The Clan of the Cave Bague

Last Friday has been the 24th until I came in today and discovered it was only the 23rd today. Anyhoo, much silliness aside, let’s get on with the job in had. Which is MOANING. I have many things to moan about today, but here’s a few to get us started:

Banks are gits. They charge us through the nose for every conceivable thing they can think of, with much of their justification being tenuous at best. I paid a cheque in last week and it won’t clear until the end of this week, despite being drawn on the same branch as my account and paid into said branch.

Huge testosterone surges in six year old boys. Matthew is a little ball of compressed fury at the moment. A shame, really, as he’s generally a smiley happy little creature. Not any more though – oh no. Now he is satan incarnate, stamping about and shouting and hitting people and everything. It did come as some small consolation when I discovered the Andy, who sits opposite me at work, has a small daemon of his own who behaves in exactly the same way. Fab, thought I – that means it can safely be classed as a stage rather than yet another parenting cockup.

We started watching season one of 24 at the weekend. We’ve never seen it before because we missed the first few episodes and didn’t see much point in watching the rest. Wish wed made an effort now – it’s really good

uJournal appear to have vanished up their own unmentionables in some form of freak accident (no doubt involving a leopard). After the world-famous Nelefa Blog (or Neleblog as we at Nelefa Towers fondly refer to it) being unavailable for over a week, we’ve decided to replace it with something we do ourselves. If you see what I mean.

So, in the past week when we’ve been off air, has anything righteous, bogus, or just plain indifferent been going on? Well, kind of. For starters, I was on holiday for a fortnight. In this time I managed to not only teach Tristan how to ride his bike, but also managed to get Debbie riding a bike as well! Poor pet is bruised to bits, but she can go it now and I suspect she’s feeling pretty good about the whole thing.

It was really good being off work – gave me a real chance to just relax and muck about without worrying about anything. As a result, I’m back at work all bright eyed and bushy tailed. Or something. Isn’t life fab?

So, it looks like this site is going to be pretty minimalist for the time being, but that’s not really a bad thing.

One of my children was stung by a wasp at the weekend.

That sentence, on its own, paints quite a vivid picture, doesn’t it? Sort of. You see, the thing is this: a sting exists in nature as a defense mechanism, allowing small delicate insects to defend themselves against much larger predators.

So, how does this explain the wasp? Because, let’s face it, the wasp could never be accused of being the victim could it? In this particular instance, the stripy yellow fuck actually held on with its legs and with its arse going like a fiddler’s elbow, stinging over and over again.

Why is this? Because wasps, my friends, are mutant scumfuck BASTARDS. They are nature’s way of saying “Ah’m pure mental, me”; they are a natural chib. They serve no other purpose but to zip around like evolutionary neds “malkying” anything or anyone that crosses their paths.

Like all other types of ned, the wasp should be sought out and destroyed on sight. We must not shirk from this unpleasant duty, but strive to make the world a better (if slightly wasp-splattered) place for our children.

NO! I do not want an eight foot long penis. I do not want to look at cavorting cheerleaders. I do not want a herbal alternative to viagra, and I most certainly do not want to see “Hot naked barely legal chicks getting off with giant octopus people from the third void of Quarg”.

What is with these people, huh? I mean, they must get a pretty good idea of their target market from the people who subscribe to their magazines or visit their seedy little bookshops, so why spam the whole fucking planet with it? I’m by no means a prude, but it’s a bit bloody annoying when your five year old points at some grotesque image which has popped up on the screen and says “what’s she doing with that thing’s tentacle, dad?”

It’s the cheek of the bastards that gets me: “Hi, Chewbury! Here’s that information you asked for!” No I fucking didn’t! “Re: our conversation” We haven’t bloody well had one and I have proof! Cos if we had, you see, your lungs would be hanging out of the gaping hole I had punched in your chest you spamming BASTARD! Stupid little tricks to try and fool brainless lemmings into reading the mail.

And what about the one that starts “You’ve probably seen this mail before, and ignored it.” Yup, and I’m ignoring this one too. And the ones that faithfully promise that if you reply to this message, your name will not be sold as an extremely valuable verified address with a gullible twat hanging off the back of it but will, in fact, be removed from the mailing list. You wouldn’t believe the number of people I know who regularly reply with unsubscribe messages – JESUS – The guy has just SPAMMED you and you’re replying expecting him to keep his word? Wake up and smell the shut the fuck up! If any of you touches me and I catch stupid, I’ll eat your vocal chords.

