The resulting collision would look like this:
Friday, 30 March 2012
Wednesday, 21 March 2012
Tuesday, 6 March 2012
Bean me up Scotty!
All of you will remember from my previous bloggage I was drinking liquid veg in a vain attempt to get “healthy” and buff looking. Bikini season is closer than you think! Well, the results are in and are as thorough as a Russian election, as trust worthy as a Zimbabwean election and as disappointing boring as a UK election. I was lucky enough to get two tubs of green powder from http://www.ayurveda4life.co.uk, which would translate in to £76 of your hard earned.
If like me you’re a fan of pepper favoured cold Earl Gray without the bergamot then you’re in for a treat! If not then don’t worry you get used to the taste very quickly. One thing you should completely ignore is the appearance. I’m trying to think of the last time I saw that colour green and I keep going back to when I cleaned out the pond. Luckily I’m a strong believer in form following function so I was happy to park the aesthetics to one side. For single people seeking a drink relationship, Energised Greens is expensive but has a “great personality”. You certainly wouldn’t look at the mantle while you were stoking this fire. Here though, is where the doom and gloom ends. Carnivores, may I present to you a volcanic gas cloud full of silver linings for you to chew over.
I drank two 750ml water bottles of the stuff a day so got additional exercise walking to the toilet. The extra three pints that filled my plumbing also had the effect of stopping me from snacking and that included coffee’n’biscuits. As you all know biccies are my weakness so anything that stops them is good. Seriously, I used to live down wind of the McVities factory and had to wear a bib to catch the drool. I’d walk round mouth open wide taking large sniffs of the caramelized air. I looked like I’d fallen off a Sunshine Variety coach. With all the usual snack based sugar bereft from my diet you’d think I’d be lethargic but no. After a few days of necking the green stuff I noticed an increase in energy and alertness on a par with downing three gallons of Red Bull with an espresso chaser. After a week there was also about a half a stone of unexpected weight loss, which I attributed to having a more comprehensively flushed system. Green pooh fans today is your lucky day! There was also a slight increase in stamina. The leaner, meaner and greener me was consistently knocking time off a 25mile nighttime course I was riding. It’s hard to put a precise measurement on this as the environment insisted on changing every time I ventured out. At a guess I’d say I had between 5-10% more in the tank. Two tubs lasted a month, which is better than I thought. It doesn’t look a lot but it goes a long way, (like £5 in Poundland).
The final benefit I’m going to mention is all the salad I didn’t eat. As all Simpson fans know, “You don’t make friends with salad”.
In wintery, springy, autumny and summary:
It works but it’s pricey. I’d give it five awesomes out of ten. At half the price it would easily be 9/10.
Monday, 20 February 2012
I say bread and you say quack! I say bread…….
Ducks. They’re playing us like fools.
Ooh look at us, we’re too silly to feed ourselves even though we’ve been doing it since we were dinosaurs. Go on, flap off, you’re not fowling me! Ducks are the domesticated cats of the bird world. Both look cute in return for food, both only rock up when they want something, both don’t mix well with traffic, both taste nice (Google Goyangi-tan) and both know martial arts (cats become ninjas while swans learn wing karate). We need to wise up to these feathered freeloaders before we start having duck flaps installed. It’s time the ducks remembered our place in the food chain and learnt some manners. Think of a world where instead of trying to steathily eat sandwiches in the picnic area, you are free to put down your bread based snack for more than one second. Imagine a world where an orderly queue of geese would approach one at a time and ask for just the smallest nibble of your crust. Just enough to be going on with instead of the raucous, noisy, greedy, gobshites kicking off at a hundred decibels at the merest glimpse of a lunchbox. There’s nothing worse than a gung ho kamikaze mallard hell bent of scoffing your sarnies. To rub it in they even insist of flying in a ‘V’ formation as if to stick two fingers up at an altitude and speed where they know they’re safe. It would be lovely to take a gander without a gander on the take.
The duck stops here! You’ve crapped on my windscreen for the last time!
