On losses and losers.

It was one of those horrible moments, the sort that make you feel like the pit of your stomach has fallen out. The news on Thursday lunchtime of a mine collapse not 5 miles from where I used to live made me truly feel sick, and by Friday evening, the news that all four miners that had been trapped had been found dead made the tragedy all the more worse. Unfortunately, unlike most people I feel two emotions when it comes to a calamity like this.
Mining in the area is probably 200 years old. It was one of the largest coal fields in the country, and although it was mostly exhausted, it now is dotted with small private mines. This does not mean however that safety should be skipped over any more than a mine with 1000 miners in it. Surely using old mine workings to get to the new face should ensure regular safety checks, new reinforcement and maybe even a new shaft in place. It was this old section of mine that collapsed. You'd think, after 200 years, we'd learned how to not go down a hole in the ground without loss of life, but apparently not. Meanwhile, 4 families, 3 of which are from Ystalyfera not 2 miles from my old home, are torn apart by their losses. Sadness and anger should not and do not mix well.
Meanwhile, elsewhere on the net, some presumably teenage thug without respect for anybody or anything decided to set up a group on facebook. "I'm really sad for those four miners. LOL j/k, they were Welsh" was set up so that people can comment on the disaster and make jokes about the Welsh, sheep, leeks and miners. Sick was not the word, and within minutes objections were being put forward to facebook bosses, Police and MPs. Sure enough, as of this morning, the site has been taken down. But, and here's the crux, the creator will probably get away scott free. What FB should do is trace any other accounts to do with the creator and disable them, then contact the email providers who them disable him or her from ever having another email address again, contact the ISP who close his or her account, and even make their mobile phones no longer work.
Well let's face it, if they can't use the internet respectfully, they shouldn't be using it at all.

On modern characters

I got thinking. What would the characters of Asterix and Obelix be if they were in modern times?

Asterix the Gaul would be Asterix the Frenchman.
Obelix would be a white van man.
Getafix the druid would be a pharmacist.
Dogmatix would be a pitbull.
Chief Vitalstatistics would be the local politician.
Cacofonix would be a C list celebrity (probably appearing on Strictly Come Dancing)
Geriatrix would be living on his own, eating Kitekat.
Mrs. Geriatrix would be Anna Nicole Smith.
Psychoanalytix would be a shrink.
Unhygienix would be struggling to make a living from the North Sea fish quotas.
Fulliautomatix would have an account with Machine Mart.
Polytechnix would be a teacher.
Postaldistrix would be working for Fed Ex.
Justforkix would be an extreme sports specialist.

More on Birthday Wishes.

He would have been 65 today. Google has celebrated the showman that was Freddie Mercury, and I have to share it with you.

On Ghastly Guffaws

You know how it is. You watch something funny, but nowadays, the bulk of it isn't a) that funny or b) funny at all. You certainly do not break out into an uncontrollable laugh that can be heard for miles around. But, occasionally there is a moment of great writing, great acting, or (to adopt an Irish-ism) great craic as someone tells a story. Let me show you what I mean with the best writing, acting and story telling...

Of course, Only Fools and Horses has so many of these moments. I chose that one because it's one of the lesser remembered moments, apart from the fact Trigger refers to Rodney as Dave.
Then of course, you get a moment that is so out of the box that it's shocking. You watch with horror or disgust, and find yourself almost hysterical at the comedy. A lot of bad horror films did that to me in the 80s, and certainly you'll know what I mean if you watch any comedy spoofs like the Scary Movie range. But, they're not side-splittingly funny. The one that springs to my mind is a certain bloke off of Mock the Week and Outnumbered, talking about yoghurt.

And finally, there's my example involving 'Great Craic.' A few years ago, on a talk show, a guest had to tell the story about his first foray into comedy. It didn't go to plan, and to be honest, the story is ok. What makes you guffaw uncontrollably is the reaction of the other guests. Watch how John Cleese (a master of comedy if ever there was one) and Martin Clunes almost leave puddles as Lee Mack tells the story of how he got the sack from a holiday camp.
Enjoy. (Oh, and have a tissue or two ready to mop up spillages)

On birthday wishes

Happy Birthday Dad, you old, old fart...

