The Evening Standard’s advertising poster for this evening—detailing the recent arrest of John from Blue Peter (ex Catherine Zeta)—read “John Leslie rape quiz”. I’m not going to that; I’m better at science and nature.

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Nerdy colleague: “There should be an internationally-recognised scale to measure the strength of cheese.”
Me: “Surely that’s not just the Young’s modulus?”

Needless to say, much nerdy hilarity ensued, followed by a conversation about whether Young’s modulus or the Mohs hardness scale would have been a better punchline. Splendid stuff.

Flanorexia

October 30, 2007

flān’ə-rěk’sē-ə

-noun
a disease characterised by excessive corpulence; especially that which exhibits itself in spite of the protestations of the flanorexic (vide infra) that their diet is perfectly healthy and low-calorie.

-Related forms
flanorexic – noun – one who quotes genetics as the cause of their seemingly-exponential weight gain whilst in the process of swallowing a whole slice of cheesecake.

News haikus

August 20, 2007

All the news you need.
Conveniently written,
In brief haiku form.

Slutty dumplings

August 9, 2007

A picture from the specials board in the Pavilion End, Watling St.

Dumplings du jour…

I’m not quite sure what it’s selling, but part of me would like to see if it’s a typo or not…

I own one of the new Minis. A beautiful British Racing Green Cooper S with a white roof, and white bonnet stripes. I don’t think it’s any great exaggeration to say that I love my Mini. I like to think that if it could express emotions, my Mini would love me. All in all, it’s a great man-car relationship. Given even half a chance, I’ll happily orate to anyone in earshot the glory of its acceleration, the sound of the whine from the supercharger, or its shit-to-a-footballer’s-knee road-holding.

Today, though, I experienced my first less-than-100% experience with the car. After leaving rugby practice, and on walking back out to the car park, a friend called out to me, asking if I’d brought my car or not. Before I even knew that I said it, I’d blurted out “Yes – it’s over there, hidden by the Vauxhall Corsa.” Dammit.

Arsenal ’til I die

August 7, 2007

Although not a fan of soccerball per se, I recently visited West Highbury with my brother to watch the Woolwich Arsenal play.  Whilst enjoying the match in between naps, I noticed a number of people sporting shirts proudly emblazoned with the motto “Arsenal till I die”. Although I immediately accepted the spelling mistake as nothing more than a typo, this set my mind wandering—an all-too-easy thing to happen during a football match.  While the wearer is no doubt displaying an admirable loyalty to his chosen club in life, I can only assume that he has therefore given tacit approval to be buried in a Tottenham kit.

Although it doesn’t scan quite as well, perhaps a more loophole-free shirt would read “Arsenal up to and including the moment of my interment.”

However, this leaves the door open somewhat to misinterpretation, so some small print necessitates itself.

“Although interment is mentioned specifically, I will be as fond of Arsenal FC in the event of my cremation, burial at sea, or appropriation by Gunter von Hagens. The value of football clubs may go down as well as up. Your stadium is at risk if you do not keep up repayments on a mortgage or other loan secured upon it.”

I think we’ll all agree that this completely obviates any risk of  improper burial clothes, in a catchy manner, perfectly capable of holding its own on the streets.