It’s time to fight quack in the only way how. I want everyone to order a number 42 with extra pancakes from your local Chinese every day. The excess demand will soon thin out their numbers and give them something to pond-er. The extra fat layer you’ll put on will also help keep you warm this winter. Now that’s what I call killing two birds with one stone! Except its only actually one bird and it’s not actually a stone, more like gas mark 8. Either way it smells like victory and victory smells delicious. Those afflicted with anatidaephobia, (essentially a fear of ducks) shall be given free plum sauce grenades but I reserve the right for the piss still to be taken out of you.
As an additional deterrent I want all airplanes fitted with Moulinex Food Blenders along the leading edge of their wings and in between the engines, just to make sure. Just like the RAF did in World War II, airline pilots will now paint their successes under the cockpit window. Crossed out swastikas will now be replaced with crossed out yellow duckies.
I know what you’re thinking, poor little ducks, how does he sleep at night? Very well, thanks to a goose down pillow, a goose down mattress and some goose down pyjamas and you too can enjoy such comfort with the aid of a pond, some bread and a large caliber firearm. The game is up, when ideally it needs to be in the oven alongside some seasonal veg.
Remember people, pancake day is fast approaching and this year we should all put a duck in it. It’s what Jesus would have wanted…and he was half mallard! Well how else do you explain walking on water? Exactly.
Ooh look at us, we’re too silly to feed ourselves even though we’ve been doing it since we were dinosaurs. Go on, flap off, you’re not fowling me! Ducks are the domesticated cats of the bird world. Both look cute in return for food, both only rock up when they want something, both don’t mix well with traffic, both taste nice (Google Goyangi-tan) and both know martial arts (cats become ninjas while swans learn wing karate). We need to wise up to these feathered freeloaders before we start having duck flaps installed. It’s time the ducks remembered our place in the food chain and learnt some manners. Think of a world where instead of trying to steathily eat sandwiches in the picnic area, you are free to put down your bread based snack for more than one second. Imagine a world where an orderly queue of geese would approach one at a time and ask for just the smallest nibble of your crust. Just enough to be going on with instead of the raucous, noisy, greedy, gobshites kicking off at a hundred decibels at the merest glimpse of a lunchbox. There’s nothing worse than a gung ho kamikaze mallard hell bent of scoffing your sarnies. To rub it in they even insist of flying in a ‘V’ formation as if to stick two fingers up at an altitude and speed where they know they’re safe. It would be lovely to take a gander without a gander on the take.
The duck stops here! You’ve crapped on my windscreen for the last time!
It’s time to fight quack in the only way how. I want everyone to order a number 42 with extra pancakes from your local Chinese every day. The excess demand will soon thin out their numbers and give them something to pond-er. The extra fat layer you’ll put on will also help keep you warm this winter. Now that’s what I call killing two birds with one stone! Except its only actually one bird and it’s not actually a stone, more like gas mark 8. Either way it smells like victory and victory smells delicious. Those afflicted with anatidaephobia, (essentially a fear of ducks) shall be given free plum sauce grenades but I reserve the right for the piss still to be taken out of you.
As an additional deterrent I want all airplanes fitted with Moulinex Food Blenders along the leading edge of their wings and in between the engines, just to make sure. Just like the RAF did in World War II, airline pilots will now paint their successes under the cockpit window. Crossed out swastikas will now be replaced with crossed out yellow duckies.
I know what you’re thinking, poor little ducks, how does he sleep at night? Very well, thanks to a goose down pillow, a goose down mattress and some goose down pyjamas and you too can enjoy such comfort with the aid of a pond, some bread and a large caliber firearm. The game is up, when ideally it needs to be in the oven alongside some seasonal veg.
Remember people, pancake day is fast approaching and this year we should all put a duck in it. It’s what Jesus would have wanted…and he was half mallard! Well how else do you explain walking on water? Exactly.
Wednesday, 18 January 2012
Diet Time…It must be the New Year!
As a rule I don’t make any rules and that includes New Years resolutions. The wife on the other hand has gone crazy health kick mental. She’s eating healthier and doing bonkers amounts of running. Quite frankly, it’s making me look bad. A wife should have more consideration for her lesser half but no, the missus wants to “be fitter” and “live longer”. It’s working too, she’s happier and losing weight like Facebook users are losing interest.
