Dreadful Nonsense

I'd like to introduce you all to another kind linker of mine, someone who goes by the name of 'Sharrow', which I think is probably not her real name - but then who am I to judge? It's just as good as, if not slightly better than, Shazzle. So we like her. Today she seems to think she's deserving of a reward, something apparently along the lines of 'most fervent procrastinator'. 'Fraid I beat you to it, Sharrow. The list of things that I had to do today are:

1. Finish OU essay.

The things I did today were:

1. Get up at 12pm.
2. Pad around the house in a dressing gown, turning every television station to E4.
3. Watch Big Brother for about a year and a half.
4. Go for a walk with dogs, god daughter, best friend, sister and mother.
5. Pick flowers, play pooh sticks with god daughter like saintly god mother I am.
6. Come home, entertain god daughter and best friend.
7. Annoy cats.
8. Nap.
9. This.

I win! Where's my medal?

Yay! Big Brother! So excited!

Bit too interested in this show, I have to admit. I was out last night, at the taping of a comedy DVD that will be released, we were assured by the Tristram producing it, in time for Christmas. They were desperate to have me on it, you understand. So desperate in fact that instead of shoving the camera in our faces, the camera man kept shoving his arse in our faces, while trying to get what I would assume were low, moody, arty shots of the stage and the lovely Dylan Moran waving around a glass full of water pretending it was wine.

But since I was out, I had the Big Brother opening ceremony recorded, so that I could watch the housemategimps get out of cars and walk in to a house. And so that I could fastforward all the bits of Strange Oirish Dermot telling us what kind of biscuits the housemategimps think they are, and showing us bits of their chest hair. It was really interesting listening to Davina read out their profiles and watch their audition tape while they preened through the crowds, because it's obvious that this year the producers have gone in a completely different direction. Last year it was like 'These two might rub each other up the wrong way! That might be amusing!' and this year it's more 'Let's stick six alpha males in a tiny room and see who lives to see the last week'. They do all seem a little like pepped up versions of previous housemategimps - Kitten being what they thought Anna ex-nun might have been, Marco being Brian with a caffeine enema, Emma being Jade and Helen but without the intellect or insight etc.

The ever glorious Redking has described them all so much better than I could.

"An utterly camp high-pitched anti-refugee gay man, a homophobic Muslim former refugee from Somalia, a ex-army air steward gym-freak in a leopardskin thong, a militant feminist vegetarian Trotskyite jarvis-cocker-esque lesbian, a 6ft bald gay man in a trilby who only sleeps with straights, a porn-loving bisexual slag from Newcastle, a Portuguese post-operative transsexual virgin, a ridiculously arrogant vaguely attractive psychology student in a hair band, a buck-toothed Jade-like new age spiritualist yokel, an upper class posh bird who likes Glaswegian architecture, an alpha male token black character, and your bog standard attractive blondey sort."

After watching the live stream for a bit, I popped a valium and went to sleep. It was all I could do to stop my ears from bleeding after listening to Emma for more than two minutes.

Imagine my distress when I woke up this morning, turned on E4, and I could remember all of their names! Except the girls, apart from Kitten and Emma. Both of whom I'm going to shoot through the eyes with arrows. I can't decide who I want to win, but am absolutely certain which ones I'd make voodoo dolls of. And Stuart is top of the list.

If somebody out there loves me - and I know that, inexplicably, some of you actually do - you might like to make my every dream come true and buy me something from here. Pretty please.

Thing is, they're auctioning off clothes from Angel. On eBay. Probably for charity or something - I don't care. The important thing is, I'd quite like all of some of them. In particular, I've picked out these special items you might like to consider clubbing together to buy me. No pressure.

Lorne's shirt from the last two episodes.
In fact, Lorne's entire outfit from the last two episodes.
The denim jacket Fred used to wear all the time, and if I'm not mistaken, was stabbed in during the first half of this season.
Evil Eve's necklace and earrings.
Even just the towel Harmony used in the episode Harm's Way.

Actually, the only one I really, really want is Lorne's shirt from the last two episodes. And maybe that denim jacket.

I love you! Thanks!

I have a tiny confession to make. It's really tiny, no big deal, but seriously, let's just keep it between me and you for now, because, I don't know, these things have a habit of getting out, and then there's hysteria and reprimanding and things get said that don't need to be said and then there's the crying... So, just between me and you, then. Thing is, I think I may well be failing my stupid OU psychology course.

This revelation came to me about a month ago, when I failed to hand in my essay. I not only failed to hand it in, I by no uncertain terms danced about wearing a sign that read "I'm not handing in my essay!" and was accompanied by backing singers and a marching band that kept time with my dancing, along with the cheerleaders who spelled out N-O E-S-S-A-Y over and over again so that my tutor couldn't help but notice that no essay was being handed in.

