It's Official.

Scotland is closed until the 3rd of January.

You won't be getting no milk off us. Come to think of it, the 3rd of January is a bit of a hungover washout as well. You might have to steal a cow.

Happy Hogmanay.

I'm orf for a couple of sherries.

The trouble with stuff.

Is that I'm coming down with it.

I'm not talking Ferraris and minor royalty here: it's just that I seem to be drowning in discarded video game cases, odd socks, and semi read paperbacks that just haven't managed to get a grip.

I suppose I could have a spring clean. Then again, I wouldn't be content without the detrius of my life spilling about my person. A clean white prison of well ordered normalcy doesn't appeal somehow. Maybe I could donate a few dog eared books and inadvisable trouser purchases to one of the legion of charity shops. I'm sure the £3 raised would cure some afflicted infant somewhere.

I've decided on my New Year resolution. I shall collect all the small change that I usually lose down the back of the sofa and contribute it to a charity of any poor deluded readers choice. Come to that, I'll contribute some trousers.

I'm sure it'll be easier than giving up smoking.

Stuffed

Celebrity chefs (apart from food porn priestess in chief Nigella, obviously) have much to answer for.

Citing impossible to obtain ingredients sourced from a Tuscan peasant's navel and swooning over pieces of offal are enough to put anyone off cookery for life. Then there are the endless coffee table cook books that everyone peruses once and then places on a shelf where they will linger until the apocalypse.

I'm usually immune to this kind of thing, prefering to recline on the sofa with a nice kebab and a teacake to follow. Unfortunately I fell for the pre Christmas 'goose is much nicer than turkey' twaddle bandied about by various culinary twats with stupid haircuts.

Come Christmas Day a perfectly roasted goose was presented at table to coos of delight from those about to partake. Unfortunately there was about enough flesh on the honker to feed an anorexic Pygmy, and even that tasted like a geriatric goat.

Thankfully a fine rib of beef on Boxing Day salvaged the situation somewhat.

I've got a turkey for New Year. The celeb chefs can go and roast their own giblets.

Commercial Break II

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VjOxrj84MfE

This is just some skinny white boys from East Kilbride, Scotland, doing what skinny white boys from East Kilbride Scotland like to do.

And why not?

Commercial Break.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z14wPTz6Pd

Unfortunately three months off the blog have left my depleted cranial cells unable to decipher html code.

I can't add links.

Never mind, I'll get there eventually. Mary's syntax leaves about as much to be desired as my profound technonumptieness.

I'm sure you love her anyway.

Pills, Thrills, and Bellyaches.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cPT4iaHVFHo

Wa, hey, hey, hey.

Don't do drugs boys and girls.

Prime Numbers are Unique.

They are divisible only by themselves and one.

Sonnets are even more tricky.

As is iambic pentameter.

I'm off for a lie down.

Garfer says Yo Ho Ho.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Qn3tel9FWU


Happy Christmas ladies and gentlemen. I Hope you have a good one. Unfortunately I'm in the dog house because I forgot to defrost the mince pies. Hey ho.

Hey ho, here I go again.

I don’t have a particularly addictive personality. Sure, I like a drink; and I don’t turn down pneumatic blonde nymphomaniacs that live above a pub without due cause, but I can’t say that I’m addicted to either of these potentially lethal pastimes.

The only vice that has gripped me and doggedly refuses to let go is tobacco. I’ve tried cold turkey, eating two dozen mandarin oranges a day, and plastering my torso with nicotine patches. Alas, all has been to no avail; I still end up back on the chuffers within a couple of weeks.

My GP has informed that me that she can prescribe me a new wonder drug that apparently subdues all nicotine cravings. It costs a packet, but as I am a hopeless case she is happy to provide me with a course of treatment gratis on the NHS. Her generosity may have something to do with the fact that I don’t turn up at her surgery twice weekly complaining of a slight cough and a bit of a sore knee.

Of course, I won’t be giving up before January 3rd at the earliest. The west highland Scottish Hogmanay extends well into the evening of the 2nd, and I refuse to have my party spoiled by hankerings for a roll up. Come the 3rd my drug regime will commence. Hopefully this time I’ll finally make it.

I Hate Soduko

The all seeing, all knowing, psychologists have been cracking open the Krug recently

Proffesor Dimwit from the University of Bognor Regis managed to get his name in every quality newspaper in the country by revealing his stunning insight that women talk more than men. Why it should take a psychologist using empirical methodology to state the bleedin' obvious is frankly beyond me. All men know that women talk more: that's why we sit in the corner, quietly humming to ourselves.

It's not a question of vocabulary. Some of us have swallowed several dictionaries, but do not feel the need to play Scrabble on a regular basis in order to prove our familiarty with obscure words.

I've often wondered if it's possible to get the word 'Lysergicaciddiathilimide' on a scrabble board. Across a few triple and double sqaures it would rival solving Feormat's Last Theorem as a terminal nerds feather in the cap moment.

And no, I don't watch Countdown.

Abroad

Six weeks spent in Cyprus furiously imbibing tequila sunrises have miraculously left my fragile constitution somewhat intact.

I don't understand why anyone is remotely attracted to the idea of extreme sports. I popped across to Cairo only to find myself harangued by begging urchins offering camels for any conceivable use at a ridiculously low price. I may have taken them up on the offer, but unfortunately they only had dromedarys.

Isn't wifi great? Only £10 per 24 hours.