She has far too much motivation for one person and you can’t help but get caught up in her success. The chance to ride in her wind was just too tempting. Coat Tail City, here I come!
As far as diet goes, mine is pretty shocking but well balanced if you’re a carnivore. Essentially, if it moves, I’ll eat it with chips and gravy. When it comes to greens I tend to run in the other direction. By running I can also ensure I don’t get any verbal off slow moving veggies hell bent on giving us top-of-the-food-chainers a free lecture. Save your strength hippy!
But whether I like it or not I am a tiny part omnivore, which means I need to eat non-meat stuff. Annoyingly vast quantities of spuds don’t count. The better half is literally eating stuff that grows out the ground! Like plants and that, I think they’re called “vegetables”. Ain’t no way that’s going on MY plate! I mean, it’s green, like bogies but even more so. Do I look like a rabbit!?!
Fortunately there is an answer! http://www.ayurveda4life.co.uk/ make this stuff called Energised Greens. It’s powdered veg which when mixed with water make a drink that resembles the stuff you find at the bottom of a pond that normally can only be removed with bleach and a sand blaster. That’s probably a bit harsh, some bleaches smell nice. I can condense the “How to Take” instructions into a single line; as quickly as possible and don’t let it touch the sides! Despite its appearance though it is still infinitely better than consuming the equivalent amount of daily fruit’n’veg portions. It also has the added benefit that you don’t feel like you’re depriving some poor bunnies of their food. Stick that in your lentil pipe!
which one is which again?
As for exercise, well those that know me will already know that on a mountain bike I am a laser guided, precision tuned, finely crafted athlete with unlimited strength and endurance…..in my head. The green stuff is designed to make me go even faster! This slightly alarming prospect is actually quite appealing, as I tend to go towards things that scare me a little. That particular behavioral trait would certainly explain the whole night riding thing, my vasectomy adventure and the people I associate with. My friends list on Facebook for example is like a who’s who of the weird, disturbed and wonderfully mental. I’ve set myself a weekly mileage target which would embarrass airline pilots and ride times which can be used to track my progress.
It is my intention to pwn this health thing, (“pwn” – I am so down wid da youff innit!). My insides are now at war and war is never pretty. My stomach is having Vietnam style flashbacks to when it used to see green food on a regular basis. My alimentary canal will be a Waitrose where once there was a Netto. My arse will be its own Concorde moment.
For someone who doesn’t do veg the future is a little bit squeaky bum. Results to follow.
She has far too much motivation for one person and you can’t help but get caught up in her success. The chance to ride in her wind was just too tempting. Coat Tail City, here I come!
As far as diet goes, mine is pretty shocking but well balanced if you’re a carnivore. Essentially, if it moves, I’ll eat it with chips and gravy. When it comes to greens I tend to run in the other direction. By running I can also ensure I don’t get any verbal off slow moving veggies hell bent on giving us top-of-the-food-chainers a free lecture. Save your strength hippy!
But whether I like it or not I am a tiny part omnivore, which means I need to eat non-meat stuff. Annoyingly vast quantities of spuds don’t count. The better half is literally eating stuff that grows out the ground! Like plants and that, I think they’re called “vegetables”. Ain’t no way that’s going on MY plate! I mean, it’s green, like bogies but even more so. Do I look like a rabbit!?!
Fortunately there is an answer! http://www.ayurveda4life.co.uk/ make this stuff called Energised Greens. It’s powdered veg which when mixed with water make a drink that resembles the stuff you find at the bottom of a pond that normally can only be removed with bleach and a sand blaster. That’s probably a bit harsh, some bleaches smell nice. I can condense the “How to Take” instructions into a single line; as quickly as possible and don’t let it touch the sides! Despite its appearance though it is still infinitely better than consuming the equivalent amount of daily fruit’n’veg portions. It also has the added benefit that you don’t feel like you’re depriving some poor bunnies of their food. Stick that in your lentil pipe!
which one is which again?
