I looked out the window...

Image via WikipediaThere was a figure coming down the path, towards my front door. A familiar figure, hidden under a giant sombrero and poncho, cutting a zig-zag path to my house. Stumbling to the door, Max reached out and feebly tried to claw the door-handle.

 I opened the door and looked at him in silence.

 "Señorita !" He yelled, "It is I! El Drunko, the Mexican drunk!"

 I continued to look on impassively. After a few moments, a group of banditos arrived and started to shoot at Max. I went back into the house and boiled the kettle. I was thirsty, and wanted some tea.

I'd like, if you'll allow me, to tell a tale about Stirling recycling.

Yes, that's the thing. Except there's no
trolley in this picture. Imagine one.

As I lay down to slumber last night, I was disturbed by one of those noises you've probably read about in the papers. You know, the kind that comes from outside, and probably spells out certain death for you and your loved ones. Anyhow, rising from my bed, I peered out of my window to see if it was a gang of vicious youths or bloodthirsty pensioners, or similar bollocks. Outside, and across the road, a drunken man had found his purpose in life.

          I interrupt the flow of the narrative to explain some incidental details to you, dear reader, that may help set the scene for this little docudrama. Across the road from me is a little recycling point thing. You know the sort of thing? There’re a few bins for different colours of glass, and a big sinister box you can stuff clothes into, and a place for newspapers and so on. You know, the sort of place that quickly gets surrounded by rubbish, and then one day there's a dead hooker dismembered and spread around the place. Probably in the wrong recycling bins? You know the sort of place.

Now, I return you to the tale. The drunk seemed pretty determined to make sure the place was tidied up. Damn hippy. As I mentioned, it was the sort of place that gets messy quickly – one day, the cardboard box is full so someone leaves some empty pizza boxes in the corner, then a pile begins, and soon there’s a mountain of rubbish ruled by rats wearing tiny suits who charge you for safe passage. Now this man, probably offended by the large rates of usury charged by the rats, had set about cleaning the recycling point.

“fuckin’ paper!” I’d hear him yell.

“Get in there! Ya... Rrrh! Bottles!” He would cry triumphantly as he filed items in the right recepticles.

“Come on! Bloody... bloody, boardcar!” He muttered as he cleared the blood-soaked cardboard from around the bins.

I watched him for a while and then, gripped by civil duty, I went to bed.

When I got up this morning, I noticed there's an entire shopping trolley full of recycling dumped in front of the recycling bins. Since it's a mile to the nearest supermarket, and said supermarket has recycling facilities, I'm baffled but impressed by the dedication shown towards recycling by this fine city.


Well, no I'm not. But that's besides the point.

In soviet Russia, doorbell ring you. But here, I ring doorbell. This is a terrible title, and now look how it drags on. Learn from my failures, children! NEVER FORGET!

I reviewed reviews of Unforgiven recently. Maybe that's why its in my head...Image via Wikipedia

I rang the doorbell.

Nobody answered, and I considered going home. But then, my training kicked in. Reaching out tentatively, I caressed the button again, sending sensual chimes throughout the house.  This time, I was answered.

A man, dressed head to toe in sheepskin, opened the door and looked at me.

“Can I help you?” I asked, continuing the tentativeness that had dominated earlier affairs.

“No.” He replied. “anyway, you rang my doorbell. I should be helping you.”

“Ok.” I replied, less tentative now, “In that case, can you give me a hand killing someone? There’s a thousand dollars in it...”

He looked thoughtful for a moment, then cocking his head to one side, he asked:

“Who are they?”

“Two cowboys.” I answered. “They cut a prostitute up pretty bad.”

"Wait... Is this just the plot to Unforgiven?” he asked.

I turned tail and fled. My tentativeness had gotten the better of me.
 I wonder why he was wearing so much sheep...

This story contains aliens and my genitalia...

I want to believe... Image by technokitten via FlickrI looked down at my penis, trying to mind my own business.

 Yes, I'm using that as my opening line. 

 The man, thankfully, didn't seem to be focusing on the aforementioned penis, but he did keep looking up at me. slowly, he began to sidle towards me, hopping from urinal to urinal until he was in my personal space. I was nervous now, unable to finish and regretting using the train station bathroom.

 "Psst!" He whispered loudly, "I'm an alien!"

 I wasn't particularly worried. I mean, this wasn't the first time this had happened to me.

 "Ok" I replied, non-committally.