But that's okay! You can get away with not handing in one essay on any given OU course, because they allow you to substitute one score out of the 7 things you have to submit, so usually the lowest score is taken away, and your final mark is the average of all the scores left. This score, of course, is now 0 thanks to the no essay angle I decided to take. But that's okay. It'll be taken away and discounted, unmourned and unremembered.

The really perverse thing in all of this is the fact that I did actually write an essay and everything. I did! It's here! Imagine going to all that trouble - I wrote a sentence that goes "He suggested that people with introverted personalities are chronically over-aroused, and so behave in a way that reduce their arousal level, and that extroverted personalities are chronically under-aroused and compensate by seeking out more stimulation", and I understood what that mean! And I didn't submit it on time - I in fact didn't submit it AT ALL - shooting myself in the foot and wasting all those hours I spent slaving over a hot (at one point, completely overheated) lap top. For what? For nothing!

Today, I am carrying out psychological experiments on my friends D and Mrs D, because they are kind enough to agree to it. Tomorrow, I'm going to have to process the results, put them in bar chart form, work out the probability value and statistical significance, write the whole thing up as a proper experiment (noting, of course, whether it is a one-tailed or two-tailed hypothesis) and have it all in the post on Saturday morning. What am I doing instead? I'm writing this! THIS! THIS LOAD OF RUBBISH!

I have lost all respect for myself.

Like I said yesterday, I've been composing this entry in my mind since Sunday, when me and my lovely sister went to the geekiest room in Dublin, and watched the last four episodes of Angel in geeky, reverent silence. Having managed to stay spoiler free for so long, it really paid off, because the last two episodes of Angel was so superbly unexpected. I'd hate to be the person to destroy this experience for someone else who's looking forward to it as much as I was, so I'm not going to say anything at all about the ending of Angel until it's broadcast on Sky One, in two week's time.

It was great fun, though, sitting in a room full of people who were able to appreciate all the ridiculous, they're so far "in" they're right "out there" jokes, harking back to the beginning of Angel The Series, and right back again to the beginning of Buffy, when Angel first appeared. All the silly little things, none of which I will mention here but I will make great note of once the thing has aired.

I didn't cry when it finished, I was too flabbergasted by the whole thing. The last three episodes were superb, the third last one even more so for being such a throw-away, joke about, pointless diversion of an episode. A lot of people in the US were very pissed off at this episode, this stupid bit of fluffy nonsense that wasted the precious time that was left in the Angel-verse before the whole thing came to a sudden end. So pissed off, in fact, that the writer of the episode apologised to fans (his comments in green, scroll to the bottom) who thought that maybe they were making fun of them with all the comments at the end about how people need to move on with their lives. Then again, there are some people that do honestly think that everything happening on the magic box in the corner is addressed right at them and them alone. But I loved it. I loved that they could piss about one last time. The humour in Angel is the first thing that attracted me to it, their ability to mock themselves, the actors, the characters, the set up so completely and yet still stay well away from destroying the fourth wall. I loved it.

And the last two episodes... well, like I said, I didn't cry at the time. I laughed, I gasped, I actually covered my eyes, I stared in disbelief for ages, and I laughed again, and then walked away in shock and awe. The day after, when I was reading about it on all the sites that I'd avoided for so long... well, then I cried. A bit. Shut up.

But that's all I'm saying for now. I'll post up everything I want to say in two week's time.

I've been composing the same entry in my head over and over since I saw the last three episodes of Angel last Sunday at a geek convention I am only now prepared to admit that I attended, sister in tow. Unfortunately, my final summation of all things Whedon has to wait for another day or so, because work needs to be completed on the Boosh site before tonight's broadcast of Bollo. So. This is what's happened.

Mack Daddy JC has been annoying me in his own special way so much that I suggested he just bloody go ahead and blog for me. This he did, and the below is the result of his fevered imaginations. I'm both delighted and disgusted.

*************************************

JC was here. She couldn’t believe it. He was ACTUALLY here. How often had she imagined this moment over the last month. How many times had she replayed it in her head. About twenty-six was her guess. Twenty-six times a day that is. Which is loads. She watched him walk in the door of the pub. All battered looking like a favourite old suitcase. There wasn’t a hair in place, he looked like he had just woken up from a really long sleep in a bin and she could tell that he had just thrown a cigarette away with a sigh of “for fucks sake” because of the smoking laws. Her heart leapt as high as it would go, which in her case wasn’t really that high. “How’s it going?” he smiled and gave her a big hug. She felt a stirring down below. Shit. She’d farted. It was the curse of the vegetarian. “Pint?” he asked, his voice coming from his mouth, just as it always did. Same old JC.

