Minus twelve degrees Celsius makes my nose hurt.

Depressing national development of the day: OFCOM to allow product placement in UK television programmes. Bleh.

Oh well, I suppose it's not like I watch ITV when I'm not being held at gunpoint, so fingers crossed for no home invasions by, uhm... well, I wanted to name a prominent ITV-based personality, but I wouldn't know the cast of Coronation Street if they were holding me at gunpoint.

I forget where I was going with that little rant. That's happening all too often of late. I suspect it's lack of sleep. My body's latest trick is waking me after about three hours and declining the invitation to more sleep. Accordingly, now more than ever it would probably be best to ignore me. Big ask, I know.

Is half-five too early for bedtime? Heh...

Next time... tea festival?

This weekend's ale festival in Preston had me quite excited. It ran from Thursday afternoon to Sunday night, and had an ale count in three figures. I was planning to head down on Friday, before the best stuff was gone. Then I decided it might be better to stay at home, shivver, and throw up. So I did that. ...In hindsight, though it may have saved me some cash, I can't say that was really an enjoyable alternative.

Oh well, I thought, I'll go on Saturday! But no, snowed in. Eight inches never stopped me doing anything before, but... you can finish this joke on your own time.

Nigella's just said she's, "going to do violence to that" cake or whatever she's making. Why the hell does that turn me on?

So, Sunday. Many people had been snowbound on Saturday, and there were, reportedly, plenty of ales left for the last day. At about six PM I decided to head into town and spend a couple of hours sampling what remained. Oh, but the next bus that can get me to town -though I live close to the main connecting road between the county capital and an adjacent resort town of ninety-thousand people- will arrive there, weather allowing, around eight PM, and the last bus back leaves at around half-past eight. And so I missed the whole ruddy festival.

Next time, I'm going on Thursday, and drinking the ruddy lot.

Instead, tonight, I have been down the local for a couple of pints taken in the armchair by the fireplace. Bollocks to skating about on ice in the middle of the flag market! Granted, walking two miles through said inches of snow at minus ten degrees celsius may have brought me into some disagreement with my circulatory system, particularly as it relates to peripheral parts such as the fingers with which I am so painfully typing this waste of a blog, but I am now pleasantly tipsy. Well, from my perspective, at least. Maybe less so for everyone else, as I've mostly either been telling them why they should be ashamed of themselves, or staring at their tits, depending on relevant factors, but, ultimately, I have a nice tingly feeling, so I suppose that means it's all good.

Beer before wine...

...and you'll feel fine. Wine before wysgi, whisky, vodka, and more wysgi, and... an egg butty is very much required, along with a protracted period of sitting quietly.

I'm not sure where this post is headed. Probably it'll just be about food. I'm hungry, and I've come here direct from drinking, and chatting shite. I've just realised that I initially posted this without a comma, potentially leading readers to suppose that I'd been drinking shite.

Anyway, in the course of the chatting, I learned that, allegedly, "Bean mince is ace, better than beef."

My first thought, and only direct response, was that, well, "Beef is shite."

I've never quite managed to get entirely on board with vegetarianism, though I don't think it's a bad idea, but the world's obsession with beef is not something I can understand, I've had beef three times in my life, and each time it made me angry for a different reason. And at no point was I a Hindu.

First time, it was a McDonald's burger, given to me by a friend -or someone I'd hitherto thought to be a friend-, and made me angry that he'd tried to palm that crap off on me, and that I couldn't even find a tramp who'd take it off my hands. I'm told that I later trashed that McDonalds, but I've no memory of this alleged incident.

Second time, it was Aberdeen Angus, and I was angry that it cost more than a blow-job from Jebus, and tasted worse than giving him one.

Third time, it was raw, and dipped in some kinda seaweed juice, and I was angry that my girlfriend was Japanese.

To slightly misquote one or other Homer, "Yo, goober, why the beef?"