Illness, maybe prostituting myself, and proof of God
Hello one and all.
First things first, a big heads up to Andrew Marr, who it would seem I've met before, judging by his recent comments that bloggers are: "socially inadequate, pimpled, single, slightly seedy, bald, cauliflower-nosed young men sitting in their mother's basements and ranting". I'm sorry Andy, I don't remember having met you before, but Ah!, I no longer live my mother.
I bet you feel foolish now.
Also, welcome to the flock, new sheep Diana, while just behind her, limping slightly but otherwise unruffled, Clare has emerged from the wilderness of pregnanthood, and owing to the fact that here she's a sheep, confusingly somehow able to read. I should also point out that she took exception to the fact that I mentioned her husband, Patrick, and his desire to help the world through the super power medium of thievery and boob-touching enabled invisibility, while I neglected to mention her super ability to eat whatever she wanted without ever getting fat. Clare, consider this rectified. With this crime-cornering couple on our side, we'll all be able to sleep well, safe in the knowledge that should mischieviousness present itself in the form of food, boobs or unattended money, they'll have our backs. Breathe a sigh of relief, planet.
I mention that Diana is new to the party, this despite her being of my acquaintance for some time now. How rude! But, better late than never. Diana loves jokes like fatties love cake, but unfortunately rarely understands them. Many of my jokes are not exactly overly cerebral (or even underly), and yet they go over her head like the guillotine's blade and midgets. Which is apt, because she is short. I told her this joke a couple of weeks ago, and she didn't get it. However, it's currently my favour joke, so here it is:
Why did Hitler never drink gin?
Because it made him angry.
* I should point out that this is in no way an original Michael Nimmo production.
In the last week or so, I'm not unsorry to say that I've not been in tip-top shape. I feel I've slipped into a bit of a funk, as is my occasional want, and possibly connected to this or not, my immune system has been attacked by the evil agent that Italian's know as The Flu, while hardier northern types know as Just A Bad Cold. When I tell people this, they look sad and ask me what my temperature is, before inevitably meeting my response of "Smmmmokin'!" with confusion in their eyes as it's no longer 1994, and I imagine that the catchphrase from The Mask didn't translate so well. It would seem that at birth all children here are given a divine ability to cook better than any other nationality, a propensity to ignore rules, and a thermometer. I think that if I have a fever I feel hot and a bit spaced out, and if it gets any worse I'll worry about it then. Knowing the exact temperature of my mouth (or other orifice, which frankly doesn't bear thinking about for me, let alone you. But the image is there now, and you're welcome) really won't make any difference to me, as I don't know what temperature I should be. Despite this near incapacitating bout of the sniffles, you'll be pleased to hear I've been a big boy about it and complained only once or twice an hour. Real progress, right there.
Aware that my gamma-radiated mind has a threshold whereafter everything becomes a haze of green and smashing, I've been busy looking for new lodgings, as previously mentioned. Looking at the lower end of the market means inevitably looking at the same places that mysterious ladies of the night would probably call their 'boudoirs'. This is apt, as I've found out that I can monetise this blog, thus whoring myself out for your brief bi-weekly amusement. Oh, and I'm also dead inside. We should be friends, we've so much in common.
A blog by me wouldn't be a blog by me without an overblown part about football. But today I don't want to type at you about football. No. Gather round, as I tell you a story about a humble man. A man born in this century, but of the flowing hair and beard of another man born 2000 years ago. A man born in the cultural heart of Italy, Tuscany, just well-thrown stones from Pisa and Florence. A man called Marco Rossi. A man who is clearly the living embodiment of Some People's Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ. A man who lit up a drab game with Catania at the weekend with his celestial majesty. Some would have you believe that he arrived in the Catania box to score by a complex system of moving muscles in his legs. I posit instead that he was carried on the backs of angels to score the only goal of the game, sending the dreaded Siciallians back to their island rueful, regretful and empty-handed. In case you haven't realised, I was a bit drunk at the game, but only really the Goldilocks amount. He really is my favourite player here, and I have nothing but entirely hetrosexual love for the man. If you're a beautiful game-lover, check this out. I think it's Rossi's defining moment on the final goal, as glory grabbing was within his grasp, but he played the sensible ball to win the game:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MDztFQyxIaE&feature=related
Braw.
Right, I think that's all for you for now
Until next time, keep watching the skies.
