Life is pretty normal today...

OK, you've all been on My Life Is Average, haven't you? You know, that site where people post things about how there day was average? Average things being, of course, exciting in modern, high-speed life... Well, I'm angry... These people's posts aren't, on average, average. To me, the idea of an average day would be "Today, I had beans on toast", or "Today, I worked 8 hours at a job I hate, and had a sandwich for lunch". See, that's not funny, it's bland and commonplace. It's not my average day, because that features more vodka and less work, but that doesn't matter. But instead of such blandities, they have stories such as, "Today, I remembered when I was kidnapped by a mad scientist. He replaced my inside organs with a machine that bred ferrets, and my left arm with a cannon that fired the ferrets at PTA members." (I'm lying, I made that up.) Anyway, the point is, a life about averages should, if accurate, only appeal to people with a number fetish: it should be boring, like life. The only interesting things in life that are commonplace are runaway pianos, and they usually kill a lot of people.
 Pianos are evil, I think that was the point I was trying to make...

Happy Valentines day...

And once again, I have been locked in my room. This time, however, I'm sadly missing a bucket of fish heads. Why, you ask? Well, discarding the benefits to humanity of locking me away in any situation, my flatmates are having a romantic meal in the living room. (That's Steve and Lizzie for anyone who knows us. Ben and Steve have yet to come out). It's cold in here, I can see my breath. Seriously, that's not one of my lies. I can't feel my toes. I don't want to freeze to death and ruin the day for anyone, so I'll do my best to stay warm. Perhaps I could use this as an incentive to do some exercise, or something. Or just justify masturbating. What if I freeze anyway? I don't want to be remembered as the guy who was found in his bedroom, frozen to death with one hand on his junk and the other lifting weights, on Valentine's day...

I have a recurring nightmare...

One day in the future, my son comes home from school. Apparently, another kid's been bullying him, and my son's confronted him. The kid, obviously not as tough as he appears, has promised my son his dad will fight my son's. Whom I believe to be me.
 Of course, I plan to meet the father and settle things amicably. However, after a phonecall, I realise the father is actually a jerk, and he comes round to fight me. Only then do I discover the kid is Jesus, and I have to fight God in my front yard.
 Also, we're dressed like turn-of-the-century boxers, and have large, handlebar moustaches...

Cowboys, they're a bunch of cowboys...

Well, it would certainly be a talking point, I thought to myself. Of course, a new radiator shouldn't be a talking point in a normal house, and I lacked the balls or artistic talent to pull off a radical interior decoration such as this. I shall explain: Last week, I noticed my radiator wasn't heating up of an evening. I tried various repair techniques - mainly poking it with cutlery - but, to no avail. Later that day, it began making strange clunking noises, and a strange, green liquid started to leak out. This liquid, obviously acid in nature, melted through my radiator in a matter of seconds, and took out a large section of floor as well. Now, not only was I cold, but the tramps locked in my basement were able to escape.
 So, early the next day, I phoned a firm of travelling radiator salesman and fitters, whom had come highly recommended by several friends, colleagues and the Duke of Northumberland. They arrived two days later, and surveyed the wall (newly repaired with duct tape), nodded wisely, and told me they had the right radiator in stock, and could fit it the next day. This seemed good, and I agreed - they would come round middayish, and fit the radiator.
 Midday arrived, and so did they, promptly and ready to work. Happily pleased, I popped out to the shop for a few minutes. I returned, 7 hours later, from one of my zany adventures, to find the workmen gone. Expecting some high-quality work, I entered my hallway.
 Well, the radiator works. It does the job it's name describes admirably - leaking gamma radiation all through my house. The mice have mutated to giant sizes, their swelled craniums barely holding in the expanded minds that grant them psychic powers. As for me, I'm fine. Unless you make me angry - you wouldn't like me if I got angry.
 I doubt you like me now...

It was getting dark, when it suddenly hit me...

that I didn't have a mouth. After 14 minutes of trying to spoon soup into the flat area of face under my nose, I looked in the mirror and felt that this sentence was long and badly written. I also thought, "I have no mouth".
 I apologise - Its early, and I'm feeling the effects of a bottle of vodka... Just get to the joke, get it over with...
Panicking, I ran from the house and drove to Max's. The door quickly yielded to my frantic knocking, as Max - resplendent in a Hawaiian shirt and shorts combo entirely unsuitable for the time of year - appeared. I noticed the flash of alarm when he obviously noticed my lack of mouth, but when he said nothing, I began to frantically point to my face.
 He looked at me, only just restraining laughter:
 "What's wrong?" Come on..." He chuckled, "Spit it out! Cat got your..." But now he was on his knees, in floods of laughter. I waited a few minutes, then hit him with a lamp.
If you're reading this, please send an ambulance to his house.

