologises.

Today it has gone sunny and warm again.

This morning I saw a man cycling to work in leather trousers.

That just can't have been fun.

The inbetween-us is heavy and rich with ingredients. I breathe it in deeply, pulling in the inbetween-us like the first half of a sigh; gradually but with the force I use when I want every little bit. I exhale and the inbetween-us gets richer, swirling and changing its face.
The inbetween-us spreads out into the dark sky, gets thinner and eventually disappears. A new inbetween-us is born thick, rich and sweet-smelling.
The inbetween-us curls and licks up, meanders its way to the crest of my forehead, glazes my eyes over and bear hugs my lungs. I let it out, contributing my small part to the inbetween us.
The inbetween us sits between us. It sags with each breath out. It's delicious and thick, simmering and stirring calmly.
Pieces are taken from the inbetween-us. I shape bits in my hands just before the inbetween-us is washed empty by the air around it and disappears completely. Even now (when was the last inbetween-us?!) those pieces spin around me. Like the planets they are infinite, eternal and full of stories.

Why don't babies lose their voices?

I have the answer "because of the kind of noise" from a first year nursing student at Teeside but that's not enough for me. If I made any kind of noise for hours on end I would surely be a little hoarse. (A little horse).

If anyone is interested in conducting a little experiment, build yourself a soundproof room and let me know the results.

In other news, why did nobody ever tell me that graphic design was reeeally HAARRRD?! I want to go back downstairs and read the paper all day. No, not really...
I have discovered though that while it might be enthusiastic and impressive to say that you are going to design a whole thing by yourself, in practice it is actually quite challenging. Who'd have thunk that graphic design with no training, no research, no REAL computer skills, not much artistic talent and (apparently) no imagination would be difficult?! Not I.

The words get inside me and trickle down to my heart after they've seen my brain. They drip slowly but with an inconsistent rythmn so that sometimes all I get is that melodic tap, tap, tap. The sound I love of raindrops and a steady wind against my window at night, ushering me off to sleep. Other times it is a downpour of the drops I want to catch and inflate, it's lightening and a thinderclap in perfect unison. These ones floor me for a secondwhile my heart regains a normal beat. These ones have a hundred other words written on them that everyone reads differently.
My bones are still soppy from that last film, that last book and now I have another soaking me through.

(Bounding back into the room she comes... A little out of breath, a little red faced, but smiling from ear to ear to see them all again. She takes giant steps and gives an enormous, wayyy over-emphasised wave. Finally she sits cross legged on a wheely, office chair and talks to the audience)

GILLY: I like the studio, it's going well. Today I have been taking photos of our ads around the place. New ones, down in the metro stop near my office. I have been speaking more Spanish than ever and this is a goooood thing, considering I need to. A lot.
Today was Sant Jordi so I had to fight to my desk in David Attenborough style, machety-ing through bright red roses left for me by admirers far and wide... ...
On St George's day the Catalans (is it just the Catalans?) celebrate a kind of far more classy and tasteful Valentine's day. He's their patron Saint, so the boys give the girls roses and the girls give the boys books. So this morning, all up and down every street there appeared stalls draped in Catalan flags and selling old and new books and roses wrapped in coloured paper and flags and just generally looking pretty. I haven't been down to the Ramblas yet but have been told it's totally packed.

(Without saying goodbye, she pulls her chair back to get momentum and kicks off, launching the wheely chair off into the distance...)

Talk to Studio boss about moving upstairs to the studio - check

Talk to Accounts boss about leaving to move upstairs - check

Casually drop it into conversation with Marta and revel in her reaction - check

Write and send email informing people not to write to my work address to much anymore - check

Finish all tasks asigned to me before I go - ummmm... check?

Tidy desk - check (eerie)

Leave trout in hidden place in office to stink up the place - hahahahaha

(And she floats out of the office, to return in ten days, but not to this little glass box and not to calculators, plastic files, ring binders, excel, powerpoint and brain melt.)

Should I be annoyed that I'm not on the list? No, I suppose not.
Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls - the most humble of humbles, the lowest of the low, the trainee account director. (goferus put-uponipus) The trainee never asks for the recognition she deserves for the work that she does, primarily because ninety per cent of the time she doesn't actually do any. But this time she did and now she feels unappreciated. Boo hiss.

