Steve, Florence & Fred

“Let’s all go to Tesco’s, where [fill in name here] gets his best clothes! Dah daah dah da! Dah daah dah da!”

Sung to the tune of We’re All Going To Wembley, this was an oft-heard playground taunt when I was a kid. Ironically, as I approach my thirty-fifth year, I now find this to be true of myself.

Tell Me I’m Not The Only One

“Do you ever do that thing when you’re cooking,” I asked my lovely wife while we were in the kitchen preparing dinner together a few nights ago, “where you imagine you’re starring in your own cookery show [complete with running narrative of what you’re doing, with delivery for an imaginary camera]?”
‘”No, you weirdo.” She replied.
“Err, right. No, me neither.” I confirmed.

The Dilemma Surrounding Self-Cannibalism

An interesting debate arose in the car recently which concerned a (with hindsight, almost certainly fictional) story I once read about an unfortunate individual trapped on a desert island, who was stranded and alone with nothing to eat. Being the only meat source on his island prison he was therefore forced to eat his own limbs in order to survive.

We couldn’t agree, however, on which would be the best limb to start munching on. For me, taking into account the variables of a) limb usefulness, b) food volume, c) loss of dexterity and d) ability to prevent signaling for help (should a ship pootle by on the horizon), I plumped for my left arm. My lovely lady wife however, opted for the left leg.

There is, of course, no right or wrong answer. Is it better to be able to run down the beach on two legs, gathering wood for a fire (though then be unable to gather wood at any useful rate), or to be able to gather wood at a rate of knots though have to hop around at a fraction of the speed while doing so?

Scoffing one’s self in order to stave off hunger in order to survive (but in doing so limiting your chances of survival by adversely affecting your bodily movements) is one of those catch-22s most (if not all) people will never find themselves in, so I don’t think it’s much cause for concern. That said, I intend to carry around a set of cutlery whenever I travel abroad from now on (although I will have to learn how to use my fork in my right hand).

Priorities for Armageddon

"We’ve only got four minutes to save the world!” urge Madonna and Justin from their lofty position at the top of this week’s hit parade. However, they then go on to waste around 80% of the time remaining before impending doom by singing a shit song about it.

And is it me, or has Madonna contracted a serious bout of Cher Syndrome in recent years, where the sufferer labours under the serious misapprehension that they remain a figure of desire and overt sexuality despite their advancing years (and where the increase in age is inversely proportional to the amount of clothes worn)? Out of the limelight for some years now, Cher is probably languishing in some nursing home dribbling soup down her chin and reminiscing about the times she used to straddle warship cannons clad only in a few ribbony strips of lycra. Urrgh. If they could turn back time indeed…

Youthful Evil

After twenty-odd years, Robert Mugabe is still refusing to respect the democratic process and remains in power in impoverished Zimbabwe. His legacy of economic meltdown and tyranny will ultimately leave the country in tatters with any hope of recovery decades and even generations away – a gargantuan task for whatever incoming party will eventually pick up the poisoned chalice of leadership.

Still, I can’t be the only one who thinks he looks bloody good for his age. He’s 82 (yes, eighty-two years old!) and with a spring in his step and a disproportionate lack of wrinkles, it seems that being a totalitarian despot is good for the complexion, though not the soul.

Maybe he found the fountain of eternal youth on one of the previously white-owned farms he ran into the ground.

I Robot

Sad news for sci-fi fans today as Kenny Baker, who played R2-D2 in the Star Wars films, was admitted to hospital after suffering long-running problems with asthma.

Family are attending the 73-year-old’s bedside, though his son was available for comment. “Brrrb-tik-tik weee!” said T2-D2, 45, “Woo-beeew chucka-chucka”.

Air Rage Incidents Set To Increase

Bad news for air travellers this week as Ofcom gave the nod for mobile phones to be used on planes, which was, up until now, the last bastion of public transport where passengers’ ears could remain unmolested by nobheads barking into their mobys. At least on a train, if glaring doesn’t work, you can switch carriages or alight at the next station, but being entrapped in a flying tube at 30,000 feet limits your options for escape.

Recipients of calls from aeroplanes will now, no doubt, be subjected to the hilarious “I can’t talk now, I’m on the plane!” (probably swiftly followed by “Aaaargh! Jesus! Not the face!” as the caller is beaten repeatedly around the head by his/her fellow passengers).