Money for old rope

Thanks to your collective failure to purchase things from me, I've been forced to go to eBay, where I shall probably be fleeced for all that I have. You bastards.


In other news, it appears that there was no gossip from my Christmas party. I got drunk, but not dangerously so. I haven't been sacked. There was the rumour of the police being called, but I was long gone ('you can pin this one on me, pig') and I think it was just a lie to arouse interest.


Now I'm off to prepare for the World Cup draw, which will undoubtedly be more interesting than 75% of the games in the competition. Not that that will stop me watching them.

Ciao.

Best, boxed and buried

So I awake with a hangover, and what am I confronted with on BBC1 and Radio 5? Full commentary of a funeral. The queen? No. The Archbishop of Canterbury? No. A bloated, liver-wasting, wife-beating alcoholic who once kicked a football better than most other people. For fucks sake. They actually had someone on the radio describing 'children being hoisted onto their father's shoulders to view the cortege as it passes.'
As if this is news. The bastard died over a week ago. He had been dying for years beforehand, and would have gone sooner if some bright spark in the health service hadn't thought he was a suitable candidate for someone's liver. Would he have met the criteria if he was a tramp with the same drink problem? I sincerely doubted.
And now we all have to put up with the tedious rose-tinted agenda of those who sell us the news (i.e. a bunch of middle-aged men desperate to relive their youth). [Oops, that sentence was a bit Dave Spart.] I hope to God this will be the last of it (well, it's the last of him, but I'm sure the media can drag this tedium out for lonnger).
Juicy gossip later. (Actually not, but that would hardly engender continued readership, would it folks.)

P45

It's Christmas party night tomorrow. I've been there less than five months. Free booze and minimal food, plus a disco, until midnight.

I must remember not to embarrass myself. Story to follow once the hangover has subsided...

Legal crack

I am an addict. I have become addicted to Mario Kart DS. For those of you who don't play computer games, this could seriously damage your life. It's a cartoon driving game, starring Mario, a famous Italian plumber.

Which is all well and good. Except you can play against other people - anywhere in the world - via the interweb. Wirelessly. For free. At last a reason to go to McDonald's. Or Coffee Republic. Fortunately, I just play it at home, but against people I've never met and never will. And they always beat me. Brilliant.

But you can also play against your friends (if you, unlike me, have any). So if you have it, play me. My Friend Code is below. If you really are a friend. Let me win one.

236283
251634
(My moniker is Friday - the handsome pup on the left. His pixellated visage (a la Crimestoppers) is my avatar.)

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.