So I ain't posted anything of any substance in a while. Truth is I can't be bothered. The three people who read this are more than capable of entertaining themselves. But in recent weeks peeps be given' me their money for damaged children and, at the very least, deserve something in return. Here that be.
Last weekend I did this run thing. So I, like, ran 13.1 miles in aid of, like, this children's hospice, like, no big deal. Some people have been throwing the word "hero" around, but you can make up your own minds.
Here is just some of the things what happened on the day I made the world shine for countless children 'cross the south of England. Seriously... Hero.
Before the race even started I was stood in line waiting to go pee when something made me angry. There was this man in the line behind me who was joined by his bitch and her spawn. I was so chilled at this point that I didn't even mind that they totally weren't allowed to be there, and that MY application money was paying for these damn toilets. Then the unthinkable happened. The child toddled up behind me and poked me in the leg. It.poked.me.in.the.LEG! If I was a horse, and in some ways I'm very similar, I would have been well within my rights to buck his little head in. People know better than to spook horses. Children should know better than to touch me. It's just not smart.
Then we were told, approximately 30 seconds before we started, that personal stereos were strictly forbidden and that I was condemned to spend the next two hours of my life listening to nothing but the sound of my own wheezing broken up by the noise of the woman I couldn't accelerate away from complaining endlessly to me about "all these damn hills! Why didn't they tell us about all these hills?" I'm sorry, miss. Were you expecting salt-flats as we ran through the Woodfod Valley. Woodford Valley! I'm surprise she managed to make it to the end with all that stupidity she was dragging around with her. It's ok though. She was kinda old and flagged at 10 miles, which led to me utterly annihilate her time.
I finished. Nothing much else to report with the race. Except that I didn't get a medal. When I was nine I completed a 3 mile fun-run and I got a fucking medal. All I have to show for running 13.1 miles was a Mars Bar, a pulled calf muscle and a flyer for a 10k race next week. You're welcome, assholes.
That evening I was supposed to get an early night. Instead I got hammered drunk, had to get my mother to pick me up from a place that sold fried chicken, and then I filled up her dashboard with food before telling her that she was going 12 fries an hour and for the love of God needed to slow down. I hadn't had a drink for the last fortnight while I was training, so I think I was due some nonsense.
Thanks to all those who sponsored me and that. After I'm done kicking St. Peter's head in, I can guarantee you all a place in heaven.
Wednesday, 12 October 2011
Saturday, 27 August 2011
Spooning
Today I made friends out of spoons. From left to right their names are Owen, Cledwyn and Owen. Cledwyn is cross because he is Welsh and a ginger. Owen doesn't like it when people confuse him with Owen, but Owen doesn't really mind when that happens.
Tomorrow I think I'll buy a guitar - because without a hobby to focus your mind you drink too much and end up making.friends.out.of.spoons!
Sunday, 21 August 2011
Jolly Blog 9 - Hungarian Barbarian
You may remember a few weeks ago I was whining like a child about having to share my place with some random Slovakian. I was upset because he might use my stuff, and he might take up all the space in the fridge, etc. He actually turned out to be an alright guy. He bought hand-soap for the bathroom, gave me a beer this one time, and he was bald so I could be fairly certain he wasn't using my shampoo. Well, the random Slovakian went back to Slovakia last week and some new guy has moved in. This one is Hungarian. I'm now sharing my flat with this living-cliche of a bad room-mate.
I'm told he's 34 years old, which I'm sure would be true if it was 1995. If he's a day younger than 50, then I'm a foetus. He also has a lazy-eye. Lazy-eyes that I've come across before have never bothered me, but this guy's one is something else (think 'Sloth' from The Goonies). I think it's the fact that he doesn't turn his head to speak to you, he just peers at you through the eye which points anywhichway but forwards. Within hours of his arrival he made more of a mess of the bathroom than I thought possible. I'm hardly a paradigm of clean-living, but the state this guy left the bathroom in actually made me heave. Then he did the unthinkable. It's one thing for me to be paranoid about people using my stuff; even if my paranoia is justified and they are using my stuff, if I never know about it I can't get properly annoyed by it. Ignorance is bliss. But this guy, not only used my hair-gel, but left the lid off and two grey finger gouges running through it. I then spent the next 5 hours at work glaring at his stolen hair-do. If you have to steal hair-gel, at least have the common decency to cover your tracks; if you do something wrong, do it right. He's already got the lazy eye to watch his own back. As per-usual, I won't confront the problem head on, I'll passive-aggressively convey my anger and let him know that I don't like him by behaving like a petulant child.