Is fire...

A viable alternative to cleaning my flat?
It wasn't a good substitute for exercise, I'll tell you...

There's a stall outside my house...

Early this morning, I noticed them setting it up - 4 or 5 gnomes, in little gnome suits and hats, with a truck. The stall looks like your typical American child's Lemonade stall: it's wooden, crudely made, and has a little sign nailed on top. It differs, however, in regard to its contents: while a lemonade stall sells lemonade, and homemade bacterial infections, this stall lacked lemons, products derived from lemons, or even yellow coloured water pretending to feature lemons. What there was, was a huge pile of jam. Well, jams to be more correct - lots of different flavours and colours of jams, piled up next to the stall.
 After lunch, I went out to see what was going on. The gnomes told me it was a pick'n'mix stall, and I could pick my own jams and fill a bag to take home. I explained that I liked jam that A)I knew the flavour of, and B)wasn't sold off a big pile outside. I also explained they were in my front garden. They took this badly, throwing handfuls of jam at me until I retreated into the house.
The joke's on them though - even now, a huge swarm of wasps is descending on their stall, ripping them limb from limb. Remember this, dear reader - Never cross me!

I'm being stalked every dusk...

"Who are you?"
It was getting late - not so late as to become dark, but perhaps dusk. Becoming dusk?... No, it was dusky? Well, whatever.
It was late afternoon, and the sun was beginning to go away. It was, in fact, dusk. But this isn't the interesting part of this story. In fact, the interesting part stood about 4 foot behind me. It had stayed constantly about 4 foot behind me for the best part of 10 minutes, despite my ducking and diving. It was a he, and he was a middle-aged man, going grey and balding on the top of the hair department, dressed in a tweed suit, like Sean Connery in The Untouchables. So, this brings us back to the beginning of this exciting tale (mundane fictional blog).
 "I'm your new sidekick." He replied. Despite the fact he was clearly stalking me, and fabricating a relationship between us, he didn't sound altogether creepy when he told me who he though he was. Actually, he had a pleasing, reassuring tone. He seemed trustworthy, and - as the word implies - I was inclined towards trusting him. However, it occurred to me suddenly that he wasn't my sidekick - Max was in jail for illegally exposure towards a minor (from a mine, don't worry. Although he was a dwarf - a fantasy one, mind you), and I hadn't seen that superhero kid who used to follow me since the Keene act. So, with some worries, I turned towards the gent, and spoke:
 "Really? I'm afraid I don't know you, good sir."
 "Yes," He continued, "I've been sent to be your new sidekick. I'm a real person, with real personal traits and problems, to make your blog more mature and realistic."
 "Uh huh..." I uh huhed, declining to ask whom had sent him, "And these problems are...?"
 "Well, I dislike blacks and gays." He stated matter-of-factly. And suddenly, things got awkward. You know, more awkward than a middle-aged man following you.
 "But," He went on, "I'm forced to address these aspects of my personality when my son comes out of the closet and enters a relationship with a black man."
"Right," I backed off, "Well, good luck with that... Tackling your prejudices I mean, not the bigotry."
I continued to back off, until I hit the road. Turning, I ran into the traffic, dodging in and out of cars, until I was home. I shut the curtains and curled into a ball under my bed. Frankly, I can't be doing with any more sidekicks. I'll just end up pregnant.

A fact

In 1931, Lili de Alvarez was the first woman to wear shorts at Wimbledon. Until 1931, female players wore boiler suits.

I took another look at the note...

It was small, I'll give it that. Inspection of it revealed small, untidy writing in general, punctuated by several larger, neater words of more than one syllable. Despite it's claim to be from local government, the letter had clearly been written by a group of mice - the demands for immediate payment of cheese taxation clearly supported this hypothesis, anyhow. Similarly, I'd seen a group of hungry looking mice hanging 'round the neighbourhood, shouting racist slogans at passers-bye and building igloos. Mice are truly fascinating creatures, I thought to myself, as I stored the letter in my letter rack. Fascinating, I thought again, as I returned to my paint fumes and hemp underwear.