Thursday, May 10, 2007

Poo poo, the train's coming...

Well, as part of my new quest to revive blogger (since they unlinked all the fucking members, the crazy arseholes) I've been using the only linked blog facility I know, London Bloggers. OK, it limits me to only locals, besides those clever clever wallies who think it's amusing to say they're in London while writing from the Phillipines as they once spent a week in Earls Court in 1989.
Anyway, one trip took me to Ealing Broadway where guess what, he was offering and requesting poo stories. As soon as the blog site emails me a password I'll add mine, just the best one, as no one wants to be reminded of 10 minutes in the back of a friend's car at about the age of 6 with the fullest pants it's possible to have in human terms. It was just too big to wait. Well now I've told you instead but it's the wiping circles on the wall story for him, the one that had the 6'4'' John Mitchell doubled up with laughter in the school corridor when told by mt friend Peter in about 1976. Those were the days. Except for the exams, not that I even minded them then. A bit of travel (as a private candidate I got sent all over London per O and A level) and competition, with the inevitable fail grades the following summer. What a foundation laid for my future.
OK, I resat the Os, having started a year early for fun, and passed next time, and just scraped 3 As rather than fail, followed by failing nearly every exam in my degree till I got a private tutor. All's well that ends well in exam land anyway. My biggest shock at 16 was discovering I'd stopped growing at the exact height all my friends were when they started. Despite a long string of girlfriends I believed for many years this would hold me back although the evidence all contradicted it. And of course I'm stuck at the size (and mind) of a 14 year old all my life now, and it is absolutely no advantage at all. Like having one leg. No silver lining wherever you look. We can't even go after midget girls either now as besides achondroplastic most are now fixed with growth hormone and half probably overtook me at about 13. I suppose if there were to be a silver lining I think unlike Steven, my neighbour with the personality of a snail (after being trodden on), who walked into a disco once and the girls literally queued to dance with, forced me to use my personality as guys like him pulled with no need for one. A mental Napoleon complex. Pushed my mind to its limits as because my body couldn't grow I had to use the only thing that could.

I still think I missed a few hundred extra women though but I only ever wanted one good one. Still waiting. Meanwhile, where it lets me, I'm commenting on blogs again hoping to revive this dying format, and if I add enough maybe someone will have a look in here. An 80% reduction of hits in a year is pretty drastic and luckily this isn't a business. Flickr is how this was a couple of years ago. Loads of comments and unlike blogger you can track your own comments for replies in a click, which is so fucking simple to do it makes you wonder if this whole site is created by a machine and has no actual human brain behind it. It can't log me in automatically despite checking the box and the post labels are of no use to anyone as I always write about the same few topics anyway. If we could search other blogs with it then it would work, but our own? What the hell use is that?

It's pissing with rain and I'm waiting to collect the car from its service. I had a couple of spare hours as a result and decided to listen to the radio programmes I record overnight. I was busy yesterday, took the car in, had a friend over and had computer problems which have now been bypassed rather than totally repaired. Then saw Chelsea and Man Utd shlep out a pointless 0-0 draw having decided the champion's position already. I've got all my jobs done work or not this week and the rest is a bonus. But good to see poo stories are alive and well. Going back to holidays as a teenager when sooner or later someone would tell a poo story and it would last all night as we remembered car journeys and school assemblies where noises and smells gave away the unavoidable evidence of an unplanned dump. Going behind sofas, in back gardens, finding soiled pants discarded in a room etc are universal except possibly in primitive socities where that is all they do anyway, like Saudi Arabia. I joke not, anyone spending time in Edgware Road around Paddington will know they go wherever they are, and squat indoors in any available corner. Or outdoors once they leave the hotel or Harrods. My friend lived there for a couple of years and besides take a photo or ask me along to look I trust his word for it. Better than their bombs I suppose but almost as unpleasant.
Yesterday they had a programme on TV for non P.C. humour, and basically concluded if you make one subject taboo then how do you pick which? All or nothing really, and jokes are far less harmful than direct insults. But Arabs crapping in hotel rooms sadly is not funny unless you see someone step in it.

I still don't know how many spastics it takes to screw in a lightbulb though. Probably because it's impossible...

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