A while later, JC had gone without smoking for nearly seventy-five or eighty seconds and was ready to go for another one. Mrs D had just come back from having one and was ALREADY starting to go on about the plot flaws of “Kramer Vs. Kramer” again and how NO lawyer would behave like that and how in real life being a solicitor was much more like Ally McBeal or Judging Amy. She then went to the bar and ordered a round, “I put it to YOU that I will have three pints of Heineken”. “OK”, the barman replied looking confused. “AH-HAH!”, Mrs D yelled in his face, “No further questions, You may sit down” “But, me break isn’t till…” “YOU MAY SIT DOWN!”. She decided that this might take a while and so went outside to breathe in some of JC's second hand smoke. Mrs D was already in the middle of summing up to the other people in the pub.

There he was standing on the corner, smoke billowing from his head like a lovely big scruffy chimney. She was drinking in his majesty with her eyes when she became aware of a strange noise. “Is that me again?” she thought but no, she had been to the toilet. There was a strange wheezing-groaning sound that was getting louder and louder. She stared in amazement as across the road a tall blue object began to appear from thin air. It grew solid and with a final “Thunk” it was there. An old battered London Police Box. The light on its roof carried on flashing for a couple of seconds and then stopped. JC looked at it for a second then walked across the road. He peered at it closely and then knocked on the door. For a second nothing happened. Then the door opened. A man stepped out. He was dressed in the garb of an Edwardian cricketer. He had a pleasant open face and a bright, if a little shy, smile. He looked at JC, then across the road to where she stood. “Hello. I’m Peter Davison”. Her heart stopped. “Oh. My. God.” She… words could not describe what she was feeling.

Peter Davison was still smiling. “Would you like to come with me in my TARDIS and spend weeks making love, laughing and exploring strange places and meeting new people?” “Sure” said JC. JC and Peter Davison shook on it and before she could say anything they had gone inside. The strange sound bellowed around the streets and gradually became quieter as the TARDIS faded from sight. She listened carefully but the last echoes of the beautiful noise were snatched by the wind. Had she lost them both? JC and Peter Davison? She choked back tears.

The door to the pub suddenly flew open and she turned to see Mrs D being carried by four bouncers, each had an arm or a leg “OBJECTION!” bellowed Mrs D. The bouncers swung her back and forth, “One… Two… Three!” They let go of her and she sailed through the air “OBJECTIOOOOONNNNN!” Mrs D landed on her backside in the middle of the pavement. There was a loud cheer from inside the pub.

Mrs D looked up at her with tearful eyes; “I’ve been disbarred”. “No. You’ve been BARRED. Again” replied Sharon. Mrs D's eyes filled with steely determination “I. PUT. IT. TO. YOU. THAT. I…” Sharon sighed to herself and walked away.

I tend to stay in my own exclusive little circle on the internet - well, if you wander anywhere unknown, all kinds of strange things can pop up in your way and distract you from all the interesting personality tests you're in the middle of taking, and the next thing you know there's a virus on your computer that is trying to put smiley faces on all of your emails in outlook... which has happened to me. So, I try to go where I know it will be safe, and the naked pictures of Britney Spears will be kept to a minimum (there's a phrase that's now going to be getting me a lot more hits).

So until today, I didn't know about Rance. Rance is, apparently, a A-list celebrity with an incredibly popular weblog, where he gives out shady, coded details about himself and annoys most of North America by not telling them who he is. In all the searching I've done, so far he's been identified as Owen Wilson, Ben Affleck, Benicio Del Toro, George Clooney, Jim Carey or Andy Kaufman. (Can't be Andy Kauffman, though, obviously. Firstly, because he already has his own blog here and secondly because he's been dead for the last 20 years). I'd love to think that Rance is Ben Affleck. But he's too retarded. The most convincing theory I've heard thus far is that it's written by an advertising copywriter. It's disappointing, but a bit like the Belle De Jour weblog, which is obviously faked.

[Side note: Mind you, a lot of the Belle De Jour is a Fake speculation seems to rely on the fact that the Gender Genie says that it's being written by a man, rather than a woman. I tested the Gender Genie on my last three longer blog entries - they want over 500 words a pop. Here are the results:

Entry dated 19th May:
Female Score: 815
Male Score: 1134
The Gender Genie thinks the author of this passage is: male!

Entry dated 17th May:
Female Score: 1153
Male Score: 1618
The Gender Genie thinks the author of this passage is: male!

Entry dated 14th May:
Female Score: 1154
Male Score: 1604
The Gender Genie thinks the author of this passage is: male!

Dude. That is harsh.]

Didn't smoke it.

Ha! That's probably a big lie!

Anyhoo. If you love me, and I know most of you do, you'll go here and sign this petition thingy that we've set up for the Mighty Boosh site, to get the Boosh Radio series released by the BBC. They're probably already made plans to release this - probably around Christmas time, or to coincide with the television series transferring to BBC2, but we'd like to think that we're doing something to line the pockets of Julian, Noel and Danny Wallace. And famous radio producer Danny Wallace does indeed do searches for his own name, so Hi Danny! Can we have a share of the profit you make from the radio release? Thanks!