"¿Recordáis este jingle de la fiesta de Navidad? Pues fue premonitorio. Hemos ganado el concurso de las “*”, dejando en la cuenta a * y a *. Enhorabuena al equipo: Alvar, Laura, Ana, Maite, Maria, Eva, Roger, Monica y Marta. (ahem... ahem... aHEM...)"

*Brand/company names have been excluded to protect my sorry ass.

It is raining and I can't wait to get out into it, for the rain to be on the back of my neck and the wind to be messing up my very messy hair. The sky is that white/grey that hides a million different colours and promises lightening later.

Amanda lifeboats is coming back today which is good but Daniel has found a flat already so now I don't have anybody to play Playstation with which is bad.

Seeing old friends and not needing to explain your absence from their lives is one of my favourite things. Tapas is another of those favourite things.

There are only 33 Spanish Words Which start with a "W". All of them are derived from other languages, the Worst of Which are " water polo, m. (sport.) - water polo", "wattaje, m. - wattage" and "whiski, m. - whiskey".

The whizzing water-worm weaves a wicked web of water-vapour waves westwards past walloping whales, waltzing over whispering white horses and whipping past wandering, wafting whitebait below. Widening like wildfire the water-vapour waves whelm all wildlife warping the well-known world into a woozy, whistling whirlpool full of wasted wishes.

The start of this post seems like so long ago in my mind. Words make me happy.

Incidentally, this makes me happy too.

Alright, I know I've mentioned the related search bar before, but this time it's serious. For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, it's the ad that Blogger puts on your page so that you can have the webspace (I think). Anyway, you'll notice that it says "Related Searches:" and that the searches it comes up with change as I post more things. It looks at the things I am writing about and puts clever little links to Google about what it thinks are the most topical... topics.

By the time you read this post, I am sure that the related searches will have changed. But as I look at it the phrase that it has come up with to sum up my writing is "Backstreet Boys fanfiction".

If you don't know what fanfiction is, ask Paddy. I'll be sulking in the corner over here....

...hrrrmph... backstreet's back COME ON!?

Oh, here's another one that hasn't been realised yet.

Become good (or even mediocre) at Mathematics.

I just got asked to figure out the percentage of something and then realised I had absolutely no idea how to do it. I knew it was something to do with dividing by a hundred or multiplying by the percentage but couldn't figure out how to get the right combinations of buttons to press.

I feel little and dumb.

Does anyone want me to compare leadership styles of Pinochet and Castro?

Or want me to recite Spanish verbs?

Or want me to give a brief biography of Gloria Estefan?

No?

Just the percentage, you say?

--------------------------------------------------- leg it --------------

Peanut butter crisis over, thankyou all for worrying...

Childhood dreams realised -

Go and see Arrested Development live in concert.
Shake the hand of Speech from Arrested Development.
Be old enough to have pudding before meal.

Childhood dreams still to realise -

Become most important and hilarious person in world (nearly there)
Walk on hands.
Go to Oscars.
Become pirate.
Become medieval character in the vein of Robin Hood's Merry Men.
Work at Disney World.
Build and live in entirely edible house.
Become dolphin.
Procure personal candy floss machine.
Sit on a cloud.

I don't think I'm going to be able to get my head to think about writing today. I've been overwhelmed by this enormous, angsty feeling. I don't know what I can say, it's very serious.

It's just come on, just now. It snapped into my brain and now I can't shake it. And the biggest problem is, is that being here in Spain, there's nothing I can do to rectify it, I just have to wait until it passes.

Is there somewhere I can go to get help? A counsellor or a therapist? A doctor?! Maybe they can take out the part of my brain which makes me feel this way. One thing's for certain, I don't know if I'm going to be able to ride this storm out. The need is burning in my head and scorching my brain and I can't handle it very much longer...



==iF aNyOnE kNoWs WhErE i CaN bUy PeAnUt BuTtEr In ThIs BaRbArIc ToWn... PLEASE rElIeVe My MySeRy==

Enio says that if, when I am writing about work, I only write about Marta, invisibilism and boredom then I am crazy. He means that I shouldn't focus on the negative. In his words, "we are lucky guys". He says I should write about everyone who makes me smile at work and he is right, of course.