The ridiculous thing is, my hair is too long for hair gel. I don't use it, and haven't for more than six months. I would have just given it to him had he asked.
And I'm almost sure he used some of my bread.
He probably has herpes, too.
Dick!
In other news, I've finally set up the fundraising page for my half marathon: link here. I eventually decided to support "Naomi House: hospices for children and young adults". Personally, I would have gone with "Naomi House: helping terminally ill children stay at the brink of death for longer". Or, "keeping sick kids above ground since 1997." (I'm working on the assumption that raising money for the charity gives me a passport to make fun of them without retribution). You are under no obligation to give anything - just be aware that not donating will categorically make you a worse person than I. Yes, you will be a worse person than the guy whose nemesis has Down's Syndrome.
Have an average one, cretins.
From your unerring moral-compass,
Joe
I'm told he's 34 years old, which I'm sure would be true if it was 1995. If he's a day younger than 50, then I'm a foetus. He also has a lazy-eye. Lazy-eyes that I've come across before have never bothered me, but this guy's one is something else (think 'Sloth' from The Goonies). I think it's the fact that he doesn't turn his head to speak to you, he just peers at you through the eye which points anywhichway but forwards. Within hours of his arrival he made more of a mess of the bathroom than I thought possible. I'm hardly a paradigm of clean-living, but the state this guy left the bathroom in actually made me heave. Then he did the unthinkable. It's one thing for me to be paranoid about people using my stuff; even if my paranoia is justified and they are using my stuff, if I never know about it I can't get properly annoyed by it. Ignorance is bliss. But this guy, not only used my hair-gel, but left the lid off and two grey finger gouges running through it. I then spent the next 5 hours at work glaring at his stolen hair-do. If you have to steal hair-gel, at least have the common decency to cover your tracks; if you do something wrong, do it right. He's already got the lazy eye to watch his own back. As per-usual, I won't confront the problem head on, I'll passive-aggressively convey my anger and let him know that I don't like him by behaving like a petulant child.
The ridiculous thing is, my hair is too long for hair gel. I don't use it, and haven't for more than six months. I would have just given it to him had he asked.
And I'm almost sure he used some of my bread.
He probably has herpes, too.
Dick!
In other news, I've finally set up the fundraising page for my half marathon: link here. I eventually decided to support "Naomi House: hospices for children and young adults". Personally, I would have gone with "Naomi House: helping terminally ill children stay at the brink of death for longer". Or, "keeping sick kids above ground since 1997." (I'm working on the assumption that raising money for the charity gives me a passport to make fun of them without retribution). You are under no obligation to give anything - just be aware that not donating will categorically make you a worse person than I. Yes, you will be a worse person than the guy whose nemesis has Down's Syndrome.
Have an average one, cretins.
From your unerring moral-compass,
Joe
Sunday, 31 July 2011
Jolly Blog 8 - Cyclops for a day
If you don't already know that I'm allergic to wasp stings, then you haven't been paying enough attention to me. If you could pull your thumb out of your ass for three minutes and martial your powers of concentration long enough to read this to the end, I will elaborate on this condition and the recent events surrounding it.
It was Friday night last week, and I'd finished watching my rental copy of Cruising, starring Al Pacino (which, by the way, no one told me was a totally gay film for gays about gays!) and had fallen asleep. My window was shut (due to the wasp nest outside my room). I had also finished taping up the hole in my fireplace because the wasps were coming down the chimney like little black and yellow santas, carrying sacks full of venom to make me die. Somehow the little bastards are still getting into my room but with less frequency now that I've taken preventative measures.
4:35am and I roll over onto a wasp which stings my arm. Angry. I pull the sting out of my arm and punch the offender against the wall, which by now is starting to look like a waspy Jackson Pollock. I don't have any epinephrin, only over-the-counter stuff. One specific antihistamine doesn't work for me and instead of writing down which one it was I decided to remember it. I didn't. So I just knock back four different tablets and go back to sleep. Fifteen minutes later and I'm woken up again after a wasp lands on my face and stings me on the eye. On the eye! I jumped up, turned the light on, grabbed the nearest object and flip-flopped the mother-fucker out of existence. By now, I've already taken an unhealthy dose of antihistamine; other than go back to sleep there's nothing else I can do. I did swear and shout quite a lot, but it ended up not being as productive as it felt.