To repeat: Sign it here.

I've just lost a huge post. This was a post that I've been writing since 5 o'clock, since I got back to the house having sat in lines of traffic for ages trying to make it to the gym with my sister, only to be suddenly reminded of the fact that I'm supposed to be at home because my granny is dropping over her mouse-sized dog for me to look after tonight, because I am the best of all grand children. So, to sum up today: I didn't get to go out, because Mrs D cancelled. I didn't get to go to the gym, which I honestly adore doing. I have to sit in the house mouse-sitting the tiny mouse dog who smashes things and barks and howls and runs away when I approach. And then my fabulously hilarious post about how I've successfully given up smoking but miraculously retained the constant craving for cigarettes has disappeared. Lordy.

So what I decided to do was take the two normal sized dogs for a walk down the field, because I thought sitting in some grass with Honey watching Butler run about would be a calming exercise. It really was. I felt relaxed, refreshed, able to face the world once more, even if the world was now throwing mouse-sized dogs at me. But upon our return, what did we find? The mouse-sized dog had wreaked havoc round and about the kitchen area, where I had left her (I thought) safely locked in. She'd pee-ed on the floor. She'd knocked over a plant. She'd smashed a giant ceramic pig. I despair.

Having mused on the topic of smoking, firstly this morning on the phone to the smug JC who, I'm sure, was smoking three cigarettes at one time JUST BECAUSE HE COULD; and then pondered the whole 'giving up' debacle that is my constant case in life right here in the hilarious post that is now lost forever, the moment that the giant ceramic pig looked up at me from it's now many different locations on the kitchen floor, I immediately remembered that I think I may well just have one lovely cigarette stashed away somewhere in my room. In the secret place. Where secret things are kept. Hm.

I aimed a kick at the mouse-sized dog's arse, decided better of it, walked calmly out of the kitchen and away from smashed pig, and then tore up the stairs to see if my inkling was true. Was there a cigarette in my room? Was there? WAS THERE?

Yes.

There was.

It's in my hand now. Unlit. But lovely. Totally stale - it's one given to me by Mrs D many moons ago, when we had been drunk, had been in the company of boys for the night, found ourselves overwrought at the end of the night having missed our last bus and decided To heck with it! and bought a pack of 20 between us. This is the one out of the four I took off her that I've got left. Should I?

(PS - It's important to note that, no matter what happens, I'm going to blog that I didn't smoke it tomorrow morning.)

I was about to start blogging today about how great my hair is (and it really is great. I'm going to marry the hairdresser at Blow just as soon as two ladies are allowed to get married in Ireland. And she accepts my proposal. And agrees to cut my hair for free forever more because, after all, she's my wife now and that's what wives are for), but then I heard some commotion downstairs and since it's just me, the two cats and the two dogs at home this week, I thought I'd better go investigate. The last time I heard a commotion downstairs when it was just me, cats and dogs at home, it turned out that the cat had discovered how to reach the budgie's cage, knocked the cage to the floor and escaped with the budgie in her mouth. The budgie died about half an hour later of what seemed to be a panic attack. Poor Bruce (the budgie was named after Bruce Grobbelaar, the then goalkeeper for Liverpool. Don't look at me like that. It was my Mum's idea).

When I got downstairs I found Honey lying face down on the floor, unable to get back up again, and waggling furiously as she heard my approach. She's so ridiculously cheerful in the worst situations, that dog. I'm not sure there is a human equivalent of that kind of optimism, or the amount of love that she exudes without asking for anything at all in return (except maybe a hand up once in a while when she's stuck on the lino floor and can't get enough grip to shunt herself back up to sitting position).

When we got Honey from the rescue centre ten months ago, we were told not to expect her to live for longer than about six months. She had some kind of wasting disease, they thought. She'd been quite badly neglected, over fed and under exercised, locked in a small outdoor compound with no shelter and no room to move other than sitting up and lying back down again. She was in the midst of a great depression where all she did was sit about and stare vacantly in to the distance. We agreed to take her home only because she was about to be put down. We essentially brought her home to die.

Ten months later, and she's toddling about like a maniac. She's alert, chirpy, ridiculously happy to see anyone at any time, and will eat anything at all handed to her. I've taught her to spoon with me - I lie on the floor and she toddles over and lies down in front of me, with her back up against my tummy, and my arms around her, and we spoon. I've also taught her to hug me - she lies down facing me and I lie facing her, and she puts her paw on to my shoulder and she puts her head on to my outstretched arm. And then breathes her evil dog breath in to my mouth. We don't do that one very often.