Enio is my friend with the broken jeans, hair all over the place and the good heart, or so he says anyway. To me, he is a breath of fresh air in an increasingly smoggy city. On Saturday, the protests were still happening. At 10pm on the dot the people of Barcelona leant out of their windows or stood out on their balconies and made as much noise as they could with pots and pans and whistles and voices. When Enio came round, we went out on the moto, driving down to the centre of town and every time we stopped at traffic lights everybody blew their horns and made a racket in protest against terror. It made me feel local and pretty cool. When we were at the bar, we had deep conversation in Spanish and English (okok callate, nen... yo sé que estas leyendo...), mostly English, I confess... But it was good and so nice to talk properly again, when you feel like you're spiralling out of control as each thought inflates, grows branches and runs riot around your brain.

Lú is the only Brazilian person I know. Her stories make life sound wonderful and full of people and colour. I should have exploited the fact that she was in Barcelona while she was, and spent as much time with her as I could. As it is, she is back in Sao Paolo and I have big dreams of visiting one day. At her leaving party she was resplendently drunken. The night was all about her and she had been trying to breathe in the most of Barcelona before she left. For this reason, she hadn't slept in about four days.

Katherine big sistered me while she was here at the agency. She is another Brit and knows totally what it's like to feel ineloquent or stupid when you know, deep down, that you're not.

Martina has travelled everywhere, it seems. She has learned Spanish so quickly it scares me. I'm terrified of her when she is stressed and we fight sometimes but it is just that she knows what urgency really is and I still have no idea. I am incredibly jealous of her because she has quit her high-powered marketing job and is going travelling and seeing friends in Sydney (probably the only place she hasn't been yet) in June.

There are a lot more people who make me smile as well as these ones. But in indignant response to Enio's accusal that I am negative, I have noted the biggest smiles.

So, work's not bad at all.

Barcelona answers the terrorists






This was an incredible, breath-taking evening. The Passeig de Gràcia is one of the biggest streets in Barcelona, it was mobbed, there was no space to move anywhere. Between seven and eight o'clock, there were very few voices to be heard among the one and a half million people on the street. The protest took two different forms. The first was a clap, either in a rythm of three after three after three repeated or just randomly. This clap started at the front of the group, hundreds of metres away from me. It came up like a wave washing over the heads of everyone in front of us, rolling up and giving us a chance to hop on and ride it. "Here it comes again..." and as it arrived and passed over us going way way back we joined in, clapping and making a noise that symbolised the unity and resolution perfectly.
The other form of protest was with both palms raised and forward. Vulnerable, but neither scared nor defeated. It was a symbol that we have clean hands, we will never dirty our hands by involving ourselves in acts of terror, taking innocent lives.

Our government would not have been able to take part in this protest.

After eight o'clock came the noise. The shouting and chanting and sitting down in the middle of the street urging people, pleading with them to oust the government on Sunday. Various political leaders who attended the protest were taunted, called murderers and forced to leave by the people, who are still totally confused and indescribably sad. It stayed this way for hours.

Here are some more links with some photos on them -

albertobastos

Manifestación 11-M

Especial 11-M

...And the unquestionable Steve Bell

*Photos used with the courtesy (but not permission) of El Pais*
(I don't really know what the deal is with putting photos from newspapers on to blogs. Can I get in trouble? Tell me and I'll take them off if I can.)

I am wading through today.

If you shut your eyes and surround yourself with other things then it does go away for a little bit. But then when you open them again and uncross your arms, its half-closed, scorching, bloodshot eyes are staring at you again and its claws are going for your heart.

Today there are manifestations around the country. The people in my building went out onto the street in protest and reflection for five minutes and then got back to work. This thing is happening all over the city, I would imagine.
At lunch time, I'll go to the centre of town and soak up the mood. More reflection, more remembrance.
And tonight that mood will flip over and turn to anger when the people of Barcelona take to the streets against terrorists.

This murder is happening too frequently now. It is a shock that numbs your brain until the next one and the next one and the next one hundred. Eventually they will figure out who was responsible and they will add the name to a list that is ancient and excessively tangental.

Get back to work, get back to lessons, get back to laughing. But don't try to get back to Wednesday. Thursday stays with us, full of regret, riot and eventual resolution.