9:00am and I get up for work. The arm is fine. A bit itchy but nothing I can't live with. My eye on the other hand has completely closed up and is weeping from one side (from rage, I presume). I go to work anyway, like an actual hero. Seriously, my mettle is phenomenal. Apparently, working in a kitchen is more than a little dangerous once you've lost binocular vision. Perspective and depth perception, turns out, is rather reliant on two eyes. I managed to burn every single knuckle on my right hand. Not at once, but on four separate occasions over two hours. Ok, so the fourth time I was angry about the previous three burns and I threw something into a fryer and the oil splashed my remaining knuckle. I take no responsibility - it was the Universe's fault.
Four burnt knuckles
Two wasp stings
One eye
That Saturday I have never been more livid in my life, but with nothing to focus my anger at. It's series of events like this which cause people to go mad and do genocides and that. I bet Mao was lactose intolerant and got locked in a cheese factory as a child.
It was Friday night last week, and I'd finished watching my rental copy of Cruising, starring Al Pacino (which, by the way, no one told me was a totally gay film for gays about gays!) and had fallen asleep. My window was shut (due to the wasp nest outside my room). I had also finished taping up the hole in my fireplace because the wasps were coming down the chimney like little black and yellow santas, carrying sacks full of venom to make me die. Somehow the little bastards are still getting into my room but with less frequency now that I've taken preventative measures.
4:35am and I roll over onto a wasp which stings my arm. Angry. I pull the sting out of my arm and punch the offender against the wall, which by now is starting to look like a waspy Jackson Pollock. I don't have any epinephrin, only over-the-counter stuff. One specific antihistamine doesn't work for me and instead of writing down which one it was I decided to remember it. I didn't. So I just knock back four different tablets and go back to sleep. Fifteen minutes later and I'm woken up again after a wasp lands on my face and stings me on the eye. On the eye! I jumped up, turned the light on, grabbed the nearest object and flip-flopped the mother-fucker out of existence. By now, I've already taken an unhealthy dose of antihistamine; other than go back to sleep there's nothing else I can do. I did swear and shout quite a lot, but it ended up not being as productive as it felt.
9:00am and I get up for work. The arm is fine. A bit itchy but nothing I can't live with. My eye on the other hand has completely closed up and is weeping from one side (from rage, I presume). I go to work anyway, like an actual hero. Seriously, my mettle is phenomenal. Apparently, working in a kitchen is more than a little dangerous once you've lost binocular vision. Perspective and depth perception, turns out, is rather reliant on two eyes. I managed to burn every single knuckle on my right hand. Not at once, but on four separate occasions over two hours. Ok, so the fourth time I was angry about the previous three burns and I threw something into a fryer and the oil splashed my remaining knuckle. I take no responsibility - it was the Universe's fault.
Four burnt knuckles
Two wasp stings
One eye
That Saturday I have never been more livid in my life, but with nothing to focus my anger at. It's series of events like this which cause people to go mad and do genocides and that. I bet Mao was lactose intolerant and got locked in a cheese factory as a child.
Saturday, 30 July 2011
If I ruled the world...
I sit here after the day-at-work-from-hell, having just opened my fifth beer, rocking arrhythmically back and forth to Taylor Swift, wondering exactly how am I going to trick her into marrying me. My attention turns to Facebook; it's been approximately 45 seconds since I last checked and any number of updates may have occurred. Perhaps Amy Winehouse has died again. Alas, no. That most erudite and obnoxiously well-informed chum, Scott, has - for the tenth time today - posted something which makes me feel ashamed for spending my free time trawling through youtube, eating pistachios and poking my lizard (which both is and is not a euphemism!). This particular article pertains to writing an essay about what one would do if one ruled the world. I write stuff. I have a messiah complex and the megalomaniacal mind of a tyrant. Get involved, Joseph. Get.Involved.
Here is that essay… If I ruled the world.
With a blank slate, there are almost endless possibilities for running the world. I spent most of my degree studying Political Philosophy and as a result feel better informed than most (i.e. you!) on this subject. Gather 'round, dear peasants. Forget what you know and let my words wash over you.
With regards to structure, I happen to side with Aristotle: Oligarchy, or rule by elites. Democracy, to my mind, is a phenomenal nonsense. People, or demos, have precisely zero qualifications or credentials to rule themselves. Power to the people is, euphemistically, simply tyranny of the majority. Has the greatest literature on this subject (right or wrong) been written by intellectuals and academics, or by plebeians who scratch out their thoughts on napkins while they're on a break from building monoliths for their betters?