She was x-rayed at the vet a while ago, and it turns out that she doesn't have a wasting disease. What she has is a totally dislocated left back leg. Her hip is so out of place, it's difficult to see how the hell she ever walks on it, let alone toddles along at the pace that she does. This is why she falls over and can't get back up. This is why she can't walk up and down steps very well. This is why she gets so tired out even on short walks with us. It must be so incredibly painful. The moment me and Mum set eyes on the x-ray, we both started crying just a little bit, because of the way that she's improved so much in temperament. This is a dog that literally actually hugs you. Her right hip is very worn away with arthritis, having had to take the full weight of her body for so long. Obviously, since we don't have her history, we don't know how her hip was originally dislocated, but chances are she was hit by a car, and never got any medical attention. The very thought of that makes me want to go out and beat the people that allowed her to suffer so much with my bare hands until they stop breathing.

JC texted me to say I should probably be writing chapter three of my new book: Little Red Riding Head and the Scruffy Woodcutter. I can't imagine who he thinks I'd base that character on.

One thing I've just learnt: when the Wham! song Freedom is playing downstairs, and you're upstairs, and there's no one else in the house, and you're kind of lost in thought, the Wham! song Freedom is the creepiest sounding song ever in the world. That would totally fit in to a film where someone was stalking someone else through a house. With a knife. And a mask. And some kind of deformity.

I've got to go check all the windows are bolted now. Excuse me.

Icky clown alert! Icky clown alert! You have been warned.

Things that I do when I've other things to do: (a continuing series)

6. This irritating comedy quiz. I've got my Mum involved now. We've both got better things to do. I'm currently sitting on 86 right, with 5 'close'. I think it's a spelling problem - and not my spelling, but that of the gimmer who designed this quiz. Even so. I'm going to spend the rest of the night on this.

I had quite a late-into-the-night style conversation last night, and one of the many topics that ran around our tired brains, waving and wobbling, and then flew off when we were distracted by the fact that one of us was on television or when we both immediately forgot what we were talking about and started talking about something else mid sentence (for this is the way conversations with me shape up when it's past midnight and my tired subconscious starts the dream process without informing my conscious brain to switch off)... this sentence is too long. One of the things that we talked about was nicknames, and specifically the things that we call each other on our blogs.

Between a little group of us, we've come up with so many stupid, varied ways of referring to each other. For example, Mrs D is named at any given moment after the person she last expressed a romantic interest in, and this changes according to the last embarrassing admission she makes to me while under the influence of alcohol. She refers to me as Vicky, because I was once unwise enough to tell her that two different people had told me I looked like the new Vicky Fowler in EastEnders. For the record, I don't. On other sites, she's referred to by reference to the career she has chosen, and is mocked remorselessly for it. Still she never learns.

Last night, the other end of the phone call referred to himself as "comfy". Mind you, this is a person who refers to me as "perky", so I think both his powers of perception and description are due for a check up.

I've never had many nicknames in my life. I think my christian name is appalling, and really not one I would have chosen for myself or anyone I know or liked or cared about or even just met and had to christen on the spot for no good reason. I'd hate for someone to name someone else after me, not because I wouldn't be incredibly touched and grateful for the gesture, but just because I wouldn't wish such a rubbish name with such rubbish connotations on anyone. There hasn't been a single Sharon, either real or fictional, that has added anything of worth to the world. Even changing the images at the top of the page has been a challenge, because when searching for images relating to "Sharon", you get a long parade of ugly, middle aged American women, or young flushed-looking American women holding babies.

So it's difficult to get anything cool from my name. In primary school James and Lisa, two kids that lived around the corner from me, used to call me "Shaddan", said with your tongue firmly planted in front of your bottom teeth, while flapping your hands in front of your face. This was apparently hilarious. My Uncle Paddy calls me "Sharry Barry", and he is the only person in the world that would ever get away with it. In college I was called "Bob" only because there were three Sharons in my year, and we all answered when anyone called. They chose the name Bob, I think, after the character in Blackadder. So that's okay. One of my sister's friends calls me "Shazza-bing", I've never been sure why, and that's quite cool. Although I wouldn't encourage excessive use, or list it on my passport. Finally, Susan christened me Shazzle about 4 years ago, because we decided we should probably have pet names for each other, and I've stuck with that. I'm only ever referred to as Shazzle in print though.

I never use my real name posting on other blogs, or on message boards. I rarely even sign as "Shazzle". More often than not I use one of two names, chosen from very obscure sources. One is an old character name of Richard Herring's, never even used on anything that was actually broadcast. The other is a character referred to only once by name in an old The Pod sketch by the genius Julian Barratt. They are both genderless names, but people still tend to assume that I'm a bloke when I post under either of those names. And, weirdly, take me more seriously than if I sign "Shazzle".

