Festive cheer

To remind people it is the festive season, and cheer them up now Christmas day has passed, I've mailed all of my friends little presents. I won't spoil the surprise for them, but let's just say they should be on the lookout for a frozen seagull with a stamp stuck to it!

I believe I do, in fact, have an alibi

The doctor turned away from me, consulting my chart with a look of grim concentration, or perhaps constipation. I can never tell which is which, and as a result, am no longer welcome in libraries.
 After a few seconds, he turned back towards me, shaking his head even more grimly.
 "I'm sorry sir, but these tests clearly show you're ugly."
Clearly, I was being set up for some sort of unfunny joke by some sort of teenager, writing about my ridiculous life. I was having none of it, and decided to react normally.
 "No, I'm not." I replied firmly.
 It's true. I mean, I'm certainly not the most attractive man out there, but I'm not grotesque. I can look alright in a certain light, and my mother always told me I was very handsome. Further still, the doctor was a rather fearsome gargoyle. He had a growth spurting from his nose that resembled, frankly, another nose, and the rolls of fat around his neck made it look like he was being swallowed by a sea of... rolls of neck fat. He was also wearing a hideous Christmas jumper under his white lab coat, which completed the look.
 "I'm sorry, there's only one solution." As he spoke, he reached into his pocket and withdrew an aged revolver.
 Ah, I though, here comes the joke. Something implying my face would look better if it was blown off with a handgun. Which it wouldn't, really.
 "I'm going to have to shoot..."
 "Me in the face." I interrupted. I was getting rather pissed off at this whole waste of time. After all, I have places to be. Exciting places. Warm places. Maybe I have to go to Tahiti, you never know.
 "No, of course not sir. That's medically ridiculous," He laughed. "We just need to kill everyone more attractive than you!"
 With that, he spun on his heel and shot the attractive nurse in the corner (her location in the scene) in the face (where she was shot). Laughing manically, he ran out of the room, and into the corridor. The sounds of gunfire and screaming filled the hallway.
 Sighing, I put on my jacket, and prepared to leave. As I did so, I wondered how I'd even got here. I didn't remember making an appointment, let alone leaving my home and travelling here.
Where do I go when no-one is reading me?

Eunuchs

I woke up this morning feeling that there weren't enough blogs about eunuchs in the world. Unfortunately, I couldn't think of anything to say on the subject.
 When I was younger, I used to confuse eunuchs and people called Enoch. There's a useless fact about me for your scrapbooks.
 You all keep scrapbooks about me, don'tcha?

Merry Christmas season

Merry two days after Christmas, everyone! And what a Christmas it's been. This post, of course, is for anyone who spend the season hidden in an internetless underground bunker, as is advisory during the festive season. Who, dear friends, could foresee the dangers and delights of this year's Xmas? Snow, sex and Santa, not to mention Hitler's ghost possessing the body of Simon Cowell and terrorising the population of East Anglia! Not for a long time has such community spirit been seen, as was when the troubled people rallied together to send the demonic beast back to hell.
 And get rid of Hitler while they were at it.

 And who could foresee Santa's surprise decision to retire? The nation is racked as it debates who best to take over the job. Early rumours suggest some unlikely candidates from the political arena - Troubled PM Gordon Brown looks likely to try and bolster his popularity with some festive gift-giving, while the Tories favour simply letting children buy their own presents - after all, if you need someone else to buy you something, you're not rich enough to be happy.

On a more serious Christmas note, I fear soon I shall be writing thank-you notes. I may be a grown man, but there's no arguing with my mother.
 So, to everyone out there: Thank you for my Christmas present. I am well, and hope you are too.
 Love Paul

Horseradished

I opened the curtains, and saw a sad horse. (I appear to have lost what little ability I had at writing.) He was very sad. He had big eyes...
 Anyhoo... I looked at the horse. He was a pitiful looking thing, standing in the snow-coated field beside my house. I matched his gaze, watching him for some time. After a few moments, I heard a snort from behind me. Startled, I turned and found another horse, with one hoof in my back pocket. Apparently, while I was distracted with my pitying, this horse had stolen my wallet, and was now stuffing a horseradish into my back pocket. There seemed little reason for this, and can only assume it had something to do with "horse" being in "horseradish". Frankly, the whole affair has left me shaken, confused and diabetic.
 I despair for the youth of today, I really do.

A touch of reality

Hi, its me. The real me, not that fictional me who gets up to all sorts of crazy high-jinx and the like. I'm shorter and more boring, although I occasionally start fires. I though, since this is a blog, I should trot out some mundane observations about whats going on around me and act as if they're profound. See, I did it there already - looked down on bloggers. What a hypocrite I am. I should be stoned for this. If I was, this would probably be a more exciting read, anyway. But I digress, as I am wont to.
 So, what's in the news this week?
There's been a lot of snow here in Scotland. I've had a foot or so at my house, which is more than usual. Pretty exciting, huh? The weather... Earlier, I watched a pheasant walk across an area we'd cleared, before slipping and face-planting a pile of snow. It was tragic, yet hilarious, like an old person slowly reversing into a midget: His cries of alarm not heard by the deaf octogenarian, his tiny, bobbled head not visible in the mirrors. (Don't worry, he's fine. In fact, they become friends after the incident. Unfortunately, they bond over their white supremacist theories, and the world would have been better off with one more dead midget and imprisoned grandfather)
 A foot of snow... Seems a lot to me. Down in England, they've got less and have ground to a standstill, I hear. Of course, the Scot is quick to seize on this. "Bah!" He shouts, "4 inches? That's nothing. This morning, it came up my ankles! Why, I'll have to snorkel the cat before he goes out to do his business!"
 Yes, we have it far worse than the mockable Englishman, and thus have a right to boast. Of course, there're countries in the world with far more snow, far more of the time, which cope much better, but they don't count. I remember a Canadian friend telling me how, in worse conditions, he nearly cut his arm off with a chainsaw, and was chased by a bear.
 But we have it worse.
 I should probably start a facebook group, they can sum up my emotions far better than I can.