Obviously, I see myself as part of this elite, and obviouslyer I'm at the top of this hierarchy (I do rule the world, after all). However, having the last word, isn't the same as having the only word. For example, I have very little interest, and even less knowledge of economics. It's people like me, who have no idea what they're doing, who make stuff like hyper-inflation happen. There is no rational or reasonable argument why I should be have any dealings in finance. I wouldn't feel comfortable making those kind of decisions, and for the same reason, the general population have no business in deciding how a society is run. On an individual basis, of course people know how they want to live their lives. But humans are, by nature, selfish. They know what's best for themselves, not what's best for all.
Now that's all fairly boring. What we're looking for from this kind of text is some harsh and scathing opinions (as if the above was naught but fact). I'm well into liberty, and freedom of thought, expression, speech, association and all that gumpf. That's pretty much a given. There are a few things I would be stricter on, though.
Population control. This would be a big issue under my regime (based on the assumption that the world's makeup is by-and-large the same as the current one). Hitler had the right idea with his eugenics program but fucked up the execution (pun unintended). Instead of forcing people with the "right" characteristics to have children, he should have prevented people with the "wrong" characteristics from reproducing. Under my reign, anyone and everyone is allowed to reproduce so long as they can fulfil the following requirements:
They can afford to raise it
They keep it out of sight and out of my way
No gingers.
No diseases which can be transferred in utero (AIDS, for example)
The child can be conceived naturally - essentially to stop the elderly and lame from conceiving
Two parent house holds only (male/female)
This last stipulation is going to get me in trouble, I feel. Gay-rights is essentially my generation's civil-rights movement. I see no fault or problem with any and all gay issues… with the exception of one: gay adoption. Put short, I don't think it is fair to subject children to what is, essentially, a social experiment. The paradigm of the ideal family, is man - woman - child. I'm not speaking religiously or ethically, I'm speaking anthropologically. In an ideal world (read *my ideal world*), only people with the ability to successfully raise and support children would be allowed to have them. Gay parents, for me, essentially fall under the same umbrella as single parents. The only difference between these categories is that gay parenting can be legislated against, single parenting can't. As a child of a single parent family I don't consider myself damaged or hard-done-by for only having one parent. My mum is awesome and I know most gay parents would be too. But given the choice, my dad wouldn't be some sociopathic, adulterous moron, and I would have had someone to watch sport with. Therefore, having given me the option, I choose to only allow parents who fall under the ideal paradigm the right the bear offspring.
(Additional: corporal punishment within parenting would not only be allowed, but encouraged. Do you think a child is going to talk back to you again, if it's pushed down the stairs after the first offence? No.)
There would be universal healthcare, for reasons which John Rawls would be in agreement with. If you got hit by a bus, you would want to know that you could receive medical care regardless of your financial status. "No, no. He's only got car, van and truck collision insurance. Just leave him there to die." HOWEVER. There would be an enormous tax levy against things like fast food, cigarettes, drugs (more on this in a moment) and alcohol - destroy your body as much as you want to, but you can pick up the medical bill as you do so.
All drugs would be legalised and therefore brought under state regulation. The immediately dangerous ones (LSD, heroin etc.) would fall under the same tax bracket as cigarettes and fast food. Marijuana, cocaine, etc, less so, but subject to laws similar to those which regulate alcohol at the moment. Take it as much as you like, but if your use of it negatively impacts someone else (i.e. drug-driving and knocking someone down) you can expect a heavy prison sentence. This may sound irresponsible, and there is of course no way to prove or disprove the success of this initiative. Alcohol is pretty much the basis for this line of reasoning. It's intoxicating. It's bad for your health (long term). It's addictive. Yet, the vast majority of us are able to enjoy it without becoming mad, toothless, old alcoholics. Why wouldn't the same be true of other drugs? (I am hardly the poster-boy for responsible alcohol consumption, but I think my point stands for itself)
As a personal gripe, spelling, punctuation, grammar, syntax, and all the other linguistic foibles which seem so irrelevant to most people, would fall under strict legislation. In the same way that companies can currently be fined for using misleading advertisements, they would also be fined every time they displayed the word "DVD's". (If you don't know why that's wrong, stop reading now. Go away. Go away and hang yourself). Similarly, once people reach the age of adulthood (say, 18) they'd become culpable for the language they use. It would fall under antisocial behaviour laws, I think. Kick in a shop window: fine. Thump an old woman: jail. Pronounce the t in "often": pummelled to death with dictionaries. For example, I'm sure I've misused a few commas or misspelled some words somewhere in this (you point them out to me and I'll stab you with a quill) but, if I was fined for every one of them, I'd learn not to do it again pretty quickly.