Don't forget.

In a blink, it becomes the kind of day that you want to paste over and start again so watch out. If you could rub out the morning and re-write it with everyone getting from A to B safely, on time and preferably with a donut and/or coffee.

The news is on in one of the meeting rooms downstairs and people are filtering about and through the mood. Mostly it is normal. But I don't have anything else to say today.

Remember me?

Sorry for being absent [minded] for so long, I've gone part-time at work which means that now I only have to sit in front of the screen for half the day.

I can only begin to express how lovely this has been so far. Mostly, I doss about the place - practice my diablo, go to the park/beach, play playstation, watch DVDs, wander about in the sunshine. Suzie says I've re-found myself. Not that I had lost myself, but I became a different gilly for a little while. Stressed, tired and irritable but learning a lot. So while weird worky gilly still exists, she has to co-exist now with old, dosser, student gilly. They will (hopefully) live happily ever after... at least for the next two and a half months.

Last night we had two revelations regarding my future. The first will make my millions, the second is what I will spend those millions on.
1. Musical backpacks (entirely copywritten/writed/righted/wrote). A regular rookie (?!) with built in speaker and CD player, harking back to the days of the ghetto blaster on the shoulder but far less manual labour. Groove along the streets attracting the longing and jealous (they're longing and jealous, not laughing and sneering) eyes of passers by.
The dance moves you come up with while walking are quite incredible.
2. My cruiseship with dog track, casino, disco-funk club and dog track (did I say that already?) My giant fur coat, tree trunk cuban cigar, Pat Butcher hair and solid gold shoes with tiny wheels on the bottom which make it look like I float effortlessley from dog track to dog track to dog track.

That's my dream, baby. Ain't no one gonna stop me. Fuckin' G...

I didn't mean to post so much today, but this is a pretty funny article, if you have time to read it...

'I'd like to buy 100 hamsters, please'

Can I take a moment, for a second? Just a wee minute where I can see you for a bit? In a while there'll be all the time in the world. But right now, can I just have a tick? What I have to say won't take long.

[yadda yadda miss you blah blah love you jibber jabber near you always]

Aww, I'm so proud, my little baby's all grown up. eyes of a blue dog has broken its one hundred visits mark. While I am almost completely certain that these "100" people are actually just the same five people who have checked from a hundred different computers, I can't help but feel a little bit of pride and a lot of curiosity.

"Hello?"

"hellooo?" "hellooooo?" "heeelllloooo?"

--------------- (My echoes bounce of the walls of the empty cave.) ---------------

The melancholy tale of my left foot
(just to clarify... my left foot does not have a tail. be it melancholy or otherwise)

This morning, my left foot woke up next to my right foot as it has done every morning for twenty years. The old friends greeted each other and gave each other a friendly hug and then set about their business for the day.

When they were put inside their shoe-houses for the day, they knew that they were both in shoe-houses with no nasty holes in them and so they would be safe and dry from the neverending rain in Spain.

Right foot went though the day safe in this knowledge, looking forward to bed time when he would finally see his friend again.

Left foot was not so lucky. As soon as they left the house, swinging past each other much faster than usual as they do every morning, left foot began to feel a bit of a shiver. Right foot was sloshing through puddles but as soon as left foot tried it he realised that he couldn't do it without letting puddles into his shoe-house. "This is odd" thought left foot, "there aren't usually puddles in my shoe-house"

As the day went on.. they... were... sad... and.... a bit cold.



...oh sod it... dumb, holey trainers... dumb, drowned left foot...

I would like to announce, to all those who can hear me (can you hear the voice of a person who isn't there? Yes, I'll throw it) that I have experienced the sensation, the phenomenon that is invisibility.
I haven't decided what to do with my new found powers yet, maybe go about tripping up people I dont like and making farting noises behind them while they are in important meetings. Then maybe I'll catch a flight and see the world. Simple wishes, but I know I'll be happy.
I wish I could just leave it at that, but it would appear that I have developed a skill for throwing my voice. I worked this out when I asked Marta a question and she answered Martina... I was so pleased.
I don't know if these new skills will be as useful or as fun as those of the invisibilism but I'm certainly looking forward to finding out. Maybe I could work on impressions of people and then make it sound like they are saying something else.
"So Mr. Bush, what do you think of Nader announcing his candidacy for the forthcoming election?"
"Ahh think it's grayyyte, in fayact, ah resaaahn, Ralph can hayave mah job today, election shmelection, thahht's mah motto!"