On lightning balls

So there I was on Thursday evening, checking my email and bookface. TDT had gone to bed about 15 minutes earlier, and suddenly there was a powercut. Looking around, I thought something had tripped out the house (like you do) and was just spinning around to get up when the power came back on.
"Strange" I thought to myself. "Must've been a brief power..."
"CRAAAAAACCCCCKKKKKK!"
The whole house shook in what must have been one of the loudest noises ever. My first reaction was it was a plane crash (being this close to the Transatlantic emergency airport causes you to have these thoughts), but I realised pretty damn quickly it was thunder. I leapt up and went upstairs to check on TDT, who was just dozing. Amazingly, the rumble was still going on, and must have lasted well over 30 seconds. I went back downstairs, and was expecting to see more lightning. The neighbours were all outside, looking out for more themselves, but the rain was coming down in a huge torrent.
Now, here's the strange thing. There was no lightning before the thunder. This, coupled with the fact the thunder was so damn loud, makes me think it was ball lightning. This phenomenon can be a ball that moves through the sky, and as it's plasma container disintegrates, it can explode. This would cause a) a fuck off loud noise, and b) an electro-magnetic pulse which would knock out power. More proof of the EMP is sensitive equipment would be affected. My old PC, upstairs, no longer wants to fire up and the security light no longer wants to turn off in the porch. Even stranger, people that live outside the immediate area didn't even hear the thunder or see lightning. I know everyone in Ennis heard it, but I don't know how far it's effects were felt.
I kinda wish if it was ball lightning, I'd have seen it. Such a rare phenomenon (do-do-do-do-dooo) that a lot of people still deny exists.

On tilt-shifting

If you're arty, and appreciate things that look different, then tilt-shifting is very clever. The idea is to make normal images look like models. There are loads of tutorials on how to do this on the internet, most require Photoshop or silly priced lenses, but you can also use some websites like this one, which allow you to upload a picture, and it then creates the image for you.
The system itself is simple enough, and actually only requires two steps. The first is to blur the image, but in varying levels. Split the image into quarter strips across the image. Make the top band the most blurred, the next one down half as blurred, the third band untouched, and the fourth band the same as the second (2-1-0-1). Photoshop has lens blur, but other software with blurring like Paintshop pro can use Gaussian Blur. You need to tweak the size of the blur according the the size of the image, but don't over do it. This gives the images an added perspective, making everything look like models.
The second step is to adjust the saturation. This is how much colour comes through, and basically makes the images more artificial. I find an increase of between 25 and 40% is best.
The effect, as you can see from the image above, is impressive. But, that's easypeasy, and what if you want to do more? Well, Australian Keith Loutit did just that, and came up with some most impressive videos. His best video, winning awards by the bucketload, was Bathtub IV from a few years ago.

Now, I can't possibly aspire to be even close to as good as him, but the technicalities of this system have always intrigued me. Basically, you have to reduce the original film to a series of images (about 10,500 in my 2 minute film) and tilt shift them. I also take every other frame, causing the stop motion like effect, and speeded it up by 500%. I wanted to know if I could do the same, and in one of those "you have to try, you have to try, you have to try" I finally came up with a subject. We live on the edge of the county town of Clare, a town called Ennis (sounds like a film...), and I just wanted to show some of the 'sights.' It's hardly thrilling viewing, but the effect of the tilt-shifting is priceless. The view of O' Connell Street is my favourite, coming out way better than I expected.
Oh, and before you ask, the music is by a musician I first heard of nearly 20 years ago, called Ed Alleyne-Johnson. It's based on Mad World, by Tears for Fears or Gary Jules, but is played on his patented 'electric violin.' His music is truly chilling, and if you get the chance, search for him on youtube. He has some wonderful covers of well known tracks, and also some inspired covers of heavy metal tracks.
Back to my video anyway. Enjoy.

