Saving the world from mass paper wastage. And black Velvet.

After a few discussions with friends it has come to my attention that people waste a lot of toilet paper. And yes, I am pointing my blameful finger at the female species. Now I understand that we all need toilet paper when making mud-nuggets, but women also need a sheet or two after a tinkle. We men, of course, have a pointing device that we can shake to rid of any excess dribble. So what can we do to help the women of the world to stop wasting so much paper? That's right, a vibrating toilet seat that shakes the woman dry. Once the lady has finished having a tinkle she can simply press a button that rapidly rocks the toilet seat back and forth to shake out every last drop. This eco-friendly device will help save the trees in the rainforests and cut down your toilet roll spends. The only problems that may arise are yeast infections and trying to lure the woman off the toilet as we all know how much they like to sit on vibrating objects. Apart from that though, I think I'm on to a winner. I'm off to patent this idea...

On the subject of women, I find girls who can sing well very attractive. Karen O, Alison Mosshart, Bat for Lashes to name a few ALL very beautiful women. One thing that really grates my cheddar though is women who sing 'Black Velvet' on karaoke. I hail from Penzance, and karaoke is a major feature in a lot of the night life there (The White Lion, The Longboat). Guaranteed, every flipping time there is some complete arsehole woman who sings that god-awful song. I don't even know who sings it originally. And to be honest, I don't want to know. Because I'll be half tempted to staple a goat's foreskin to her vocal cords for starting this mass wave of warbling wank.

A loan in the shark?

Now I understand that 'loan sharks' are bad news, but whenever I hear of 'The Loan Sharks' it makes me think of a sports team like the Miami Dolphins or the Lesbos Beavers. I'm waiting for the Loan Sharks to take on the Mortgage Monkeys or the Bankruptcy Bears in a head to head clash to see who can exude the most pedestrian blood. If I were going to get a loan from anyone though I'd rather it be a 'loan puppy' or 'loan moth'.

My reasoning behind this particular blog post was after witnessing the most frightening advert, warning people about loan sharks.



Poor old Jody has got herself in a right state with a key-player of the Loan Sharks. But unbeknownst to key-player she has downloaded some new iPhone app that acts as a tazer to stop him in his tracks. Whether this is acceptable in the rules of the game, we are yet to find out.

Where is Alan?

Come back little one...

I lost a hamster over Christmas. No, not up my sphincter. And no, I didn't just leave the cage open like an irresponsible pikey. He burrowed so much that he actually split his cage and crawled out. Now I don't know whether to be offended by this or feel sad. I gave him food, bought him a lovely ball to roll around in, a human name so as not to belittle him, Alan. I was the best Daddy he could have ever dreamed of. And then to just leave like that? And not come back? I feel bitter.

Then I feel sadness. He's out there somewhere in the real world now. Probably selling his body for monkey nuts and cress. (He really liked cress).

I think this song highlights the emotional torment I've been through.


Alan was a gift from a group of friend's for my birthday. He lasted 3 months in my care. The previous year they got me a bonsai tree that I let die after 3 months. Please, don't get me anything living for my next birthday. Unless you want it destroyed within 3 months. Hello, abortion school.

Lucifer's Dream Box

I, like many billions of people around the globe own a television. What I don't own though is an aerial or license. Being a media student, this can cause a bit of an issue sometimes. However, I do feel that you are less likely to be influenced by the growing popularity and trends that we base so much of our lives on. The debate of whether television influences people, especially children is still inconclusive in my opinion. On one hand there are people who can watch violence in television and films and not go out killing as a result, myself included in that. Yet. And then there are the kinds of people who indulge in nothing else but television. The ones who can't really muster up a conversation without using the word 'Like' or an expletive to fill a gap.

This is a factor of why we don't have an aerial for our TV. The only motivation it musters up in some people is telling Mum's to go to Iceland. On the contrary though, there are programmes that you just can't afford to miss. Like, Britain's fattest Man on Channel 4. This programme has inspired me to watch at least one TV show a week that is a bit different, and I will voice my opinions on this here blog.

