THE FAILY BLOG AND THE DAILY SLOG

Recently, I set myself a challenge:

Spend 30 minutes writing a daily blog, and then post the typed words on this here page (which I aptly titled The Daily Blog). 

I started well; with all of the vigour and enthusiasm that one experiences, when undertaking something new and exciting, but alas . . . 

I failed. 

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THE NIGHTLY DILEMMA

ME:

I'm tired as hell. Time for an early night. I'm going to get under the covers, lie down in bed, and get comfortable. Just close your eyes. Allow yourself to be taken towards slumber. Relax . . . 

MY BRAIN:

HEY, SUP BRO? WHILE YOU'RE LYING COMFORTABLY THERE, I JUST WANT TO REMIND YOU ABOUT EVERY BAD DECISION YOU'VE EVER MADE, AND POINT OUT A NUMBER OF THINGS THAT ARE CURRENTLY GOING WRONG IN YOUR LIFE, BUT OFFER NOTHING IN THE WAY OF A LOGICAL SOLUTION.

P.S. YOU'RE A PIECE O' SHIT.

Fucking Brain and it's thoughts!

SHRED IT

It's pissing down outside and I've spent the vast majority of the day shredding old bank statements with my new shredder — I ordered it from Argos last night and it was with me by this morning (Amazon, step up). 

(You know you're entering into your 30s when you're impressed with both the speedy delivery of your new shredder, and the fact that you've purchased your own paper shredder.)

There's something quite cathartic about giving your cupboards a de-shitting from time to time. I tend to go through elongated periods of hoarding, interspersed with sporadic, frantic, episodes of decluttering — often including the sale of basically everything I own. 

I've managed to fill three whole bin bags full of statements ranging as far back as 2005; including every single paper payslip I've ever received. 

The cleansing is almost complete. 

(Re-hoarding will commence shortly. As is tradition.)

PMSL: FART JOKES ARE ALWAYS FUNNY

I walk into a toilet at a local supermarket, before commencing the weekly "big shop". I'm at the urinal next to another gent when almost immediately, comedic style shitting noises begin to erupt from a nearby cubicle.

It sounds as though somebody is flogging a flock of angry ducks with a dripping wet towel.

Mayhem.

The smell that begins to disperse throughout the Hall of the Porcelain Gods is what I imagine an Oxo cube production line fire to smell like.

We stand there and struggle to control our streams, as both of our shoulders begin to shrug. As I attempt to maintain myself (and stop myself from laughing aloud), every single fart joke I've ever heard in my entire life comes flooding back to me . . . 

I quickly shake the drips and exit the toilet (after washing my hands), visibly crying.

As I'm leaving, I hear a concerned party asking the shitter:

"You alright in there?"

Well, I for one would be astonished if the man is still physically well, and not crumpled in a faeces-splattered heap on the floor, with an arsehole like a comet crater.

The bottom line is, fart jokes are (and always will be) funny.

GOOD NYTOL

I've had an injured shoulder for around three years now (a suspected torn rotator cuff). It's a right old ball ache, but life goes on, right?

The first week that I noticed the injury, I'd been popping anti-inflammatories prior to working out, to help myself get by. I foolishly thought that if I was able to quell any soreness in the area, it'd allow my body to heal itself somehow.

Before commencing a workout one particular evening (many years ago), I decided I'd pop into the Tesco that's beneath the gym, to grab some painkillers — in an attempt to loosen things up. I was desperately looking for a way to take my mind off the agony. 

The packets were a measly 32p, so I thought I'd stock up on a few boxes to ensure I wouldn't have to keep coming back. I chucked a few things into a basket, and queued for the self-service checkout. 

The contents of the basket was as follows: 

  1. 5 boxes of Ibuprofen.
  2. 1 box of Nytol.
  3. 1 bottle of mineral water.
  4. 1 Twix Xtra.

I thought nothing of the items that I was queueing to buy . . . nothing that is, until the alarm bells started ringing on a packed Tesco self-scan. 

"You...can't have more than two boxes,"

Said the Tesco employee, with a troubled look on her face.

"Why?"

It only then dawned on me: she thought I was gonna go and do myself in.

In her mind, the Twix would be my final hurrah to the world, before the long, good Nytol.  

I went red. Left the boxes, and just opted for the water.

(And the Twix.)

TOO OLD FOR TRAINERS? (30 AF CONT.)

Aside from exercising, I haven't worn trainers out and about for years. In fact, I think I have a mild aversion to wearing them.  Somehow, I've been led to believe that I'm "too old for trainers" and should be wearing some type of "grown up" footwear instead. 