Ciao :)
First things first, a big heads up to Andrew Marr, who it would seem I've met before, judging by his recent comments that bloggers are: "socially inadequate, pimpled, single, slightly seedy, bald, cauliflower-nosed young men sitting in their mother's basements and ranting". I'm sorry Andy, I don't remember having met you before, but Ah!, I no longer live my mother.
I bet you feel foolish now.
Also, welcome to the flock, new sheep Diana, while just behind her, limping slightly but otherwise unruffled, Clare has emerged from the wilderness of pregnanthood, and owing to the fact that here she's a sheep, confusingly somehow able to read. I should also point out that she took exception to the fact that I mentioned her husband, Patrick, and his desire to help the world through the super power medium of thievery and boob-touching enabled invisibility, while I neglected to mention her super ability to eat whatever she wanted without ever getting fat. Clare, consider this rectified. With this crime-cornering couple on our side, we'll all be able to sleep well, safe in the knowledge that should mischieviousness present itself in the form of food, boobs or unattended money, they'll have our backs. Breathe a sigh of relief, planet.
I mention that Diana is new to the party, this despite her being of my acquaintance for some time now. How rude! But, better late than never. Diana loves jokes like fatties love cake, but unfortunately rarely understands them. Many of my jokes are not exactly overly cerebral (or even underly), and yet they go over her head like the guillotine's blade and midgets. Which is apt, because she is short. I told her this joke a couple of weeks ago, and she didn't get it. However, it's currently my favour joke, so here it is:
Why did Hitler never drink gin?
Because it made him angry.
* I should point out that this is in no way an original Michael Nimmo production.
In the last week or so, I'm not unsorry to say that I've not been in tip-top shape. I feel I've slipped into a bit of a funk, as is my occasional want, and possibly connected to this or not, my immune system has been attacked by the evil agent that Italian's know as The Flu, while hardier northern types know as Just A Bad Cold. When I tell people this, they look sad and ask me what my temperature is, before inevitably meeting my response of "Smmmmokin'!" with confusion in their eyes as it's no longer 1994, and I imagine that the catchphrase from The Mask didn't translate so well. It would seem that at birth all children here are given a divine ability to cook better than any other nationality, a propensity to ignore rules, and a thermometer. I think that if I have a fever I feel hot and a bit spaced out, and if it gets any worse I'll worry about it then. Knowing the exact temperature of my mouth (or other orifice, which frankly doesn't bear thinking about for me, let alone you. But the image is there now, and you're welcome) really won't make any difference to me, as I don't know what temperature I should be. Despite this near incapacitating bout of the sniffles, you'll be pleased to hear I've been a big boy about it and complained only once or twice an hour. Real progress, right there.
Aware that my gamma-radiated mind has a threshold whereafter everything becomes a haze of green and smashing, I've been busy looking for new lodgings, as previously mentioned. Looking at the lower end of the market means inevitably looking at the same places that mysterious ladies of the night would probably call their 'boudoirs'. This is apt, as I've found out that I can monetise this blog, thus whoring myself out for your brief bi-weekly amusement. Oh, and I'm also dead inside. We should be friends, we've so much in common.
A blog by me wouldn't be a blog by me without an overblown part about football. But today I don't want to type at you about football. No. Gather round, as I tell you a story about a humble man. A man born in this century, but of the flowing hair and beard of another man born 2000 years ago. A man born in the cultural heart of Italy, Tuscany, just well-thrown stones from Pisa and Florence. A man called Marco Rossi. A man who is clearly the living embodiment of Some People's Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ. A man who lit up a drab game with Catania at the weekend with his celestial majesty. Some would have you believe that he arrived in the Catania box to score by a complex system of moving muscles in his legs. I posit instead that he was carried on the backs of angels to score the only goal of the game, sending the dreaded Siciallians back to their island rueful, regretful and empty-handed. In case you haven't realised, I was a bit drunk at the game, but only really the Goldilocks amount. He really is my favourite player here, and I have nothing but entirely hetrosexual love for the man. If you're a beautiful game-lover, check this out. I think it's Rossi's defining moment on the final goal, as glory grabbing was within his grasp, but he played the sensible ball to win the game:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MDztFQyxIaE&feature=related
Braw.
Right, I think that's all for you for now
Until next time, keep watching the skies.
Ciao :)
posted by michael | 11:38
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