On Pubs

Just a lazy post for some Friday fun.

This is a little pub in a sleepy village in Hertfordshire called Erbum. Unfortunately the village isn't on a postal district, so it has to come under the larger nearby town of Tillet's umbrella. It was recently taken over by a new landlord and landlady, Ron and Linda Lykes.
The Postman gets much entertainment each day he delivers there. The full address is...
Linda Lykes
The Cock Inn
Erbum
Tillet
Herts.
I thankyou. Have a good weekend.

On Dragon's Den

For those that haven't seen this show, it's basically a talent show for nerds. You have 5 'dragons', the monetary equivalent of Simon Cowell or Sharon Osbourne, and members of the public come on and show their talent for something innovative. The prize isn't a recording contract, just the money they ask for, and all for a share of the business.
The fact is, some of these "auditionees" come on with what they would deem a good idea. The rest of us would deem them "shit." The two surf dudes who came on with a beach towel printed to look like a surf board, and claimed it was a serious surfing aid were case and point. First of all, how many surfers are there? How many are learning to get onto their board? How many are going to put what they learn into practice? And he wanted 'faaasan's" to help make these towels. The Dragons, understandably, laughed at him, the towels, and the general stupidity of it.
Some have gone on to be successful. The guy who pitched an egg boiler. "You put your egg in," he'd say, "and set the timer." It then didn't work. So he showed them the back up. That also broke. He returned to the first one, which again failed. But, amazingly, he got an investment. The next day he was on Breakfast TV, where the machine again didn't work. Is it any wonder I haven't seen them on the shelves yet?
And on to this week's video. The most successful pitch was a simple pitch. A Jamaican music producing Rastafarian took his mother's recipe for a sauce, spiced it up a bit, and spent the last 15 years selling it at the Notting Hill Carnival. He had orders, but not as many as he thought. He was only asking £50,000, and he gets it. He's now a millionaire, with bottles of the stuff in every supermarket, deals with Birds eye for a frozen chicken chargrill, Sub-way, Wetherspoons (the pub chain for the discerning chav), a few other pub chains, and even Domino's Pizza. He even has peanuts, something he's no longer earning.
Presenting, the charismatic genius that is Levi Roots.

