Roll up, ladies an' gentlemen.

Anybody want to buy a snowboard? Or two? With bindings?

One is an Option Supercap Wide, 164cm, with Salomon SP3 bindings. Good for tall(ish) or fat men with size 10 feet or larger. £120

The other is a Salomon Driver 155, with Salomon SP2 bindings. Good for bird of bloke of normal footed proportions. £100

Otherwise, I'm going to have to brave eBay.

Out of my head, can't take it...

I'm back. *Rapturous applause* Like Take That (or a McDonald's chicken nugget), I have reformed to bring my musings back to an adoring public (actual levels of adoration may vary). I really have no excuses, so I shan't offer any. Instead, have a thought that did occur to me in the long period since I last wrote...

In Liverpool Street station, in London's money-infested terrorist-target City, is a sign that says, "Professional beggars operate in this station." Think about that for a minute. Professional beggars. That's as opposed to amateur beggars, is it? Beggars who do it for the skill, the fun, the excitement, but who only accept payment in milk-bottle tops. Or, like my Sunday morning amateur football status, do they pay for the privilege and still get nothing in return?
And why the sign? If I get accosted by a beggar, I'll know there are beggars there. It's not like I see the sign and think, 'oh, that tramp demanding money from me wasn't my bank manager. Thank God I knew that beforehand or I could have signed over all my savings*'. Jesus wept.

*Nil.

Pleasure [pause] Pain

Is it worth the wonderful feeling you have when you realise it's Friday, only for the plunge into despair when it dawns that it is, actually, only Thursday?
Discuss.

ps Note to comment spammers: fuck off

Reprise

An addendum to my previous post; fear not, the wonderful Friday (pictured left, with First-Mate Fetch) is not being neglected as a result of my new-found virtual cannine addiction. In fact, he has been spoiled rotten, having been given some Pirate Plasters by The Girlfriend.
Communication ends

Nice puppies

Despite my promise that I was up and lively and raring to go, I actually have nothing to write about. However, this is entirely my fault, for I - like many other people - have become hopelessly addicted.
Of course, as is the wont of an addict, I am blaming someone else: The Girlfriend. If she had let me have a real puppy, I wouldn't have had to buy (and therefore become addicted to) a substitute. I could go on and on about the amazing realism and depth, but it's all been said before. And anyway, sitting here typing is wasting valuable time that I could be using teaching my puppy how to catch a frisbee or something.
So, I can only suggest, if you have a spare £100 (including the console, which I also recommend), that you purchase it. You will love it, even if you are a 30ish 6'3 booze-and-sport-loving bloke, like me.

Looking old; feeling older

Hoorah: welcome to my triumphant return to the land of blog. I've been gone a while, lost in the nightmare that is Long Hours and Permanent Tiredness. And it's not about to end soon. And I'm getting more and more lines.
To be fair, I'm feeling a lot perkier, and I keep thinking of things to write. It's just that (i) I can't write anything at work, (ii) I have the magnificent ideas on my way home from work, which is now such a slog that I've forgotten by the time I get home and (iii) I just want to slump when I do get in.
Still, I'm playing football twice a week, making sure that I see my friends more, dragging myself out of the flat at the weekend (may I recommend this to those of you with children to entertain/shock) and generally Doing More (albeit not a lot more).
So I'm going to get writing more, to entertain all my faithful followers who have been starved of the word of Your Lord. Until then, worship me (etc.)