So, to try and get the comments section used a teeny bit, please share the stories of your nicknames. Or suggest some nicknames for me. Or just, I don't know, post abuse.

I have many games that I play when I'm supposed to be doing something else. Many of them involve the internet. Quite a few more involve my mobile phone. Some of them involve my DVD player and television, and sometimes also my cat, but most things evolve from and revolve around the internet. This is because when I'm supposed to be doing something, it's usually something that involves the computer, and my computer has the added attraction of the internet. I don't know if you've heard of the internet? It's great. I will today be sharing with you some of my internet games. These are most fun when played when you are supposed to be doing something else.

1. Typing in the names of people that you like, and then adding .blogspot.com. This has had some very fine results for me. More often than not, you end up at this page, but sometimes you strike lucky, lucky gold and can then stalk the minor celebrity or old school friend or ex-boyfriend of your choice through their weblog, and learn all kinds of things. If it's minor celebrities you're after, then it's best to stick to people who have appeared in television adverts, or whose career seems to be tumbling down the pan. It also helps if the minor celebrity / old school friend / ex-boyfriend of your choice is a little bit geeky.

2. I have started to submit to my sitecode names of celebrities that I know google themselves. Des Bishop has just outed himself as one who googles his own name, and so he is added to my list. Richard Keith Herring also admits to doing this a lot. As apparently does Chris Evans. And Jon Ronson. And brilliant comedian Gareth Tunley (Gareth does a bit more than is healthy, actually). It's fun! You too can get minor celebrities, failed television producers and weird documentary makers to come to your website!

3. I write lists of the stupid things that I do on the internet to fill in time so that I'm not actually doing the thing that I'm supposed to be doing, which in this case at this time is writing up profiles of people that have previously worked with The Mighty Boosh for themightyboosh.co.uk website, as this section has to go online in the next two days, before the telly show goes on air, and I just can't be bothered to find out more information on radio producer and professional best friend Danny Wallace. I really can't. I wonder does Wallace google himself much...

4. Text swear words to people, from your mobile phone to their mobile phone. Me and Mrs D do this a lot to each other, particularly when sending normal, and otherwise quite polite and practical text messages. Whoever gets to "cunt" first wins, but also finishes to game. Best not peak too soon.

I really need to get on with profiling Danny Wallace. When the Friends page of The Boosh site goes live, I'll tell you, and you can see if you can find the three falsehoods that I've deliberately made up in order to piss off the girl who writes a rival boosh website, the one more inferior to our's, the one who has ripped off all the work that we've done in the last six years, the one stamping all over the heart of what used to be Comedy Lounge... Oh yeah!

5. I try to start up stupidly pointless rivalries between websites. Emp*rium of Mirth? Emp*rium of Shit, more like.

I don't like new look blogger! It am ugly! It am all different and ugly! New look blogger ugly and bad! It's like the new version of Chortle. Too difficult to navigate. Why must people mess about with perfectly acceptable designs? I don't like change.

Also, it told me that I have made 481 posts to blogger since I started this blog, which is far too many in anyone's book, and makes me feel a bit wobbly. The wobbly could also be caused by spending the last three days, almost completely, in Mrs D's company. Ah, Mrs D. What can one say about Mrs D? She's fond of cheese, I'll tell you that much. A little too fond, if you know what I mean... and I think you do.

We went to see Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind yesterday on a cinema screen near us (Dun Laoghaire, fact fans), and we enjoyed it terribly much. There's also a website for Lacuna Inc, the company that have perfected the erasing of bad memories. The beautiful moment near the beginning of the film where Joel comes in from his first date with Clementine and then succumbs to the temptation to immediately phone her to tell her it was the best night of his life is so reminiscent of ridiculous conversations with people that I've had that I clapped my hands with joy like the mental patient that I am and decided that I love Charlie Kauffman. We watched three of his films this weekend. That's three more films than I've watched in about the same number of months. Get me! I'm like Jonathan Ross. In some way.

Oh lord, I can't write for toffee today. I got my hair cut this morning, and I think like Samson all of my blogging power has left me and is now lying on the floor of Blow in Bagott Street. How irritating. Now my blog is just going to have entries like

"Juz came home from dinner...and supper.kinda bored..maybe gonna do some chem questions later...sighZ..aiyah. too lazy to blog. another time."

(I found this here. Such a great title for such a rubbish blog. Like virtually everything in the blogosphere.)

God. You should all blame JC for this post. He called me lazy, after I called him lazy, and now I've produced this just to take up space.

Finally, I seem to have been a bit cliquey and exclusive when inviting people to leave comments. Those people listed are obliged to leave comments, since they are all my be-yatches and part of my gang, of which I am the leader. But everyone who reads this are all very welcome - more than welcome, cordially invited to leave comments, no matter how profound or profane. Thanks much.