So the programme of this week, Britain's fattest man. The long, bitter-sweet toothed tale of 50 Year old Paul Mason. Paul is like a human pac-man, eating up everything in his path. Ironically, he has growths all over his legs that look like the little pink ghost in pac-man too. This colossal man vacuumed up 20,000 calories per Diem and seemed offended when the Mirror newspaper branded him as being almost 70 stone. Later on when they could actually provide the correct winch to weigh him it turned out he was only 56 stone 11lb. ONLY 56 stone. Which he seemed pleased about. I wonder if he expects a written apology from the mirror for claiming he was 70 stone?

The Mighty Man. I was worried the file would be too large.

The idea to staple this guy's stomach was long overdue and of course came with an array of possible complications but I just kept thinking, how deep does this guy's bellybutton go? After the surgery on his stomach he also had a large lump of fat removed from his leg. This bulge was hypnotic, reminded me of when you see a large jellyfish washed up on the beach. I panicked thinking that it may be his ball bag they were hacking in to, or as the doctor referred to them as his 'Bits and Pieces'. Never good when a fully qualified doctor refers to your genitals as 'Bits and Pieces'. It sounds like a candy store. The last thing a morbidly obese person needs to hear about their genitals.

Morbidly obese is a great phrase though. As if being simply obese isn't bad enough. Although Paul Mason was even too fat for the morbidly obese category and was promoted to the 'Super-Obese' pile. And he can't get driven to the hospital in no regular ambulance. He has to get a Jumbulance. I'm waiting for marvel comics to get in on 'Super-obese Man' who drives the Jumbulance and fights calorie related crimes against the evil Lord Ryvita.

The Jumbulance

Throughout the documentary you do feel for the poor bugger. Every time this guy broke down in tears it really was awful, but I kept thinking about Fat Bastard in the Austin Powers movie and was expecting him to let rip at any moment. His carer, Maria looked like the love child of Janet Street Porter and Fiona Allen. She was strangely attractive and I could see why he was so distraught when she had to leave for another job because her funding was cut, just like the fatty bulge was cut out of his leg. They could have kept the wobbling mass and named it Maria.

To be honest though, I do hope he does well and I would like to see a second documentary where he can actually walk and not have to go to the supermarket on an electric wheelchair resembling a motorised magic 8 ball. Hopefully this film will raise awareness of the issue and will manage to get people the help they need before they step, or flop, over from morbidly to super-obese. It did bother me though that after all the surgery and lectures from doctors, his idea of a healthy meal is stuffed peppers with minced meat. That is basically a pepper with a burger stuffed inside.

I also started to watch an American version of WifeSwap which featured a hideous couple from Jersey. I soon had to turn the television off and sit in a quiet, dark room for a couple of hours to calm down. South Park got it so right on that one.

The year Two thousand and eleven

So it turns out I'm quite slack with these blogs. Leaving it neglected like a child or an open flesh wound, turning stale and rotting amongst the dark and dingy web-world. I didn't think it would take me back. It seemed to refuse to want me. But it turned out I had entered my password wrong. Which made the reunion somewhat awkward. I worried I had left it fester too long and, maybe with a bit of loving care and attention we could be back on track. I have seen people grow tumours and unborn twins in their bodies for years and they kind of end up OK with a bit of help from Western medicine.

Well this is my effort anyway, to right my wrongdoings of the year 2010.'Pon the midnight chimes of Big Ben (being played through a radio) I have found a major change in the way I talk. I used to say 'two thousand and ten' but now I feel the need to join the Americans in saying 'Twenty-Eleven' rather than 'Two thousand and eleven'. Am I growing up or just becoming lazy? I never say that I was born in the year nineteen thousand and eighty eight, but maybe I will start to. Resolution number one, use names of years fully.

To keep the ball rolling on the Spongebob faces, here is the first one of the year and it's a great one. Hats off to Teagan, Hannah, Georgia and James on the Tidal Wave ride at Thorpe Park. And an impromtu one from a girl sitting behind them who looks reminiscent of a gun-toting, Texan oil baron. Well done you grubby little spongebobbers!