Levi Roots on Dragon's Den

On surprise visits

TDT had emailed me. Her friend had moved to Germany about a year and a half ago, and had emailed her about coming to visit. So, operation tidy house swung into action. By Friday morning, everything was set for her arrival at lunchtime into the airport. That morning TDT's car decided to play it's trick of having a dodgy accelerator, so we'd spent a couple of hours getting it fixed. Midway through, my mate Martin phoned up.
"My Gran's PC is playing up. Can I call you when I'm there to sort it?"
"Sure, no probs. I'll be in later. Give me a call."
And off we went to the land of Ryanair and Aerlingus. The plane had landed successfully, and as I stood there, I scanned each and every girl with dark hair's face to see if it was TDT's friend. After 20 minutes, I became aware of someone else looking at me.
"Strange," said my brain, "that looks like Martin. Looking at you. And TDT's staring at you as well. And Martin's grinning. Hang on... It is Martin!"
She'd decided to surprise me. I even had to ask if her friend really was coming over (I know, stupid really), but it was all a ploy. Martin was over until Monday, and we were going to have some fun. I, meanwhile, needed a drink. We headed down to one of my favourite pubs, in the next town down. Still shaking, I went to the bar with Martin.
"I have to warn you," I said, "brace yourself for impressive prices."
We ordered two pints, and a bottle of WKD (West Kerry Diesel) Blue. In the UK most pubs would cost between £2-£3 a pint, and maybe a couple of pounds for the WKD Blue. Basically, it should have been about £8 at most. The barmaid returned with our drinks.
"I'll get this," said Martin, offering up a €10 note.
"No, I think I should get the first one." I said, knowingly.
"That'll be €13.90 please" said the barmaid.
"*thud*" said Martin.
We headed home after a couple of drinks, and set up a plan of attack. We had to get a few supplies for dinner, so went to the local shop. Whilst there, again, Martin was knocked sideways.
"I need fags," he said. "how much are 20 Lambert and Butler?"
The girl on the till scans a pack. "€7.75" she exclaims
"How fuckin' much???" he screams. "I better get 40 then."
What he didn't know is that in Ireland cigarettes are the same price everywhere. Pubs, corner shops and supermarkets all charge the same price, unlike the UK where you can pay a lot more in one place compared to another.
That evening, we headed to the Magpie. A few people were there, but it was a quiet night. By midnight we'd broken out the cocktails. Lucky charm (I think it was, I'm sure I'll be corrected if not), was a thick green liquor. TDT compared it to drinking seaweed, but it wasn't that bad at all. Then Tasha (the barmaid) gave me and Martin an Erection. Jagermeister and Aftershock, again, it wasn't bad. Baby guinnesses were also dished out, but my aversion to coffee meant I had to skip it. So, I treated them to a knockback, a drink I haven't had for nearly 20 years. Malibu and southern comfort, it supposedly multiplies what you drink by 2, so you can get very drunk, very quickly. Martin sniffed it, and passed. TDT downed it, and promptly relegated it to the nearest toilet. Charlotte, our neighbour, had two. We all agreed we'd lay off the shots and returned to our slightly boring but reliable tipples. Meanwhile, Martin had started singing (!). We eventually left the wrong side of 3:30 with everyone and came home for a game or two of Buzz (which I won...). TDT fell asleep in the chair (again), Martin passed out (the poor sod had been up over 24 hours), I went to bed, and TDT finally joined me just before 12 noon.
The next day we went to see Father Ted's house (pictures to follow), and did a few other places locally. But, being shattered, we returned home and relaxed before going out a second night in a row. No shots this time, it was a pleasant evening, and we sat out until gone 1am in the beer garden, just having a hoot with stories of mirth and woe, and Martin mooning everyone to show his new tattoos. Again, he started singing. I have to say, this time was a lot murkier in my memory. I was actually quite drunk, and found myself joining in with him at one point, something that's never happened before(!). Again we left the wrong side of half 3 (TDT always insists on being the last out), and again returned home to games of Buzz (which I also won...). I retired about 4.30-5ish, apparently they finished about 6:30.
Rising fairly early (about 11ish) we agreed we'd take Martin for lunch in a pub I took my father when he was over, and then to the Cliffs of Moher. We had a pleasant lunch and headed up the coast, stopping en route to get a pic of Martin on the edge of the Atlantic. As we ascended the hill up to the Cliffs, the low cloud cover came down. Suddenly, we couldn't see Jack shit, Jill shit, Noe shit or any of the Shit-Happens family. There wasn't any point in us paying through the nose to see fog, so we just kept going. We eventually stopped in Lisdoonvarna (home of the matchmaking festival in September), and got souvenirs, before heading home.
That evening, surprise surprise, we went to the pub. Again, we drank too much (OLM, only €3 a pint, result!), but being a Sunday evening, it was early closing. We left just after 2:30.
Martin's flight home was at 10am, so we had to be up about 8. I got up at 7:30, and after unsuccessfully rising TDT at 8, 8:10, 8:20, 8:30, and at 8:35 (now with added "fuck off"), we left her to sleep and headed down to the airport.
The weekend was a roaring success. Both TDT and I have agreed to go Teetotal. We both have the DTs, our body clocks are screwed and Martin's not been heard from since. I have to go now. I have to sort out the kitchen, get rid of 30+ bottles, do the washing up, find the cat, replace the fridge door and fix the tap.

On deactivating cats.

Someone added this video to facebook

It's quite well known that the scruff of the neck on a cat is where the mother carries her young. It's not got many nerve endings, and evolution has said that if a cat is picked up by there, they should become passive and unresponsive. As you can see on the video, it works. But, and here's the thing, does it work with all cats? Marianne (of Green eggs and ham blog) had a bulldog clip to try it to find out.