As for exercise, well those that know me will already know that on a mountain bike I am a laser guided, precision tuned, finely crafted athlete with unlimited strength and endurance…..in my head. The green stuff is designed to make me go even faster! This slightly alarming prospect is actually quite appealing, as I tend to go towards things that scare me a little. That particular behavioral trait would certainly explain the whole night riding thing, my vasectomy adventure and the people I associate with. My friends list on Facebook for example is like a who’s who of the weird, disturbed and wonderfully mental. I’ve set myself a weekly mileage target which would embarrass airline pilots and ride times which can be used to track my progress.
It is my intention to pwn this health thing, (“pwn” – I am so down wid da youff innit!). My insides are now at war and war is never pretty. My stomach is having Vietnam style flashbacks to when it used to see green food on a regular basis. My alimentary canal will be a Waitrose where once there was a Netto. My arse will be its own Concorde moment.
For someone who doesn’t do veg the future is a little bit squeaky bum. Results to follow.
Friday, 18 November 2011
Post Dramatic Snip Disorder
There is no denying that I have saved the world.
Having a vasectomy was sure to put the world’s population numbers on a plateau. You can all thank me later because right now I’m dealing with something of a growing problem. Anyone who has read the blog below, followed me on Twit’n’Facebonk will know the operation was a flawless success. Going in with eyes wide shut and outstanding naivety had paid off massively. However, rescuing mankind it would seem was not without its cost.
Becoming a jaffa can result in more than just losing your pips. Post Vasectomy Pain (PVP) and infections are the biggest nutaches. There are other possible ‘complications’ as well such as scrotal hematomas or allergic reaction to the chromic acid in the stitches. It’s well worth reading about…after you’ve had it done.
My little swimmers can give David Walliams a run for his money and they were none too pleased at being told they couldn’t go on the tube slide anymore. They aren’t suited to a life in the shallow end so they're taking their revenge.
In my case Day +12 was where the fun began. From nowhere I started to get plumpain on a par with giving birth to twin Zepplins. There was also a swelling in my pants, and not the good kind! The swelling briefly looked like a third love spud and I considered what it would be like to have trip-locks. A third more testosterone would get me kicked out of the Tour De France so it’s a blooming good thing I’m not a pro-cyclist. I decided that no good can come from having tiddlies that resemble a New Delhi train during rush hour and that I should probably get help or something. I won’t mention the oozing around the stitches, it was just too gross. The awesome Dr. M who had performed the surgery agreed to see them for a second time. His bravery was made even more impressive when you factor in the appointment time was after lunch. After a quick fondle he concluded that I had an infected man udder. He also suggested taking the stitches out. I agreed because apart from having a slowly inflating space hopper in my scrotum “all looked good”. Putting them in didn’t hurt, why would taking them out be any different?
#EPIC #FAIL
Naivety it would appear only works pre-op. It smarted a bit I can tell you but I’m glad he did because within minutes the vast majority of the pain had gone. Vanished like the prospect of becoming a daddy again. He made out a prescription for some anti-bi-ollocks and I was away at the speed of a legless sloth.
Space is still at a premium ‘downstairs’ but at least it doesn’t hurt anymore. I will just have to wait for the drugs to kick in and the swelling to unswell. I've single handedly halted the population growth, there’s no way I’m gonna let my plums fill the void!
to be continued...(hopefully not)
Monday, 7 November 2011
7 Billion and NOT counting.
Our species had hit the big 7 billion the media announced; it was time to commence Operation: Deweaponise My Nads. Codename: Seedless. Project: Blank. Objective: De-Plum. Mission: Unleaded !!!
This is the story of my journey to slow the population explosion by having my bollocks taken off the grid. A gripping tale of transformation from Optimus Pomigranite to Bumblejaffa. A quest to defuse genitals and turn the tide by having “the snip”.
However you want to put it a vasectomy was the only way to protect our planet from my baby making love spuds. For too long they have threatened people numbers with a ‘semenly’ limitless ammo of man fat. This was the double dip the world needed.