Actually – on a lighter note – internet spam has made me appreciate the beauty and integrity of old school paper spam. I have one here, framed, on the wall – spam you can touch – spam that simply promises CA$H MUNNY for doing absolutely nothing at all except being a gullible twat. Good simple british spam. Ahhhhh don’tcha just love it?

Finally, for now, electorial spam. Ah, that was something special. The whole fucking world was encouraged to vote for George “thick as pigshit hey I know lets start a war with iraq so my oil company will be able to extort a shitload more money out of people!” Bush. It had me convinced, too! I was going to vote for him but his name wasn’t on the ballot paper. I couldn’t remember if he was Conservative, Labour, Lib Dem, or SNP. Then it suddenley occurred to me – ah, that’s right, I DON’T FUCKING LIVE IN AMERICA.

BASTARDS!

As a postscript to the above, we all know how it turned out. The thick fuck lost the election but still managed to bully his way into the whitehouse anyway. Ahhhhhh Democracy….. no wonder the Iraqis want it so badly…..oh – hang on a minute……

Alright, so I was in a shop the other morning, cruising for a nice chunk of biscuity goodness. I was perusing the shelves in a fairly nonchalant kinda way when my eye alighted on the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Fox’s Sprinkle Crinkle Crunch. Sprinkle Crinkle Fucking Crunch, ladies and gentlemen.

Apparently they’re sprinkled crinkled crunchy goddamn biscuits. Right. So, assuming that the new stylee is to give hyper-sodding-descriptive names to things, why the hell aren’t chocolate-dipped-coconut-rings called “Rectal Avengers”? Why aren’t Ferrero Rocher called “Scrotal Warlords”?

Indulge me, if you will, in a worked example or two. Kit Kat. They don’t come as self assembly. They have no obvious feline connection. 0/10 for creativity there.

Digestive biscuits, on the other hand, are a bit of a no-brainer – you digest em. Mind you, if I’m in a retail establishment which provides quality snack products to the discerning public, I’m looking for something to EAT. I don’t want to be reminded of all the gooey organic processes that go on aftwards. 0/10 for making me yak my guts all over the biscuit section of Tescos.

Hob Nobs. Hob, if you will, Nobs. What the fuck? I think it’s probably best if we pursue that line of inquiry no further.

Jaffa Cakes – well, there’s a bizarre story there – apparently McVities (for it is they) were threatened with “improper advertising” or somesuch a few years ago because Jaffa Cakes weren’t actually cakes (cos they had that yummy crumblyness), which is why they’re now repugnant and spongy. Gak. Now that, to my eyes, is a perfect example of making the product fit the name. Why not call em something else? Chocolatey Orangy Crumbly things, springs imediately to mind.

So, biscuit manufacturers – just fucking STOPPIT! It’s bloody annoying! And don’t get me started on butter. “I can’t believe it’s not sodding butter”, “Utterly Butterly” – it’s not even a bloody word! If they’re allowed to just go making up words to describe their products then they have either no imagination or a dictionary with lots of blank pages in. What next? “Try new fox’s Spofnod Bumscordes! They’re indescribably yummy!” Gimme a break.

“Would you like help with the packing?”

Well, let me just check what I’m actually buying here. Hmmm. A bottle of milk. A bag of apples. Let me see – do I need help packing? Do I need help picking up a little bottle of milk and a small bag of apples, and placing them in a carrier bag without doing myself or the produce any serious injury. Do I look fucking stupid? Do I really look like the type of person who needs help putting a bottle of fucking milk and a bag of sodding fun sized(more on that later) apples in a sodding bag? For fuck’s sake! I had my wife with me too! Obviously we look like total window-licking gormless twats who are unable to wrestle a vicious bottle of milk or savage bag of apples into a fucking bag!

What type of goddamn person can look at those two items, then look at the two people buying them, and still believe that “would you like help with the packing” was a legitimate fucking question?

I mean, what am I supposed to say? “Sure, I can manage the milk if you hold the bag open, but my wife might need a hand with the apples?” For fuck’s sake! How does that person manage to get dressed in the morning?

And as for fun sized – what the fuck? Apples taste nice. They’re yummy. They’re not fun though. I daresay kinky lovemaking with the partner of your choice in an interesting environment is fun. Video games are fun. Go-karting is fun, for fuck’s sake. Apples are not fun. Apples are food.