Monday, 25 January 2010

I wouldn't expect that he'd be gentle with Zippy.

Near endless tea and hot cross buns, finally finishing La Terre after perhaps too many months spent wading through descriptions of farming methods in the Second Empire and Jesus Christ's flatulence -not that it wasn't all enjoyable-, Datblygu on repeat, and a comfy chair. Later, strong ale. Take that, Sunday.

I'm finding regular writing rather less easy than I remember it being. Perhaps you've noticed. Most likely, I suppose, it's because I'm not currently living a terribly interesting life and have been idling for weeks through the most drawn-out case of a head cold I can imagine ever having afflicted anybody whose immune system wasn't compromised by anything I'd very much hope I haven't got. I lack the energy for adventuring, in short, and have been trying not to write just for the sake of booing Chelsea or remarking on how encouraging it is to see the likes of Afghanistan taking the cricket half way seriously and giving the Irish a good kicking. Not that I've anything against the Irish playing cricket, either.

I am tempted to complain about the lack of cricket on free television, mind. Well, internationals, anyway... I seem to have lost all faith and interest in the domestic game. In fact let's count that a complaint in full, and move on.

Bearing in mind the lack of genuinely interesting things going on in my world at the moment, and the fact that while Sunday's televisual broadcasting features nothing I really want it does offer lots and lots of Star Trek franchises, please forgive me a moment of foolishness as I admit that I may have recently made the mistake of using this wonderful internet we're both, you and I, not enjoying right now to ask a stupid question in relation to one such franchise. "So, these Ocampa" I started -and I may have spelled it with a K, initially, but was soon put right, of course-, "am I right to take from this episode that they have two genders, male and female, only the latter of which carries young; that they have only one child-bearing cycle in their lifespan; and that a single birth gives them no cause for alarm?". On being told that, yes, this does seem to be the case, I wasted a little more of my life by adding, "So they haven't died-off because?..."

And that, son, is why I can never go back to Starfleet.

Granted, given that I've certainly not seen anywhere near all the available episodes, I may have missed something that would shed light on the matter, but heck, I asked the internet, and if nobody there knows about these things... Doesn't Star Trek hire nerds to spot and correct these gaping holes in their logic? What are Trekkies for? The most interesting response I got, and truthfully a large part of my motivation in recounting this non-event, read, "Yeah, they'd of died off... Leave it Star Trek to get physics right, but horrible bungle sex."

Which just made me wonder... well, I don't see the relevance, but is there any other kind with Bungle?

Still, I've heard more troubling things. On the latest flare-up of the alcohol debate and specifically what a mess Scotland's alleged to be, one mad Scottish bint was heard to declare that, "A Scottish woman is now more likely to die from alcohol-related causes than an English man, and that's just not acceptable." Well, unless she was just informing us that lone Englishmen don't kill as many Scottish women as booze does -which, I would think, is not necessarily a bad thing in any case-, this Englishman certainly won't be letting her anywhere near his pint.

Sunday is the day for sitting about and picking holes in sci-fi and the legitimate concerns of responsible citizens, isn't it? Or am I just thinking of blogs in general?

More when I'm drunker.

Monday, 11 January 2010

And another thing, if oranges are orange, shouldn't you fuck off?

"...For instance, my employer forbids me from taking tips on threat of termination, but they're legally not allowed to do that. I need to check with a lawyer, but I'm pretty sure that I can sue them for the balance and toss in some emotional damage as well."

"You're a more reasonable man than I. Unless by, 'check with a lawyer' you meant, 'buy a sword', in which case we're pretty much the same."

"Ha! That's the exact difference between a Democratic Socialist and a Revolutionary Communist!"

Hello, I am enjoying some insomnia. I hope you are well, unless you are Mark Watson, in which case I hope you choke on your fecking pear cider and get the fuck off my television.

Here at [couldn't be arsed to come up with an original name/address/title so went with the Solex track that happened to be playing on Spotify when I signed up] I shall be mostly absent and neglectful of any readers I may inexplicably acquire. Other than that, expect the odd drunken rant about things that don't really concern me. And possibly (probably) some similarly drunken assertions that I don't care what you say, Fairuza Balk is lovely.

Let's seamlessly weave in a sample!

After a fortnight of worryingly persistent if otherwise mild illness I am now feeling somewhat better (as I'm sure you'll be delighted to know) after having a couple of ales and ranting at my antipodean brother about how much I hate all these phone in and tell Cat Deeley what you think about a prancing wanker shows he's missing. A bench full of degenerates saying the opposite of what just happened is only funny for a finite period. "You were great", as I helpfully explained, seems to have become Beebish for, "Dick Dickington couldn't be more of a dick on the dickingest day of his life if he had an electrified dicking machine."

So, we're on the cutting edge here at Good Comrades. Slicing to the heart of meaty issues, of course.

As for me, I like tea, and terrible little rhymes, though I prefer alliteration, most of which I'm keeping to myself. I do not like rabbits, mushrooms, or weilders of unelected authority. I am much older than I look, unreasonably skinny, and kinda a Communist. I am not a crook. I have a Dogtanian T-shirt, a nervous habit of tapping or scratching the middle of my chest (which has ruined said T-shirt), and an unexplained fondness for the Welsh. I do not have a job, leprosy, or a girlfriend. You are not surprised. Pod can explode. Pod does not understand, "go fuck himself". I have been to Ireland, Canada, France, Australia, and Bulgaria when it was still a People's Republic. And yet I've never been to me. I rode a bear. I did not ride the walrus. I can touch my nose with my tongue. I can not drive (so far as I'm aware). I plan to learn a new language. I do not know whether it ought to be Welsh, or something useful like Quechua or Serbo-Croatian. I am glad to suppose that I shall never work another day in an asparagus packing shed. I miss Melbourne, a bit. I watch cricket. I do not play. I think that's pretty much the sum of me.

Oh, and once I saw a blimp.