May the farce be with you…

Whilst travelling on the tube this evening, I saw a poster for a phone network that had Yoda on a poolside diving board. Yoda!

It just didn’t sit right with me. Or maybe I should say: “sit right with me, it did not”.

Star Wars is sacred and awesome.

Fact.

I’ll even concede that the prequels, despite being nowhere near as good as the original trilogy, weren’t all bad…except for Jar Jar (I’sa wanting to punchy puncha da fishyfacey Binks betcha betcha). So to see the wise green Jedi master reduced to advertising talk plans makes me want to go all Bantha-shit crazy on their asses and shove a lightsaber up their thermal exhaust ports.

Come on George, have some dignity!

I’ve also seen Darth Vader advertising all sorts of shit in the past. Unless its Ventolin or black Turtle Wax, it’s not on!

I have a bad feeling about this.

So please don’t allow Chewbacca to start promoting hair straighteners, or Queen Amidala start advertising make up. It’ll break my heart.

And don’t even think about touching R2-D2; there will be blood.

Bleep bloop beep booweeeeee!

You said it R2.

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Retro art?

This has appeared on a wall near work.

alien-wall

This is either an awesome piece of retro art, or a warning that they’re coming!

This makes me wonder; if Anakin Skywalker eats a meal that just isn’t filling enough, does that mean there’s Space In Vader?

(Groan)

You snooze you lose.

This morning I did that rare thing of waking up a whole minute before my alarm went off. This instantly sent a rush of mixed feelings through me.

On one hand I’m as chuffed as chips that my body clock is so cool it can tell when I’m supposed to be getting up. If it had a voice it would casually lean over to me and smugly say “who needs a clock when I’m this good?”, but it can’t…so I’ll shut up.

On the other hand I’m deprived of that gorgeous sensation when you realise you’ve got hours left of sleep and can snuggle back into your warm pillow and rejoin your old maths teacher and her pet unicorn, Alan, as they try and navigate through your old school (which looks suspiciously like your place of work) en route to finding the washing machine that will finally clean the chicken you’re hoping to cook for dinner when Michael Jackson comes to visit.

(Dreams; they make no sense. They’re daft and ridiculous, and yet we don’t question or challenge them, despite most if us being intelligent and rationally minded individuals. No, instead we just blindly go with it. A lot like watching TOWIE really).

So I was a bit annoyed laying there in bed looking at my alarm clock as I knew that going back to sleep wasn’t an option. In 60 seconds or less I was about to be ripped from ‘Operation Chickenwash’ by some twat on the radio trying to be funny.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. (This minute is taking longer than usual)

And there it was. The loud and unfunny drivel from some mindless fool blaring out of my clock radio to remind me I had another exciting day in the office before the weekend.

I reach over, fumble a bit and -click-

The snooze button.

Aaaaaaaah, that’s better. See you in 9 minutes sucker.

By the way, why is it 9 minutes? Why not 10…or 8? I think it originated in Germany:

Klaus – “It is time to get up out of ze bed Hans”
Hans – “But I vant to sleep longer”
Klaus – “Ok, shall I vake you in a few minutes?”
Hans – “Nein”

I could be wrong of course…

But that said, I am the king of the snooze button, the lord of lazy, the duke of…well you get what I mean. At weekends I’ve been known to snooze for up to 4 hours. I love it. I can’t get enough of it. If only I could put a snooze button on people…that would be nice. Maybe I’ll have the word ‘snooze’ tattooed on my knuckles. At least I’ll get 9 minutes peace.

I then start doing that thing where I tell myself when I’m going to get up. It’s usually on one of the 5 minute intervals; for example…I’ll get up at quarter past. But then I accidentally snooze till 16 minutes past. Do I get straight up as promised? Do I fuck! Now I tell myself I’m going to get up at 20 past. But then the song on the radio is one of my favourites, so I’ll get up AFTER its finished and captain twat is back. Oh, but by then it’s 22 minutes past. Ok, I’ll get up at half past.

I was late leaving the house today.

Wednesday wafflers

Just starting to doze off on the train when we pull into a station and loads of people get on. Now this is fine as it’s an every day occurrence…however, today as a woman walks past there’s a voice from the seat behind me that says “Karen??”

She turns around, clearly recognising the owner of the annoyingly plummy voice.

Woman – “oh my god how are you??”
Man – “I’m fine, how are you?”
Woman – “so good to see you, how ARE you?” (Which, by the way, is the same question)
Man – “yeah I’m good thanks, how are things?” (Again, same question)
Woman – “shall we sit here behind Dan and talk super loud so he can’t sleep?”
Man – “absolutely, and if possible let’s try and disturb all these other commuters who are also clearly trying to sleep, or read, or work”

She sits next to him.