I have decided to decorate the blog, because this 'everything in boxes' style appeals to my need to keep everything in order, separate and accounted for, but doesn't really do much for the aesthetics of the site. So for the next few weeks I will be putting up images on the right hand side of the most recent post. For the time being, they will all be images found when you put in a search for my name.

You might also like to note the fact that I've finally cracked the code and worked out why, before now, I couldn't get comments on the blog. And now I can. Because I rock. Mrs D, JC, Dave Mum, Eoin, Susan, H - I expect to see your smart alec comments any moment now.

It's funny how one little thing can completely change your mind about a person.

It's no big secret - mainly because I've posted about it, even if only vaguely, and because you've read it with your eyes and brain - that I've been having quite a horrible stressful time this last week. Things have a habit of arriving all at once, and when you have one big problem, lots of little ones come along to jump on the back of the first problem, and they all lean heavily on top of you until you have a little panic attack and decide to become a nun and move to an island where there are no men, telephones, televisions, internets, cigarettes or mental disorders. Or at least of the mental disorders that are present on this Island of Nuns, they are disorders that manifest themselves only as singing on mountain sides or at goat herds.

Because when you have one giant problem, all other little problems for the meantime fade in to the background and you throw all your energy at the big problem, trying to beat it down to submission, but all the time you're fighting with the main problem, you don't notice that the little problems have crawled up behind you and are cheering on the big problem, and passing the big problem sticks and other basic weapons with which to beat you to a bloody pulp. And when the big problem finds itself with the advantage, all the other little problems chose that moment to jump on top of you and pull you right under.

So yesterday was the day that all the little problems decided to pounce, and despite the fact that I'd had the first lovely full night's sleep in over a week, the little problems had me blindsided, and managed to reduce me to a gibbering wreck for most of the afternoon, and caused me to snap at the very people that were trying to offer me support. It is always safest to lash out at those people who you know you can trust, because they will be the ones most willing to forgive your fits of gibbering.

But that which doesn't kill you makes you stronger (a saying that my physio has really taken to heart), and today I'm feeling much better for the minor collapse of mind and spirit that I experienced yesterday. The assistance of alcohol and the poison of cigarettes last night also helped me on to this road of recovery (although obviously every cigarette is doing you damage, and just say 'no', kids).

Myself and Mrs D* took to the comedy club last night, because it's traditional now for us, and more a matter of habit than choice. Last night's gig was quite the adventure, because we had never seen all but two of the acts before, and of the two that we had seen, one of them did all new material. We do appreciate the effort put in by Irish comedians to change their routines, a discipline sadly lacking in their London counterparts. What the size of the Irish scene loses in the variety of comedians it makes up for in demanding that they change their routine more often that they change their shoes. At the end of the day, as we raced each other home on our respective Nite Links (she won, but that's merely because her journey is literally shorter than mine, and therefore she always wins - I should really think these race challenges through more clearly), the Island of Nuns was happily looking a bit further away.


*Mrs B has experienced a name change, due to her changing allegiances to another Mr Man whom she adores and wants to hold hands with and marry and make breakfast for. I am not allowed to reveal the identity of her Mr D, although it is safe to say that this is a man who really likes cheese.

It's been a really intense few days, and it's not over yet, and I'm so tired I feel like my eyes are going to fall right out of my head and roll away out of arm's reach, and to be honest I wouldn't mind if they did because at least then it'd be dark and if it's dark then maybe I could get some sleep. And I run from sad to happy to hysterically upset to slightly bored to grumpy to cheery to scared to relieved in the space of a minute, and sometimes I forget what I was saying or listening to or hearing or talking about or where I am.

It's funny how one event that pops up out of nowhere can change everything you had planned. Nothing else seems important right now, but everything else is lovely to think about so that you're not thinking about the one thing that needs the most attention.

I was walking along the sea front today, blinded by the sun and blinded by the fact that I was awake again, again, and so soon after I had been awake before, with the time in between, the time for sleeping, so short and unfairly cut off in it's prime. And I was staring at the sea, walking along, walking in that silence you can have between friends that either means you're both incredibly comfortable in each other's company that nothing needs to be said, or that you've been talking about the same things over and over again since Thursday night and nothing else can be said, or that you're both too tired from talking about the same things over and over again and you can't talk because if you start talking you'll forget how to walk and fall in to the sea, and I was thinking about that stupid phrase that goes "you can choose your friends but you can't choose your family". And I don't think that's true. I don't think you choose your friends. I think your friends choose you.