Apparently this is Reggie. Not sure that posture's too normal.

And this is Basil, which looks like a more normal position. Thanks to Marianne for the pics by the way. Watch this space however, for Shallot's reaction (or at least pics of the scratches from trying).

On foreign driving licences

And so, I finally sent my driving licence back to the boys in Swansea with a change of address. I have been reliably informed I didn't have to do this for 12 months, and so 10 months was plenty of time for them to process the change. Sure enough, the licence came back within a week, but not quite in the way I'd planned.
"Sorry Mr. Aitch. The DVLA is unable to change your address to a new address outside the UK. You can, however, continue to drive there with your old UK address on the licence."
W, T and indeed F? So, basically, I can go speeding over here. When Mr William (Old Bill) pulls me over and asks for my address I can give my now defunct address in Wales. They will send the fine to that address, and because I haven't received it, I won't have to pay it. This means the fine will go unpaid, a black mark will be put against my name, and the next time I get stopped I'll get arrested for non-payment of fines. Alternatively, when I first get stopped for speeding, Mr William will not be happy with my true identity, and will arrest me to prove I am who I say I am. Basically, both ending me up in clink. This is not good. So, what should I do? Well, the first option is to carry the letter with my now address on it, and written in black and white it says I am able to continue to drive without changing the address. The second option is to pay €10 and get my licence transferred over to the Irish system. This sounds great, but my concern is having a medical licence, will I get a new Irish one? There is one easy solution I feel, and I would be more than happy to comply with it. Why not have a counterpart, much like the paper licence people have in the UK, but it has my UK driver ID/number, and my Irish address. This could be issued by the licence issuing authority, and be verified by the same office. The Police would have no questions, the ID would be good for other purposes (Age verification, bank account opening, that sort of thing), and it might cost a few Euro per person. Apparently other countries in the EU don't even have their addresses on their licences, so this would maybe also stop what has to be a loophole in the system, and is open to abuse?
I'll be the one in the nick, with the charge of non-payment of fines, and the big burly Irishman calling me his "biatch."

On rock concerts

TDT got her hands on a couple of tickets for Bon Jovi. This meant a few firsts would be applied. It meant I would get to see Dublin for the first time. It also meant I would get to go with TDT to a concert for the first time. We drove up on Wednesday afternoon, taking 3 hours to get there. We were booked into a sort of backpacker's hostel, which was cheap and not very cheerful. The room was possibly the most sparse room we'd ever seen, containing a bed, a wardrobe and a TV. Not even a chair or table to be seen, and the bathroom was devoid of soap and towels. But, like I said, it was cheap and it was a place to lay our weary Bon Jovi filled heads after the concert. We left within an hour of arriving, and jumped in a taxi to the venue, the Royal (?) Dublin Society, or RDS for short. Across the road was a pub, heaving with black t-shirt and jeans clad fans, where we had a pint or two, a bite to eat (deep fried sausages and chips. Yum). We'd also met up with TDT's colleague and her hubby, so we sat and chatted for a short while before heading into the venue.

View Larger Map
As you can see, the venue itself is huge. Loads of buildings, all based around a large stadium (at the bottom) where we were joined on the pitch by some several thousand (about 45,000 to be exact) as the man himself started to play.
It is at this point I have to point something out. I avoid concerts for one simple reason. There's nothing worse then paying a large fee for the chance to go along and see a tiny person, miles away, play their latest album and then leave. This is unfortunately what most 'artistes' do today, and it really turns me off the concert experience. TDT will argue that hardcore music fans will want to do this. My argument is, if all they want to do is listen to the latest album, join in singing with other fans, and look at a screen with their favourite band on it, then why not just hire a church hall. It'll be a lot cheaper. Fortunately, Bon Jovi break the rules and do entertain the fans.

