BOYFRIEND JACKETS

You may remember (it's not impossible) a post we did on BOYPANTS.

Well ... here's a similar one which unfortunately is on BOYFRIEND JACKETS.

I ended the BOYPANTS one like this:

Finally, these BOYPANTS, you'll be relieved to learn, are not for BOYS. They're for GIRLS.

I will use the template (hell knows, it's mine) to end this one also.

Finally, these BOYFRIEND JACKETS, you'll be relieved to learn, are not for BOYFRIENDS. They're for GIRLFRIENDS.

There, job done. Now, if you don't mind, I will return to my delusion of normalcy.

We Will Kill You!!!

Last night I dreamt that the Daily Record [1] were hunting me down in Edinburgh with extreme prejudice.

They had sent me an email saying simply:

We will find you
and We will kill you

I started off hiding in the Bow Bar but they got wind that I was there so I had to leave. I headed over to the Oxford. I was just having a pint of St Andrews and one of these strange macaroni pies when I sensed that they were closing in on me again. My friends must have been blabbing about my favoured bars. None of the good pubs were safe anymore. I was forced to spend all eternity drinking fizzy-keg in southside shitholes.

It was a horrible, horrible dream but when I woke up, strangely, I wished it wasn't over.

[1] That nice Lynn Davidson sent me the following email:

From: l.davidson@dailyrecord.co.uk
Sent: 06 October 2009 01:01:14
To: musters
I will be out of the office starting 05/10/2009 and will not return until
08/10/2009. However, you can always get me on 07778 133 179.
Best regards,
Lynn

So there's her number and, as she says, you can ALWAYS get her on it.

Gaby Roslin and Rudimentary Peni

If I hadn't read this here on Wikipedia, I simply would not believe it!

Her Calling

On the radio this morning we (the listener) were subjected to a Church of Ireland priest (I believe priest is the right term) who was discussing her calling.

Apparently, God first spoke to her about the matter when she was only 15. He said to her simply, "You could do that". In fact she thought "I could do that" but it was definately God who made her think up the idea. At that time, sadly, women (especially 15 year old ones) weren't allowed into the protestant priesthood but clearly God wasn't aware of that. He didn't leave the matter there though.

Years later, when she had a career in the civil service He called again. This time God had done some proper due diligence. Woman had just been allowed into the church. She didn't give in so easy though. In her own words (which I took off the radio):

"I turned round to God and said look 'I have a brilliant career, with a pension and a company car ... surely I don't have to give it all up!'".

God told her she did. So she did. And she never looked back. Now the delusional old bat tells people about it on the radio.

The Unborn Chicken

For lunch today I had chicken done two ways: hatched and unhatched. Or to put it another way, chicken and young chicken. To make it clearer still, I had chicken and egg.

I was trying out my young chicken line on the 'chef' and he found it hilarious. I told him he could use it. Me to him. No way, he said. I could never say that!

You see, in Ireland, whilst it is legal to eat eggs, the legality of referring to them as young chickens is untested. It opens up a BIG socio-ecumenical mine field and today, when Ireland votes YES to Lisbon, we'll find the rights of the unborn chicken firmly guaranteed, not only in Irish but, in European law.

Cromwell's Bladder

Here's my new water jug which I always take into meetings and folks always say "Fancy!" by which they mean "Twat!". You suck up the water from the little teet at the top.

According to scientists, the water in the jug contains at least one molecule that has passed through the bladder of Oliver Cromwell. This is because, apparently, there is more molecules of water in this jug than there are jugs of water in all the oceans of the world.

As far as I understand, the water has not passed through the bowels of any other significant historical figures. Only that bastard Cromwell.

Meteorologists, Boston, MA

In America they don't have weather men or women. They are grandly referred to as meteorologists. They also like to piss about and generally have a swell time.

It's hot, damn hot. Now let's goof about with some graphics for the next 2 minutes.

Peets, Boston, MA

Hats off to Peets Coffee in Harvard Square for the sizes of their coffee.

Who knew that coffee came in anything so simple as small, medium or large.

Go to Peets and you don't have to feel like a pretentious prick by asking for a fucking Grandey.

Leavitt & Peirce, Boston MA

This is the famous Leavitt & Peirce in Boston's Harvard Square. These folks specialise in all things cigar. They also have some cool baseball memorabilia but mostly it's just cigar stuff. Cutters, humidors, leather cigar pouches. Cigars rolled on the breasts of gorgeous dusky maidens from sun-soaked tropical islands. All the accoutrements a cigar aficionado could possibly desire.

Except .. what was it again?

Oh yes. No Cubans. What a monumental waste of fucking time!

Second Pour Shite

Apologies for the belated posting on Thursday's monumental Arthur's Day. But, good things come to those who wait.

To get the "perfect" pint of Guinness the time between the first and second pour must be precisely 119.53 pub seconds. This is to allow the organisms in the nitrogen to grow the perilous N₂ compounds which, in turn, create enough energy to burn or decay back into nitrogen gas and flow into your pint.

If you were to start the second pour after 119.52 seconds or wait until 119.54 seconds, this would render the porter entirely unpotable.

Happy Birthday Sir Arthur!