I've got lots of friends, most of whom I never make even the most passing of references to on this blog, because they either don't know that I keep this blog and I don't want to go talking behind their backs, or because they do know I keep this blog and have asked me not to talk about them because they're important and special and don't want their secrets revealed to the world because of the inevitable assassin attempts that would be sure to follow. And some of the people that read this blog know some of my friends, and I can't say things about anyone for fear that information would pass in to the evil hands of others who would then use it against them and I would be in trouble and not have as many friends as previously. And especially over the last few days I've been going through things that I'd desperately love to blog about, even just so I could get them out of my system and inflict them on to the internet instead, but I can't talk about them, because it's not my place.

Blogs are really difficult to police. You can't ban people from coming to them, much as you'd like to. You have to be really careful about who you write about and what you say, because things hang around on the net and come back to bite you. Lots of people I know read this, and lots of people I don't know read this, and some people that I do know but I don't think read this probably do read this, and some people I really don't like at all read this, and you're supposed to write everything bearing everyone in mind. And a lot of the time all you want to do is leave jokes for JC and Mrs Bishop - because all we ever talk about is each other's blogs, and nothing else - and you can't do that because that would be mean.

So I was walking along the sea front this morning, and I was thinking about all of the above, and I thought I'd try to write it down, instead of writing down what I'd really like to.

Mrs Bishop and I had a trip out last night, to take a break, and we thought that going to the comedy club would make a lovely and inviting distraction from the day's events. So we wandered in to town, forgetting that it was the 1st of May and that people would vaguely protesting about stuff, and that the army and police would be firing water cannons around for no reason, and that there would be more dreadlocks than usual around the place.

When we got to the pub that holds the comedy, we stood outside, with Mrs B having a smoke and me finishing off the first thing I'd remembered to eat all day, and to the right of us we watched the comedians turning up for the night to whore themselves on stage for the sake of other's entertainment. To the left of us, we watched the queue of others form, ready to laugh at the monkey men (for it was all men) willing to embarrass themselves with their own words and deeds. And we decided that we wouldn't go to the comedy because (a) we were able to recite word for word every joke that would be said that night by every comedian that turned up and because (b) some of the crowd were there together, with hats on, calling themselves a stag night. Stag nights and hen nights are the anti-christs of comedy crowds, and we would bear no witness to them. Mrs B and myself therefore decided to sit downstairs in pub below the comedy because we could think of no better place to go. We decided that this particular pub would be the one drinking establishment in Dublin that night with the least dreadlocks.

So we spent the night talking about boys, about politics, about alcohol, for a few memorable moments about football with an old drunk man called Noel, and then again about boys. We would take breaks occasionally from the talk to stand outside while Mrs B had a cigarette, and we'd talk - but this time in the open air - about boys.

I think the smoking ban is lovely. But my reasons for thinking this have changed dramatically since the ban came in. The smoking ban is a horror for many reasons, and not least because everywhere now STINKS to high heaven of things that you couldn't smell when there was cigarette smoke. Beer makes you fart and burp and now all you can smell are farts and burps. Beer falls on floors in pubs and gets soaked in to the carpets and now all you can smell are stinky stale beer carpets. People go to and from the toilet all the time in pubs and now all you can smell is the waft of toilet perfume every time the toilet doors are opened. People get hot and sweaty when it's warm and crowded in pubs and now all you can smell is hot, sweaty, beery, farty, burpy, toilety people. And because you've given up smoking due to the smoking ban, you can smell these things even more clearly than before.

But the smoking ban is also lovely because now you have to go outside in groups to smoke. You stand outside in the lovely, fresh spring weather, on these lovely balmy nights, and the outside of the pub is so much more fun than the inside of the pub. It's the same as when you used to be in school and had to go hide in the woods at the back of the school grounds to have your cigarette break at lunchtime (and then spray each other with perfume and deodorant and body spray to hide the smell of the B&H that you'd nicked off your mum and eat polo mints all afternoon), and you'd all be crowded around the same lighter and you'd all be in this clique that was so cool and grown up and secret and dangerous and you're all in the same gang and it's great. It's great to be in a gang with a group identity, it's great to be an outsider and a rebel. And you get to meet some right nut jobs while standing outside pubs.

Last night we met a man from Shropshire who didn't like living in Shropshire, who gave both me and Mrs B a special hug that managed to involve touching our breasts and then tried to kiss Mrs B on the mouth; we met a young bloke from Dublin with a tight white t-shirt on who wanted to know who to infiltrate the May Day anarchists, because he said he was working for the CIA; we met a man who was a musician who was meeting the Pope the next day in Rome and offered to say prayers for us until I told him I was protestant and then he leapt away from me as if he had been burnt; we met another man who tried to buy grass off us and when we told him we had no grass tried to sell grass to us.

It was all more entertaining than the comedy ever could have been.

Too tired. Proper update tomorrow, probably. Just go here, to watch nine naked men walking down a road. It's really funny. Heap of Trouble is a short film about naked men singing and parading through a Cardiff housing estate, recruiting other men to join them. Turn the volume up very loud so you can hear the full beauty of the song.