I don't know what song this was. To be honest, more than half the songs played I'd never heard before. The other half were identifiable, but I don't know the words, so I couldn't join in. The other problem I felt had *really* dampened our spirits was the small minority who insisted on walking around the pitch. This meant that you were constantly getting bumped into, pushed, shoved and apologised to. I could feel TDT's blood pressure increasing as another brainless pisshead bumped into her shoulder and knocked her off balance. I though if I stood behind her it might stop. I was wrong. They carried on all night, for the entire 3 hours we were stood there, and we couldn't move out of the way enough. We just seemed to be on the edge of an unmarked motorway for walkers to use, rather than stand and listen to the music like other normal people. After that 3 hours (and including the couple of hours before the concert, totalling 5 hours ish), our little tootsies were more than throbbing. I was doing my best stork impression, shifting from one foot to the other, TDT was leaning against a fence complaining of burning calf muscles. As the evening drew to a close, the obviously emotional Jon Bon Jovi was revelling in the adoration of his fans. He'd turn up the main stage lights, lighting all 45,000 fans in front of him, and the roar of the crowd would be heard in most of Western Europe. He'd then do another song, and as he finished, he'd do the same again. Again, another roar. Again, another stunned looking singer. Again, the band would watch in disbelief at the reaction.
Eventually, and close to 11pm and the point where he'd get fined if he continued to play, the inevitable biggest hit was due. Livin' on a Prayer has a long drawn out intro, and it's not until about a minute in before he'd start to sing. This had me perplexed as to how he could introduce it, so in a moment of adoration and load cheering, he just sang "woooo-ow, livin' on a prayer" and possibly the loudest roar of the night went up. I grabbed the camera, and took what I could. The volume really isn't shown, but you can imagine how loud it would normally have been when he was singing, and you'll note how you can't hear him at all, just the crowd. Highlight was not the word.

He finished, and unwillingly took his bows with the band, before leaving the stage within what must have been seconds off the hour of 11. We fought our way out of the stadium fairly quickly, and walked down a residential street back towards the centre of town. After 10 minutes of slightly laboured walking, I noticed what was a main road but not many people on it, and we decided that the chances of getting a taxi were a lot better down there then the main road which was barely moving. Not a 100 yards up the road and a taxi appeared with his light on. Talk about lucky! The guy inside was dead friendly, and did everything he could to get us across town and back home as quickly as possible (by his own admission, to get back to the RDS). We took a walk around to get cigarettes and a bite to eat, before retiring worn out.
Now I have the taste for it, I want to go and see someone I might know. I know I might be disappointed, but I can but try. First on my list is Peter Gabriel, who's concerts I have seen on TV and he is a showman, making each song have a visual story along with the music and lyrics.
Oh, and no, my hearing hasn't fully recovered. Pardon?

On coronaries. Bring Pies.

Saturday saw TDT and I heading back to the land in the middle of nowhere. Not even sheep this time, it's like the land that time forgot. Our graceful hosts welcomed us with open arms as usual, and an afternoon of much chat, tales of woe and swapping of recipes between myself and the most excellent Des. One recipe he recommended needed further investigation. He said it was based on "Man Pie," a dish I (and the Internet) haven't seen before. He had however tweaked it, and now called it Paddy Pie. So, we stopped on the way home and picked up the required ingredients for Paddy Pie, and yesterday morning I made it. The recipe is simple enough.

Paddy Pie. Now with added heart attack.

Puff Pastry. I cheated and got two rolls from Tesco of the ready made stuff.
4 x Sausages, ideally good high content pork ones, but the cheap nasty ones will do.
4 rashers of rindless bacon
1 onion (This is optional, Dad.)
Tomato
Mushroom (either or both can be missed out if need be)
Eggs. Lots and lots of eggs. (Mine required 8 eggs and an additional for brushing the pastry)

Method.