Making the arrangements was easy and there were no end of local GP’s that could do it. I visited one and they told me in detail what was involved. However, all I heard was blah blah blah, no more babies. After four years of two babies and zero sleep this was all the incentive I needed. Being a bloke I naturally went into this the only way we know how, with eyes wide shut. I booked a date and began the countdown. At Day minus 20 all I could think was: ppff, I’ve got ages yet. At Day minus 7 this had been upgraded to the more serious: ooh, me thingy is next week, I should probably read the leaflet or something.
On the bloke scale of panic there is very little time between DEFCON 5 and DEFCON 1. From vague concern to headless chicken can sometimes be just nanoseconds. It was this realisation that made me read the leaflet at Day minus 1. My conclusion: yeh I’ll be fine. I’ve found that it’s very easy not to be worried when your head is in clouds of blissful ignorance and a fog of naivety.
Day zero : cometh the hour, cometh the man #phrasefail. In total denial of what was about to happen, my only nerves came from my lack of nerves. Fortunately me, and the Victoria Cross worthy ‘Dr M’ hit it off like two Canal Street regulars on a bender. It was important that we did, after all future lives were in his hands.
Considering this was about to be the gayest experience of my life, Dr M was awesome. He’d probably fondled more scrotums than the local bishop but he did it at F1 speeds and with the touch of a Russian grand master. Seriously, the guy was a pro. He had a blade in one hand, a soldering iron in the other and only the slightest glimpse of sadistic pleasure in his eyes. If ever I need my undercarriage tinkering with in the future I’ll know exactly who to call.
While he desparkled my crown jewels we chewed the fat about golf and mountain biking. He explained that there would be no riding for me for at least the next two weeks, and no biking either, fnar fnar. It was only a minor ballache to add to the major one I should expect after the op. While I lay there I enquired about installing Sky Sports on the ceiling but it fell on deaf ears. I explained to the nurse that a 19 inch flat screen would fit perfectly between the two strip lights but it wasn’t to be. Sorry future egg-bashers, I tried I really did, but you’ll just have to lie there starring into a world of poorly lit magnolia like I did. The previously mentioned soldering iron was actually for electrically cauterizing the offending tubes. The only off putting bit was the burning smell, it was me, it was my bollocks, they were on electric fire! Life doesn’t get any more awesome when you realise a stranger is tickling your plums with a scaled down light sabre.
All in all, apart from briefly having electro-balls it was a bit of an anti-climax #phrasefail. The whole thing from lying down to standing up took fewer than twenty minutes and was on a par with going to the dentist. The sterile environment is the same, the same anaesthetic is used, the proceeding pain is roughly the same, they both want you to jizz in to a test tube 16 weeks later etc etc. The only difference seemed to be which end they were working on.
After my bollockoptomy I found my wife waiting in reception. She was more worried than I was and was a total hero for ferrying me home during her lunch hour. She’d even prepared a ‘carepack’ for me which consisted of some mountain bike mags, some booze, some ibuprofen and a shed load of chocolate. She was awesome and in total agreement about how this procedure was way worse than child birth. I’m basing our conversation on the age old adage that when she says no she actually means yes. She REALLY meant it.
Back at home I made comfy on the sofa, but not as comfy as my now useless onions which nestled in the finest Endura chamois panelled cycling shorts. There they would lay locked down and motionless for at least the next day. If you’re squeamish I would advise not looking down for quite a few days as you might be surprised to find what looks like two rottweiler puppies chewing on a cocktail sausage. Apart from the initial change of vista in the trouser department the recovery time is quite quick. Sure, for a few days you’ll walk like you’re in Planet of the Apes but this is nothing when you consider the reward. I had done the world a massive favour by guaranteeing not to add to it anymore. There was also a second prise of equal awesomeness, the very real fact that with the current batch of kiddies growing up and with no more sprogs in the tubes, I could at last attain the parent holy grail.
SLEEP.
This is the story of my journey to slow the population explosion by having my bollocks taken off the grid. A gripping tale of transformation from Optimus Pomigranite to Bumblejaffa. A quest to defuse genitals and turn the tide by having “the snip”.