There would be fines for driving too slowly as well as for speeding. Old people would have to retake their test at 50, and then again every 5 years. If they don't pass the rigorous examination, their licence is torn up and their car impounded. Speed limits in and around residential areas would be relaxed, and punishments for drivers who hit children outside schools would have immunity. A child has no one to blame but themselves or their parents if they step out in front of a car. If a child doesn't already know that a car will kill you should you step in front of one, then the driver has done the world a favour by removing such stupidity from the gene pool - buy that man a pint… then send him out on the school run!
Now for international affairs (although "international" may be a misnomer considering the only state which now exits is Joetopia). Global issues would be administrated from my ivory tower at the centre of Joetropolis, the capital of Joetopia. The system of trade would be capitalism. In an ideal world, I would go for communism, but this isn't about an ideal world, it's about my world. I've essentially been put in charge of almost 7 billion idiots. People are competitive by nature - it's what spurs evolution - and competition in trade is a logical extension. Like it or not, but for the most part capitalism is self sustaining, self regulating and it works.
Taylor Swift would be my second in command, and "Our Song" would be the global anthem. My cabinet would consist of the following people:
Steven Fry (Education secretary: Hugh Laurie as an independent contractor)
Those blokes that wrote Freakonomics (Finance ministers)
Russell Brand (Media and the arts minister)
Sarah Silverman (diplomatic relations)
Some no-nonsense type matron (Healthcare)
I've been writing this for a while now and have already exceeded my 750 word limit by more than double; if I don't stop soon I fear never will. But I think you get the gist by now.
Any and all criticism will be read, assimilated and ignored.
Thursday, 7 July 2011
Jolly Blog 7 - The Mac Daddy's Back
Hello all,
After taking an extended leave of absence from both Facebook and The Jolly Box, circumstances beyond my control dictate that I rejoin the online community. It does, however, beg the questions why and where? For those of you looking for a reason, I am prepared to give you one. Well, these things happened that are totally none of your business, then I deactivated my Facebook and Blog. How was that?
In any case, recent events have led to me wanting to write them down.
So last week I went to another pub to help out in their kitchen. Long story short; most of their chefs quit at the same time and now they're fucked. It was actually obnoxiously quiet, and when I wasn't arguing with the chubby imbecile from Romania who was running the kitchen I was stood around doing nothing. I was only there for two days and one night, but it was on that night that I met Callum.
Callum was a forty-something local, who was described to me as "a paranoid, schizophrenic, manic-depressive." I thought the staff were just taking this piss out of some nutty regular, but no. They were being quite literal. Callum was, in fact, the single most insane person I've ever come into contact with.
He came up behind me while I was talking about some South Africans I knew, decided, for some reason, that I was a South African Soldier and started quizzing me about the readiness of the South African Military.
Once he was done with his questions about South Africa's ability to take on Nato, he told me a story. When reading the transcription below, imagine Callum as a 5' 6"ish, rotund chap, with thin greying hair and a slight northern accent (Yorkshire, I think). Every word he came out with was said with such staunch sincerity and a stern expression that it would have been unnerving if it wasn't so hysterical. It went a little something like this...
Callum: "So I was on this planet millions of light-years away from here, that was populated by these Witches, right? And me and my mates had this broom which we had to keep away from the Witches because they were going to use it to destroy something"
Me: "Who were your friends?"
C: "There was me, John and this other bloke. John wanted to use the broom to destroy the Universe, but I wouldn't let him."
Me: *Don't Laugh. Don't Laugh. Don't Laugh* "When did this happen?"
C: "Ooooh... more than eight hundred and fifty seven years ago. It was shortly before Ray Mears took over Canada."
That's the basic jist of the story - it actually carried on for more than fifteen minutes in great detail before he decided to tell me which version of the Bible was his favourite and the best way to drain someone of their blood. The manager then refused to serve him any more alcohol, he got angry and said he was going to get a gun and kill us all. Ten minutes later he strolled back in with (what I hope was) a plastic machine gun. I laughed so much it hurt.