1. Get hangover. This is true hangover food.
2. Cook the sausages and bacon to how you'd normally like them. In my case, cremated. In TDT's case, raw and rubbery.
3. Line a greased deep 8" pie dish with the pastry. Don't prick it, you don't need to.
4. Put in the sausages and bacon, trying to lay it out evenly.
5. Slices of tomato and mushroom to be distributed as needed.
6. A nice layer of onion. I just cut the onion into 8 slices.
7. Now the techy bit. Break the eggs into a cup/ramekin, then gently pour it into the pie gaps. Do this until all the gaps are filled. Obviously, this depends on the size of the bacon, sausages and other things.
8. Cover over with the top of puff pastry. Again, do not prick.
9. Place in oven at 200c or 400f for 45 minutes(ish)
10. Take out of the oven and eat a lot less then you'd think you can. It's surprisingly filling. Fruity Sauce is a must!
11. Call ambulance for suspected coronary.

On crime and punishment.

It is with interest I read about another homeowner stabbing an intruder. Harking back to the days of Tony Martin, the farmer from Norfolk who 12 years ago shot a chav in the back as he was legging it out of Tony's house after being discovered. Poor Tony had been subjected to repeated burglaries, presumably by the same miscreants, up to 10 times, and had finally snapped when he heard more noises from downstairs. Grabbing his illegally held shotgun, he loaded it, walked to the top of the stairs, and fired upon the two shadows now clambering out of the window in panic. The younger member died from shots to his back (lucky him), but the older chav escaped and proceeded to claim for "loss of earnings" (!). Photos later showed him cycling and climbing, and the case was thrown out. Meanwhile, the innocent farmer who was protecting his property after the Police refused to help was released after 3 years.
I have to admit, if I caught someone in the house in the dead of the night, they wouldn't walk out. I'm not coming across as machismo, I just would like to think that if I called the Gardai, they wouldn't get here until next March, and I can't see me holding onto the perpetrator until then. I would also put across my point that maybe our house wasn't the best house to invade. After I'd delivered my justice, I'd take them to somewhere secluded and leave them, naked, and unable to find their way home.
That way I would give them a sporting chance to get help.

On freaky, trippy, drug taken cartoons

TDT had a link on her bookface, telling her to watch this cartoon. We sat there, mesmerised at the bad quality, scary voices, awful story line and creepiness of it all. But, and more worryingly, we watched it until the end through our fingers, with mouths open and aghast.

The funny thing is, I posted this to bookface myself, and one of the quietest girls in my old neighbourhood when I was a kid commented on it. I'm guessing everyone else was as horrified as us, but she said "watch the episode friends."
In fact we were so horrified, we did. And this really is taking the now established boat that is the first episode, and pushing it out waaaaa-aaaay beyond any realms of normality. Obviously we then have to pass it on to you, and watch with glee as you get as freaked out as we did.
Enjoy.

On I.B.S. Libs

Irritable bowel syndrome is a nightmare. I've had it on and off for about 17 years, and I thought I should share it with you all.
So there you are, sat watching a film. Mr Invisible, with his new steel toe capped boots, comes along and boots you in your gonads so hard you can barely breathe. The pressure from it has pushed your entire lower bowel into a pocket in your pelvis about the size of a thimble. Your balls also try to retract into the same space, and basically something has to give. It's at this point I mention it to TDT.
"OOOh, spasm," is the normal comment. This is followed by a mad rush to the toilet, to relieve the pressure on the now incredibly compacted bowel. I'll save you the displeasure of what happens in the toilet, but needless to say, it has on occasion taken an hour for me to return from Thomas Crapper's most famous invention.
There are lots of theories as to what can be done. The general (and wrong) consensus is that lots of fibre is a good thing. If you eat lots of stuff to make you shit, then the shit will flow through quicker, and the bowel doesn't have the opportunity to be irritated. The reality is the already irritated bowel now has loads more to push through, meaning the explosion in the bathroom is not only disastrous (small mushroom clouds have been seen above the west coast of Ireland following Bran Flakes), the bowel actually hurts for hours afterwards. Other things known to make me use the brown laser include fizzy drinks (we suspect), alcohol (no comment) and apparently large meals can also cause problems. So, basically, I'm doing myself no favours, yes I know. So I've recently taken to taking peppermint oil capsules ("Culpermin") which are supposed to stop Mr Invisible with the big heavy steel toe-capped boots picking on my baby makers, and it would appear to work. I also take some anti-diarrhoea tablets, that have the added effect of bunging me up. This causes TDT much displeasure, because as my lower bowel now wishes to pass a turd the size of a small nuclear submarine, the air tanks let rip with the usual trumpetting. This is followed by the usual conversation of
*flubble*
"sorry"
"But you're not! You pushed!"
"Snigger."
Eventually the phase of pain passes, and I get a week of no pain and regular patterns. I dunno about Cancer research, I do know I wish they'd find a cure for IBS. I'm fed up of it, and so's TDT. And judging by Shallot clawing at the door on the bad days, so's he.

