February 19, 2007


a night of fitful, low-quality often-sweaty sleep caused by a night out on the sauce.

-Related forms
ginsomniac – noun – a bleary-eyed, unresponsive, frequently unshaven sufferer of ginsomnia (qv).


Why golf is not a sport

February 4, 2007

In my own tiny little world, there are two criteria which determine what constitutes a sport. Although as a general rule, I talk one hell of a lot of shit, I truly believe that the combination of Mushy’s First and Second Laws serve quite adequtely to define what is a sport, and what is little more than a hobby; akin to stamp collecting.

Mushy’s First Law

If professional practitioners of an activity smoke whilst participating therein, it is classified as Not A Sport.

Mushy’s Second Law

If the clothing worn whilst participating in an activity involves slacks, it is classified as Not A Sport.

Mushy’s First Law has been the subject of at times rigourous discussion, and as such the necssity of an addendum has raised its ugly head.

First Addendum to Mushy’s First Law

If a sport does not have professional status, then Mushy’s First Law can be applied to its practitioners at the highest amateur level.

A few examples of sports and hobbies are presented below.

Activity Status Justification
Cricket Sport Before the advent of the sports trouser, Cricket was Not A Sport.
Darts Hobby 1st law until recently. 2nd Law all the time.
Rugby Sport Tasty shorts, but no slacks.
Athletics Sport No smoking; no slacks
Pool Hobby Probably 1st Law; definitely 2nd Law
Golf Hobby 1st Law—for example, Darren Clarke. 2nd Law—for example, every golfer in the world

I think you’ll find that the amended laws are pretty watertight when it comes to the determination of what’s a sport. If the definitions were extended to include every activity which involves some physical activity, and carries the risk of serious injury, then we would have to include pool, which—as previously proven—is Not A Sport.

Discuss away; prove me right.

Do I look like I play golf?

February 1, 2007

I have blathered on previously about how I so dislike being harangued by the hoi polloi on my walks from and to Fenchurch Street Station in the morning and afternoon. This morning, one of the passenger-harassers really deflated me with one simple question.  She was peddling some rubbish related to a golf spa [in itself, two words which can almost guarantee my non-attendance, even without the subsequent depressing questions], and bounded up to me in a rather square manner, and proceeded to ask if I play golf.

Woe is me—when did I start looking that old? It wasn’t so long ago that people would come up to me with flyers spouting lines with the general ilk of “Hey man. You look rad! I bet you know what the inside of a roller disco looks like.” To which I’d tuck my loon pants into my fluorescent socks—so as to not get them entangled in the chain of my BMX—and I’d be off with my street new friends. Now, though, I get squares coming up to me asking me if I’d like to partake in their hobby.*

Maybe it’s time to acknowledge that the last time any brown hair grew out of the side of my head, Bananarama were still in the charts, and that I’m only a flyaway eyebrow or two away from drawing a pension.

Why am I even writing this down? I’m off on a well-publicised snowboarding trip soon, at which one shall proceed to show you just how hip one really is.

*Golf is not a sport. I’ll tell you why later. Maybe after a nice nap.