Ok, maybe it needs some work, but you see how my new talents can be useful...

Can you see me?

On the Athlete website, you can listen to the almost the whole album. That is a great thing that I have to do because Anneka stole my Athlete album. But it has made me so sleepy.
I think I'm coming down from some serious dry ice hyper-activity. The best thing about my job is that sometimes, Walls/Frigo/Streets offices around the world send us ice cream. Yes, I get to eat it, but that's not the best thing. In the boxes containing the ice cream, they have to put a bag of dry ice to stop said ice cream from melting. Today, I decided to just stick it in some water.

Boy, oh boy. Could I ever have felt more like a magician creating an incredible bubbly, smoky potion? It was fantastic but now I feel sleepy even though I have ventilated the office and wrapped up the frozen carbon dioxide so none would poison me and make me sleepy and dizzy.

I think that even if it was in a completly sealed lead box, I would still feel the same.

I can't read any more of Olivia's blog today, I am full up. She makes me laugh and makes me confused that I can't write even nearly as intelligently even though I am older and am even at university.
Blogs are odd. You seive through the terrible ones full of the same old writing and then sometimes, you find a really witty one and it's a gasp when you've been under water too long.
I suppose that the terrible ones are somewhat diverting to the friends of the author (watch as I try to justify my taking up space on the internet) and that is the main thing.
But the good ones are something else. It makes me feel a bit strange, a bit like I'm looking into someone else's window and watching them make their lives. It's like Big Brother, but with more intelligently formed sentences and less cider.
Today, at work, I wasn't told to do anything until half past one so I just sat and read for four hours. Papers, eastenders and blogs. I'm trying to find another one that I get lost in, but I know that that probably isn't the best idea, socially.
In reality, actually, the time spent reading was probably slightly less because I have to factor in the time spent staring out the window. I have been staring a lot today. Sometimes I feel like my eyelids are folding back into my head. The weather's turned smelly and I get stuck watching the cars go past.
I just got stuck again. Did you notice?

Monica makes smoking look horrible. It's something about the way she sucks on the thing. Makes it look grainy and inky grey going up and round and filtering through harsh wire mesh catching spiderwebs and little bugs. The smoke sounds and feels like the noise and sensation of chewing cotton wool. The cigarette instantly becomes this cement stick that she trying hard to get air out of.
I feel like I can feel it going into her lungs, covering the walls and dripping from the roof. A thick black oil that makes me think of those pictures of covered ducks on the beaches after a spill.
I don't like it one little bit. My discomfort is like when my dad watches Heather doing the weather on BBC Scotland, an unexplainble angst. A shoulder- raising, teeth grinding thing that you can't quite think of the reasons behind.

(Actually my dad knows the reason, he says it is because she is too angular...)

Apparently I am a European, could have fooled me



Which America Hating Minority Are You?

And
Now
The
Dark
Is
Filled
With
Noise
Which
Has
Been
Stirred
By
Dis Con Tent
And
As
They
Wait
For
Time
To
End
They
Wait
For
Dawn
To
Break
On
This

Oh man that is weird. I would not advise going past the first page. Just have a look, have a laugh, furrow your brow and then leave and go somewhere friendly like www.disney.com or www.guidehorse.com

It's not smutty or anything, just might make you a bit freaked out. Ya. Go look at the little guide ponies in their tiny trainers. AWWWW.....

....

....

Ammm. This is kind of freaky. But it made me laugh, kind of. It's a brow furrower anyway.

¿Intrigued?

I wonder what the world would be like if everything went as crazy as this. Maybe it would be a better place...

Comments, readers?

I have disks in front of me with some of the new art work for Shrek 2... Ooohoooo the best morning. Will I get in trouble for putting some of it up here? This is how things get leaked eh? But it's just his cheeky little face...

Mullet Log

Revolutionary!! I didn't think they could get any worse, but here it is...