Jaws 5

If you were to look across my flat, you would be presented with an interesting sight. Really, you would in any situation - I mean, you're probably noisy anyway, and to look 'across' a flat, you'd probably have to take a wall down, which is also interesting. But I digress, and with bad sentence structure...
 Anyway, you would notice that my flat was flooded, almost to the ceiling, with water (Could have been custard, don't get snippy). If you watched for a little longer (Again, sorry for the interruption. A little longer though? What does that mean: Longer from when? Relative to what?) you would be further interested to see me, soaking wet, emerge from the water and pull myself onto a ceiling fan. The water has been flowing into my flat since my last update, and it seems nothing can stop it - fire proved useless, electricity betrayed me, and throwing baby sharks at it was just stupid. My doors, before you ask, are air-locked - my fear of gases that turn you inside-out got the better of me - and open inwards, so they offer no escape. My windows, similarly airtight, I cannot open.
 For days I took refuge in the fridge, but without power, the eggs went off, and it smelled bad. Emerging, I found one shark had eaten the others, absorbing their powers through a Satanic ritual. Now, he's eyeing me up casually. Very casually, in fact. He's sitting on my sofa, underwater. Soon, he'll probably laminate a newspaper. There seems to be no escape. I always mocked those "how will you die" quizzes dotted around the Internet, but it seems they're dead on. And I scoffed when they said a Demonic shark would eat me in the living room. Learn from my mistake gentle reader! Forward chain mail, quick as you can! Tragedy could befall you all at any moment!

I can't sleep. Every night this week, its been the same. It's my new neighbours, you see.
 Well, when they first moved in, there were some complaints from the older members of the community. "We don't like their kind." They'd say. "Why don't they go back to where they came from? They're not suited to life here". Well, I had no problems, and welcomed them in with open arms. Of course, they were nice enough, and I naturally accepted their apology for any upcoming disturbances as they renovated their new flat.
 But now, every night, there's sawing. Endless, 8-armed sawing. And the water... It just keeps dripping through the ceiling and running down the walls. I don't know if I should complain - after all, they've already suffered enough pressure from people who don't think they belong here.
 I don't want to be racist, but it isn't easy living with a family of Octopus...

If Octopus turns out to be an uncommon racial slur, I'm very sorry...

Yes, I'm at another bus stop. I don't know where I'm going...

As I waited at the bus stop, I noticed a curious figure approaching. At first, I was drawn to the fact he was 7 foot tall and dressed in a long coat that suggested he would soon flash me. Then, my attention was drawn to the undersized bowler hat perched on his head. Only once I'd studied his tiny head-wear did I become aware of the fact he was, in fact, a giant cockroach.
 "Good morning" He said, "Could you perhaps tell me when the next bus to Ipswich arrives?"
 "Oh... Well, I'm afraid there isn't a direct bus to Ipswich. You'd have to go to the bus depot, I suppose, and get a bus from there. Or a train maybe."
He looked thoughtful for a moment, then replied:
 "Oh, I see. I'm sorry about this, but you know, I'm a giant cockroach. This morning, a mad scientist mutated me and gave me vocal cords. And this garish hat. So you must excuse me not understanding the intricacies of bus travel."
 "Of course. Why do you want to go to Ipswich anyway?"
 "I don't know." He replied, as sadness covered his face.
I couldn't think of a reply, so we stood looking at each other for a few seconds. Eventually, I got embarrassed. When he turned to look at the bus timetable, I squashed him with my shoe.
 It was kinder than letting him go to Ipswich.

Dreams

"I've got this recurring dream."
I looked around in shock. It was, as always, Max talking. He was still at mine - the police found his house, but they were waiting for the paperwork to clear - and had taken to waking me up annoyingly. He continued:
 "I'm at sea. Then, his huge thing comes out of the water - it's like a hairy octopus, but it has Chewbacca's head. What do'ya think it means?"
I checked the clock. It was half past three, and I had a meeting tomorrow. Admittedly, Max didn't know - it was with a large man called Gaz, who would, for a fee, throw Max out of my flat. If that failed, I'd scheduled a meeting with a hitman for next Tuesday.
 "Well, no matter." Max went on, "Its gone now."
As I pondered this idea, he returned to the sofa. I, however, cannot sleep. I'm plagued by images of Sci-Fi characters under the sea.
 They don't like it

They say curiosity killed the cat...

Well, I want to make a joke about this. It would feature Curious George, and maybe Garfield, Jerry or Catwoman. Unfortunately, I can't make anything out of this concept. I'm sorry to let you down.

Candide...

was systematically and repeatedly owned...

I took another look around the kitchen. There was no point denying it, it was a mess: The bin was overflowing, the sink was full, and my expensive marble work-surfaces had been replaced with what looked like a sheepskin rug. Max was staying.
 "So, any news about your house then?"
Max shook his head despondently. Last week, Max had returned from his annual week trip to the bus depot - where he impersonated a bus driver and stole as many packets of coffee granules from the staff kitchen as possible - to find his house had been stolen. He seemed pretty certain it was taken by a "goth and a homosexual woman". He had no evidence, and indeed, no reason to suspect anyone. However, he refused to listen to reason. Now, he was sitting in his (my) underwear, watching game-shows and shouting abuse.
 "So, want to do anything?" I asked.
 "No." He replied, anticlimactically.
Not everything in life is interesting.