In other news, I think I've finally decided which charity to support for my half marathon. I think I'm gonna go for Naomi House, which provides care for children and young people with terminal illnesses. As a general rule, I can't stand any and all children, so why would I want to support this charity? In my experience, terminally ill children are far less irritating than the healthy ones, so I've decided to do all I can to keep them that way. And it just so happens to be the charity that my company is supporting this year, and I may or may not get extra sponsorship because of it.
Also, my laptop of four years finally gave up the ghost on Sunday, which has left me feeling somewhat ambivalent. Annoyed: I had to use a credit card I finally finished paying off two weeks ago to buy something which four days ago I didn't need. Happy: I have finally joined that most noble lineage of smug pricks who use a Mac. "Oh, what's that? You're PC has crashed again? Vista? Oh dear, no. If you've got three seconds to wait for it to boot-up, I'll look up a solution for you on my MacBook Pro. You're so, totally welcome."
I'm not sure I can be bothered with all this social-networking crap. As much as I enjoy looking at photos of events I've not been invited to, I can't see me putting up with it for long. We shall see.
Later, a-holes.
Joe.
After taking an extended leave of absence from both Facebook and The Jolly Box, circumstances beyond my control dictate that I rejoin the online community. It does, however, beg the questions why and where? For those of you looking for a reason, I am prepared to give you one. Well, these things happened that are totally none of your business, then I deactivated my Facebook and Blog. How was that?
In any case, recent events have led to me wanting to write them down.
So last week I went to another pub to help out in their kitchen. Long story short; most of their chefs quit at the same time and now they're fucked. It was actually obnoxiously quiet, and when I wasn't arguing with the chubby imbecile from Romania who was running the kitchen I was stood around doing nothing. I was only there for two days and one night, but it was on that night that I met Callum.
Callum was a forty-something local, who was described to me as "a paranoid, schizophrenic, manic-depressive." I thought the staff were just taking this piss out of some nutty regular, but no. They were being quite literal. Callum was, in fact, the single most insane person I've ever come into contact with.
He came up behind me while I was talking about some South Africans I knew, decided, for some reason, that I was a South African Soldier and started quizzing me about the readiness of the South African Military.
Once he was done with his questions about South Africa's ability to take on Nato, he told me a story. When reading the transcription below, imagine Callum as a 5' 6"ish, rotund chap, with thin greying hair and a slight northern accent (Yorkshire, I think). Every word he came out with was said with such staunch sincerity and a stern expression that it would have been unnerving if it wasn't so hysterical. It went a little something like this...
Callum: "So I was on this planet millions of light-years away from here, that was populated by these Witches, right? And me and my mates had this broom which we had to keep away from the Witches because they were going to use it to destroy something"
Me: "Who were your friends?"
C: "There was me, John and this other bloke. John wanted to use the broom to destroy the Universe, but I wouldn't let him."
Me: *Don't Laugh. Don't Laugh. Don't Laugh* "When did this happen?"
C: "Ooooh... more than eight hundred and fifty seven years ago. It was shortly before Ray Mears took over Canada."
That's the basic jist of the story - it actually carried on for more than fifteen minutes in great detail before he decided to tell me which version of the Bible was his favourite and the best way to drain someone of their blood. The manager then refused to serve him any more alcohol, he got angry and said he was going to get a gun and kill us all. Ten minutes later he strolled back in with (what I hope was) a plastic machine gun. I laughed so much it hurt.
In other news, I think I've finally decided which charity to support for my half marathon. I think I'm gonna go for Naomi House, which provides care for children and young people with terminal illnesses. As a general rule, I can't stand any and all children, so why would I want to support this charity? In my experience, terminally ill children are far less irritating than the healthy ones, so I've decided to do all I can to keep them that way. And it just so happens to be the charity that my company is supporting this year, and I may or may not get extra sponsorship because of it.
Also, my laptop of four years finally gave up the ghost on Sunday, which has left me feeling somewhat ambivalent. Annoyed: I had to use a credit card I finally finished paying off two weeks ago to buy something which four days ago I didn't need. Happy: I have finally joined that most noble lineage of smug pricks who use a Mac. "Oh, what's that? You're PC has crashed again? Vista? Oh dear, no. If you've got three seconds to wait for it to boot-up, I'll look up a solution for you on my MacBook Pro. You're so, totally welcome."
I'm not sure I can be bothered with all this social-networking crap. As much as I enjoy looking at photos of events I've not been invited to, I can't see me putting up with it for long. We shall see.
Later, a-holes.
Joe.
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