9 February 2004...
Male
Approx. 26.5 years (old enough to know better)
Walking down C/Numancia past me as I walked back for my lunch. Needless to say, I was put off my usual bread with philadelphea and crisps.
The dreadlocked mullet. Dark brown, almost black in colour. The shorter than usual top part of the mullet was counteracted by the sheer length of the six or seven dreadlocked tails hanging down the guy's back... heinous, erroneous, perverse and... SILLAHEY!!
I am curious, do you think he had a head full of dreadlocks first and then chose to cut all the front ones off or did he grow really long hair in the mullet and then got THAT dreadlocked?? (Which would mean that he had had the mullet for quite some time)

Please, friends, think twice.

A completely unproductive way to pass your time.

In case anbody is interested.

Fly little penguin!!!

A tribute to the ladies and gentlemen who pull the strings in the Scottish public education system.

"A spokesman for Alston’s school said it would not be expelling him"

Should this "PROMISING young rugby player" be expelled or left to finish his studies? He will be disciplined by the courts anyway.

Usually, students are "asked to leave" before news gets into the papers to protect the reputation of the school. This time it has happened the other way round so the reputation has already taken a bashing. But is expulsion about reputation or discipline?

Does this send out the wrong kind of message to other pupils and prospective parents?

Jeremiah was a bullfrog
Was a good friend of mine
I never understood a single word he said
But I helped him a-drink his wine
And he always had some mighty fine wine
Singin'...

Joy to the world
All the boys and girls now
Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea
Joy to you and me

If I were the king of the world
Tell you what I'd do
I'd throw away the cars and the bars and the war
Make sweet love to you
Sing it now...

Joy to the world
All the boys and girls
Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea
Joy to you and me

Dammit. I'm sure scallywag mcmuffin worked yesterday. OK, I retract that one, I only liked the word scallywag anyway.

FINE!!!

I stand by the fact that my googlewhacks are true and proper. However, the elitist meanies at googlewhack.com (and gareth) say that they aren't. Dictionary.com, officially the most catastrophically erroneous dictionary in the history of time doesn't recognise "McMuffin" (fair enough, says I) or, and this is the one that stumps me "Escapologists". Surely that is a real word?!? Or is the plural of escapologist "escapologi". NOOOO I think not, dictionary.com, a graaaave faux pas no??

So to all of you who choose to pick holes in the one thing that has made me proud of myself in my whole miserable existence, go ahead, but be aware, that as you do, my eyes are welling and my steely stores of self-respect and pride (granted that I only have small reserves of this, I am not an egotistical person, you are all aware) are being depleated and destroyed.

Go on then Johnson. You do better!

mUsT... sToP... gOoGlEwHaCkInG.....

I found many today, but my favourite is armchair escapologists. My second favourite is scallywag mcmuffin.

Let's all play shall we? Giblet is a good word to use. And Kirsty says Maypole is good too, but I disagree.

I have been doing a mood board at work this week. It mostly involves cutting out cartoon characters and sticking them to a board. Capturing the mood of a "gang" of 8-12 year olds. I have had fun. It's like being back at primary school.

Plus, it meant buying loads of magazines and with that came a nerf-esque rocket thingy and some rather fetching dog tags into which I can scratch my name, age and two other details about myself which I can't translate. ("RH"? "CHICO 10"?). Useful. In case I am killed in action, although with my nerf-esque rocket I don't know how I would be...

This is a little incongruous I know, but I have a question to all those who are more knowledgeable about this than me... Everyone: If Tony Blair is now admitting that there probably aren't any WMDs in Iraq, and Iraq said from the start that they didn't have any, and THAT was what was considered the material breach of Resolution 1441 that lead to war... Did it actually commit a material breach??
I don't mean that in any kind of ironic or sarcastic way. I'm genuinely interested. I guess it's something to do with the fact that 1441 was a UN resolution and that, in the end, the UN had very little to do with it. Any ideas??

Other than that, it is quite a sad day because even though I had been told it, I saw today that the giant inflatable ham had been taken away from outside the building near my work and this can mean only one thing. The ham convention has come to an end... And I no longer have the only chance I will ever have to steal a giant inflatable ham leg.

Crappy.

Today, I am back at work and nothing much has changed except that at lunchtime I set my pasta on fire. I have never done that before.

Honestly, what kind of bone head is able to set pasta on fire??