Woman – “blah blah blah”
Man – “blah blah blah”

Blah blah blah blah blah ha ha ha ha! blah blah blah blah oh I know! blah blah blah blah really? blah blah blah ha ha ha! blah blah blah…..

Ad nauseam.

Oh the looks they’re getting. Oh the stares. Oh the multitude of headphones being fished out of bags and pockets to drown the endless noise emitting from these waffling wankers.

The headlines tomorrow will read: ‘commuter strangles couple with headphones’

I hope they do it quietly; I’m trying to sleep…

Wired for sound…

Picture the scene.

A curvy young black woman sat next to me on the train, with FAR too much foundation, more extensions than than a call centre and hoop earrings a parrot could sit in.

She has 2 phones that are both on FULL VOLUME which she keeps checking every 3 seconds just in case she’s missed a text; switching them back and forth in her hand like a croupier with a deck of fucking annoying beeping cards. The multitude of messages are coming in thick and fast and here’s nothing like the pop pop pop of the keyboard as she types awkwardly with 2 inch blue fingernails. This is in addition to the click click click of her talons hitting the glass.

Of course, the noise of the phones have to be at FULL VOLUME so she can hear them over her Dr Dre Beats headphones banging out some generic R&B for all of us to enjoy. I mean, shes looking AT these phones without blinking, AND she keeps them from going into standby (the phones are screaming “come on luv, let us rest, we’re knackered!!”), so why the FULL VOLUME?

Also, she MUST be serious about her music. I mean, Dr Dre Beats headphones right? Why else would you spend triple figures on headphones?

THEY’RE FUCKING HEADPHONES!

Ah, she can’t hear me. Maybe I’ll text her….

Caught in a trap…

Ever walked under a tree, or between a couple of houses, and had a spider’s web draped across your face or hair? To me it’s a similar feeling to finding a hair in your food, but only once it’s in your mouth. My ‘go to’ reaction in either circumstance is “Aargh! Bleurgh! Get it away from me! Yuck yuck yuck!”

So as you can see, I handle it like a man.

But it got me thinking about these invisible tickling threads of stress and anguish. Well, actually it got me thinking about a couple of things.

1. What were they trying to achieve?
2. How did they get it across such an expanse?

So lets look at number 1.

I know the purpose of a spider’s web (or cobweb…although I’ve no idea what a cob is) is to catch unwitting flies and bugs for dinner. This in itself must be difficult as a fly’s eyes are huge and therefore they must see the webs…or they’re incredibly dumb in which case they had it coming. A web is usually quite intricately designed with dense patterns and very little room for their bug-eyed prey to fly through them or wriggle free. So why have all these random long strings spanning alleyways and our garden gate?

Then it struck me. They’re trying to catch ME! But why? Am I the arachnid equivalent of matching 6 numbers on a Saturday night? Will there be little spider news reporters talking to my captor asking “so now that you’ll never have to worry about feeding your family again, what will you do?”, to which he’ll reply “it won’t change me”. Is it a revenge thing for evicting his uncle last week or sucking his mate up the Dyson?

Whatever the motive, trying to garrotte me with a thin strand of something as strong as candy floss isn’t the way forward. Whenever I’ve walked through his trap and walk away doing my “Aargh, Bleurgh! etc…” He’s sat there, stroking the spider equivalent of a white cat and saying “next time…next time”. Or maybe he walks away deflated like Wile.E.Coyote after another thwarted plan to catch the road runner, complete with the ‘wah wah waaaaah’ played on a horn.

And what about number 2? (snigger).

The average house spider is about the size of a 50p coin (although they do get bigger…which is just plain wrong), so how the hell do they shoot their web at such a distance? When I was at school many MANY years ago I remember having pissing contests with my friends to see who could get it the furthest. In order to equal what the spiders are doing I would’ve had to produce a stream that would clear the school…and the teacher’s car park (cos I wouldn’t want to get in trouble now would I??). That’s some serious pissing power and no-one could do that, except maybe one of my friends who freakishly was able to get it over the toilet door and into the toilet. Legendary.

But this would be some serious distance! How the hell do they get those arcing white ropes of bum jizz so far? Not even Peter North could do that! (Don’t know who he is? Porn star. Look him up). Are they doing it as a team? Are there arachnid builders complete with scaffolding and blueprints? Did I destroy it before its finished?

I feel a bit guilty now.

I think tomorrow I’ll thrash around a bit and make them feel better. It’s the least I can do for ridding my house of those dumbass flies.