 "Want to make first contact?" He asked, gesturing to a cubicle with his thumb.

 "No. Thank you for the offer," I replied, "but I have to attend a conference of salesmanship."

 "Well, no worries." He replied cheerfully, doing up his fly and wandering off.

 I finished up and washed my hands. Curiously, I wandered over to the stall and looked inside. A team of small green men in silver jumpsuits looked back at me, then continued to scan the toilet with alien devices. After a few minutes, they huddled together to discuss something in private, throwing me furtive glances and whispering. Eventually, one of the group was pushed forward and spoke reluctantly:

 "Are you here to fix the printer?"

 "No." I replied. I considered lying, but I don't really know the first thing about printer repair.

 "Oh, ok then. Goodbye!" he replied. With that, they shut the toilet cubicle door in my face.

 I thought about catching up with the peeing alien and changing the future of mankind, but he hadn't washed his hands before leaving the bathroom. Instead, I went home via the canal. It was a pleasant walk, with the sun shining down, and I saw a duck.

The dog was a blur in the distance, zig-zagging horizontally and vertically, up then down across the landscape.

 "See Spot!" Max exclaimed excitedly.

 I nodded. I didn't know if Max was asking me if I saw spot or telling me that I saw, so I just nodded. You can tell by the lack of question mark that it was a statement, but I had no such luxury. You grammar Nazis.

 "See Spot Run!" Max continued.

 I nodded again. I could see Spot run.

 "Run Spot, Run!" Max yelled happily.

 I squinted into the distance. Something wasn't right here.

 "You sure that's Spot? He looks older, and more... Yellow..."

 "Nah, it must be." Besides," Max replied, "He looks more... Yeller..."

 "And he's kinda frothing... at the mouth."

"Ah, yes." Max replied. "Yea, that's not good, is it?"

"No," I replied as we looked on in horror. The re-animated, frenzied corpse of Old Yeller bore down on us, picking up speed with every passing second.

 See Max.
 See Max Run.
 For Fuck's Sake Max, Run Faster.

A boring ditty

Small clouds swirled around the top of the coffee. Not real clouds, of course, but small steamy collections of fluffy milk. Real clouds would ruin coffee, you fool. Actually, the milk was too steamy, burning my tongue as I rose the beveridge to my quivering lips.

 Opposite me, at another table, a man drank a similar beveridge. Could have been tea, maybe not. He was tall, majestic, probably Aztec. I hoped he wasn't Cinteotl, the god of Maize. I'd done some bad things to maize over the years, and I doubt he'd take to kindly to them.


 I watched the man for a while, out of the corner of my eye, but he didn't appear to be a maize-concerned deity. After a while, I got up and went home. You probably feel I've waisted your time here. You'd be right, so go outside and play in the sunshine children.

Cats. Dressed as hotdogs

Ok, so don't worry, this isn't going to turn into one of those blogs where I just post videos of cats. But this video may just be the maddest thing I've ever seen, and I've seen a grown man riding another man, whipping him and yelling, "To the seal plantation!" Admittedly, I was that man, but that's irrelevant, because this is a video of a cat, dressed as a hotdog, eating a hotdog.

Dinosaur Porn

I shouldn't be allowed on Wikipedia...

Nothing like this happened. Image by The Library of Congress via FlickrThe sea lapped gently at the sides of the boat. Not very exciting, I know, but such is life. For the last week, Max and I had survived in the maw of the beast, eating tinned tuna. Don't ask how.

 Yesterday, we felt a jolt around noon. Well, it was probably noon. I don't know, our watches were broken, and there's little sun in the belly of a whale. So, actually, it probably wasn't noon. But I'm narrating this verbal abortion, so I'm going to say that's when it was. Anyhow...

 The jolt awakened us from our slumber, sending us leaping up from our whale-tongue duvets. This was unusual, the great leviathan usually swam peacefully unless attending its Yoga class. Unleashing a great cry, the beast threw open the mouth that had housed us this past week, streaming in sunlight and sea air. We had surfaced, the beast encircled by great craft - a whaling party. A showdown so epic, so spectacular, so stunning occurred. So I won't bore you with the details.

 Suffice to say, Max and I are now on a Japanese whaling craft. The crew have been very kind, giving us warm tea and a safe trip to Dover. I mean, that's what we think is happening. We don't speak Japanese, so maybe we're just going to be eaten. Who knows?