However you want to put it a vasectomy was the only way to protect our planet from my baby making love spuds. For too long they have threatened people numbers with a ‘semenly’ limitless ammo of man fat. This was the double dip the world needed.
Making the arrangements was easy and there were no end of local GP’s that could do it. I visited one and they told me in detail what was involved. However, all I heard was blah blah blah, no more babies. After four years of two babies and zero sleep this was all the incentive I needed. Being a bloke I naturally went into this the only way we know how, with eyes wide shut. I booked a date and began the countdown. At Day minus 20 all I could think was: ppff, I’ve got ages yet. At Day minus 7 this had been upgraded to the more serious: ooh, me thingy is next week, I should probably read the leaflet or something.
On the bloke scale of panic there is very little time between DEFCON 5 and DEFCON 1. From vague concern to headless chicken can sometimes be just nanoseconds. It was this realisation that made me read the leaflet at Day minus 1. My conclusion: yeh I’ll be fine. I’ve found that it’s very easy not to be worried when your head is in clouds of blissful ignorance and a fog of naivety.
Day zero : cometh the hour, cometh the man #phrasefail. In total denial of what was about to happen, my only nerves came from my lack of nerves. Fortunately me, and the Victoria Cross worthy ‘Dr M’ hit it off like two Canal Street regulars on a bender. It was important that we did, after all future lives were in his hands.
Considering this was about to be the gayest experience of my life, Dr M was awesome. He’d probably fondled more scrotums than the local bishop but he did it at F1 speeds and with the touch of a Russian grand master. Seriously, the guy was a pro. He had a blade in one hand, a soldering iron in the other and only the slightest glimpse of sadistic pleasure in his eyes. If ever I need my undercarriage tinkering with in the future I’ll know exactly who to call.
While he desparkled my crown jewels we chewed the fat about golf and mountain biking. He explained that there would be no riding for me for at least the next two weeks, and no biking either, fnar fnar. It was only a minor ballache to add to the major one I should expect after the op. While I lay there I enquired about installing Sky Sports on the ceiling but it fell on deaf ears. I explained to the nurse that a 19 inch flat screen would fit perfectly between the two strip lights but it wasn’t to be. Sorry future egg-bashers, I tried I really did, but you’ll just have to lie there starring into a world of poorly lit magnolia like I did. The previously mentioned soldering iron was actually for electrically cauterizing the offending tubes. The only off putting bit was the burning smell, it was me, it was my bollocks, they were on electric fire! Life doesn’t get any more awesome when you realise a stranger is tickling your plums with a scaled down light sabre.
All in all, apart from briefly having electro-balls it was a bit of an anti-climax #phrasefail. The whole thing from lying down to standing up took fewer than twenty minutes and was on a par with going to the dentist. The sterile environment is the same, the same anaesthetic is used, the proceeding pain is roughly the same, they both want you to jizz in to a test tube 16 weeks later etc etc. The only difference seemed to be which end they were working on.
After my bollockoptomy I found my wife waiting in reception. She was more worried than I was and was a total hero for ferrying me home during her lunch hour. She’d even prepared a ‘carepack’ for me which consisted of some mountain bike mags, some booze, some ibuprofen and a shed load of chocolate. She was awesome and in total agreement about how this procedure was way worse than child birth. I’m basing our conversation on the age old adage that when she says no she actually means yes. She REALLY meant it.
Back at home I made comfy on the sofa, but not as comfy as my now useless onions which nestled in the finest Endura chamois panelled cycling shorts. There they would lay locked down and motionless for at least the next day. If you’re squeamish I would advise not looking down for quite a few days as you might be surprised to find what looks like two rottweiler puppies chewing on a cocktail sausage. Apart from the initial change of vista in the trouser department the recovery time is quite quick. Sure, for a few days you’ll walk like you’re in Planet of the Apes but this is nothing when you consider the reward. I had done the world a massive favour by guaranteeing not to add to it anymore. There was also a second prise of equal awesomeness, the very real fact that with the current batch of kiddies growing up and with no more sprogs in the tubes, I could at last attain the parent holy grail.
SLEEP.
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