Today, I had a look around a few of Cardiff's many footwear retailers, in the hope that I'd see a pair of "kicks" that I liked.

(I've probably been compelled to do this after unknowingly absorbing some tactfully placed subliminal marketing . . . and they're the very same marketers, who've just made me type the word "kicks" as a trendy alternative to trainers or daps.)

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30 AF

I don't know why, but all of a sudden, I've been overcome with the urge to buy a pair of trainers. I think this is partly because, I want my feet to feel more comfortable while walking to and from the office.

(And it was that exact moment, that I realised, I am, absolutely: 30 AS FUCK.) 

12 REASONS WHY "THE WITCHES" IS THE MOST HORRIFYING CHILDREN’S FILM EVER

At work today, while I was making my morning coffee, I overheard one female colleague chatting to another, about how their husband had let their kids watch the movie The Witches on the weekend, while they were “away with the girls on a hen do”.

The story went: after a rosé-filled weekend of celebrating, the mother returned home to find her kids absolutely traumatised, and when she asked them what was wrong, they said:

“Daddy showed us The Witches!”

Her son was said to be so horrified, that he now thinks that all old women are witches, even his grandmother . . . 

The Dad's defence?

“It was one of my favourite films when I was a kid, and I was bored."

This conversation got me thinking, about how The Witches, really is, the most messed up kids story every written. 

The following is only a short list of reasons why:

  1. The witches want to murder kids for no logical reason, other than “they smell a bit like dog shit to us”.
  2. One of the witches tries to kidnap a kid from his own tree house using a snake that she casually carries around in her handbag.
  3. Rowan Atkinson features in the film, and this is confusing, because when you first see him you think, “this is probably going to be a comedy, that's Mr. Bean, so it must be . . . ” — COULDN’T BE MORE WRONG.
  4. There's a blonde witch that almost soils herself at the prospect of committing mass murder.  
  5. There's a bit where the main two kids are trapped behind a curtain (playing with mice), when a brigade of witches comes in for some sort of conference to discuss the most effective methods of killing children.
  6. The big boss witch, known as The Grand High Witch, peels off her entire face in front of a crowd of hysterical witches, to reveal the most horrifying face I have ever seen in all my days (honestly, Google it).
  7. There’s a part in the book where Dahl notes that the witches have the ability to turn children into hotdogs, just so they can "trick their parents into eating them".
  8. There’s a painting which has trapped the soul of a young girl in it for eternity, forcing her to live out her days gradually as an artistically rendered dab of a paintbrush, until she no longer exists. 
  9. You find out that the main character’s parents were actually murdered by (you got it) witches, and not in a car crash, as we were first led to believe.
  10. One of the witches pushes a baby off a cliff and laughs maniacally as she does so.  
  11. The fat kid’s parents quite readily accept that their once human son, is just going to be an actual mouse for the rest of his days on the planet.
  12. At the end, ALL THE WITCHES TURN PAINFULLY INTO FUCKING MICE AND THE GRAND HIGH WITCH BECOMES A LARGE, RODENT DEMIGOD IN A CLOUD OF GREEN FART SMOKE. 

Yeah, it's probably best if you don't let your kids watch The Witches . . . even if you are bored. 

(And, you probably shouldn't watch The Witches again either. Trust me.) 

NOT EVER. 

THE DAILY BLOG

So, I've decided to write a daily blog.

In order to challenge myself a bit, I've decided to self-impose a few caveats:

  1. I can't spend more than 30 minutes writing the post. 
  2. Whatever is on the page after 30 minutes, I HAVE to hand over to the internet — warts and all. 
  3. I must post daily for a minimum of 30 days consecutively. 

Why have you started a daily blog? 

Mainly, to get used to sharing words with the world on a consistent basis (daily, in this case). I'm hoping this will help me overcome The Fear that plights anyone who endeavours to create something for others to consume — likely the topic for a future daily post. 

What're you going to be writing about? 

Anything and everything.

For example, if I hadn't posted this introductory post, it's likely that I would've written about the seagulls beneath my window, who're fucking loudly on a daily basis . . . 

How long are the posts going to be?

Tactically, I haven't set a word count to ensure I stick to posting on time — consider it a failsafe. Therefore, the length of these posts might range anywhere from a single sentence, right through to a hulking essay.

Oh, and, if you're after profundity, I suggest that you look elsewhere — maybe here

    Well, that's everything for now. Same time tomorrow? 

    (Probably not, I have work.)

    THE BOG ROLL DASH

    Walking back home from Tesco with a bag in one arm, and a x24 multipack of bog roll under the other.

    Man passing with his car window down shouts:

    "Going for a shit are you mate?"

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