More on Facial Recognition

First of all, here are the answers to the facial recognition from weeks ago!



Image 1.The Two Ronnies.Well done, Alice.


Image 2. Ant and Dec. Alice got the points again.


Image 3. Posh and Becks. I think it's the first time my father got one!


Image 4. Foster and Allen. For the Irish contingent... Pays to get in there first Alice, doesn't it?


Image 5. Fry and Laurie. Yes, he was funny. No, he wasn't just in House and Stuart Little. Well done Debster.


Image 6. French and Saunders.


Image 7. Little and Large. Debster got there again.


Image 8. Too hard, apparently. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, anyone?


Image 9. Punt and Dennis. Alice got it again.


Image 10. I was right about no one getting this. Daryl Hall and John Oates. Go on, hate me.

I'll be back tomorrow with a new quiz, all about rhyming slang.

On Fuel Crises

Poor Chemo has been unwell. I noticed when my Dad was over the car spluttered a couple of times. I put this down to the spark plugs being old, and the car needing a good service. Then, 2 weeks ago, TDT, MILTB and I went to Limerick on the Sunday morning. At about 80 mph, and on the motorway, suddenly the "check engine" light came on and the car promptly died. I limped it for a couple of miles, but it had all the symptoms of running out of fuel. The gauge said I had 100km of fuel left, but even I know you can't trust it. So, Ianymeany came down with a can and we got more fuel. Sure enough, it didn't make any difference, and we got a tow all the way home. A few hours later and it was all working again, but again a little bit spluttery. I got more spark plugs the following day and changed them, and all seemed ok. Then on Monday I had to go to the next town down, the thriving metropolis that is Shannon. On the way home it did the same again, "check engine", no fuel, generally poorly. This time I red lined it at 6500RPM and second gear, and just got it home. The next morning however and I couldn't even pull out of a parking spot without it stalling, so I took the putput to a few garages and got a guy who said he'd have a look. After getting a tow, the car was left at the hands of Ross, my new found friend. 2 hours later and he phoned with a diagnosis, and it was grim.
Poor Chemo had been poisoned. He'd had some sort of petrol that had turned to jelly, and the pump was chewing chunks off which were getting sent to the injectors. And the really strange thing was the more fuel I added, that also was jellified. So, there was only one choice. He emptied the tank, cleaned it out, and overhauled the pump, cleaning that as well. Then he put a tenner's worth back in, and that seemed to fix it. He advised me to get fuel cleaner, so I have it in the tank as we speak and Poor ill Chemo is now running a lot better.
Meanwhile, TDT and I sat and worked out where it would have come from. When my father was over I'd got fuel from a garage in Limerick, literally a couple of days before my first splutter. I normally get fuel from the same garage, and seeing as it's the nearest, if it was from there you can be sure some of the locals would have also had problems. So I can only assume it was the garage in Limerick. Unfortunately, in this day and age, it's very difficult to prove. I wonder if I would have had the same problem if I had a diesel...

On huggy kittehz

Take one kitten, dreaming and zedding away, and a mother's securing hug...
You are not allowed to say "Ahhhh" in a really cutesy patronising way.
Enjoy.