I'm going to Hell

Have you ever wished for a flying car? I know I have. But just give it a bit of thought, how great would flying cars really be? There would have to be so much associated technology developed along with it to even make it feasible as a mode of transport. Not to mention the fact that you'd have to find a method of propulsion smaller and safer than blades of metal spinning around at head height.

Here's five problems with the idea I came up with off the top of my head:

1. Fuel expense
2. Lack of suitable parking
3. Mid-air collisions
4. Driving tests would be impossible
5. Car trouble could be fatal

I think the first problem to overcome is cost. The cost of fuel (nuclear or otherwise), the cost of insurance (crash protection, unscheduled landing cover), the cost of learning to fly, the cost of renting a landing pad, the emotional cost of scraping your daughter up after she slams into a building while applying her makeup.

It seems that the flying car is a dream that is destined to never be realised. Sure we may see flying cars, the same as we see helicopters, but they will be owned by company CEOs, and piloted by trained chauffeurs. Come to think of it, it would probably be safer and cheaper all round to invent the jetpack. Or rocketboots!

Labels: comedy, driving, fun, science, stupidity, teenagers, women

Everyone needs a little box of comebacks, for those times when people just hurl abuse at you, like at breakfast. At times like that your sanity relies on you being able to whip out an appropriate put down which will silence your assailant. This is especially important when your a kid. I went to a boarding school and bullying was so common it was just a way of life. Everyone was a bully, including me, it just depended how good you were at it.

The bullying wasn't as important as your counter, or as we referred to it 'banter'. You had to have a comeback ready, and if you weren't quick enough to come up with one to suit the occasion, you used one of the many standard retorts:

1. So's your face.
2. I am rubber, you are glue.
3. That's what your (girlfriend/Dad/Mum/Sister/Dog) said.
4. A 'Your Momma' joke.
5. Your Mum's dead.

A lot of the time we just insulted each other to say hello, so a good your momma joke was an appropriate response. However if someone really pissed you off you could use 'Your Mum's Dead'. This was the childhood equivalent of the modern nuclear weapon, mutually assured destruction. The 'Your Mum's Dead' answer could be taken one of two ways: The first would be a standard counter-retort, and an argument that would probably just escalate into the ridiculsphere, where insults no longer make any sense. Of course you could end up with the second way, when your assailant's Mum is actually dead... Chances are that will not end well.

Labels: assholes, comedy, history, stupidity, teenagers, UK

Happy New Year! I know it's late, as always. I've not had the greatest start to the year, probably better than last year, but still not great. After the God of Hangovers finally decided to move on from the party he and his insane, screeching hyena entourage were having inside my skull on the 2nd of January, I was granted a day of reprieve until I fell ill on the 4th. After a miserable weekend spent on the couch curled up with the Wench and a duvet I got back to work on the Monday.

So I've been catching up with stuff since then. Cleaning up, doing work, blah blah, the usual grind. Every so often I need to remind myself of a few things:

1. 2007 is over
2. I have a new car
3. I'm not ill any more
4. 2008 can finally get going
5. I'm getting married this year!

We actually bought our car last year, finally getting rid of one of the things that made 2007 so unbearable. The car cost £600 when we bought it, since then we've spent at least 3 times that on keeping it running. No longer will things drop off our car unexpectedly, deflate, collapse, spin away or break apart. Fingers crossed.

The other big news is that this is the year I make the Wench an honest woman. Not that she's not an honest woman now, it's a bit of a stupid expression really. The realisation that we have less than nine months left to plan, book and arrange our wedding was a bit of a shock. I'm not really involved in the planning so far, which can only be a good thing, it seems to be ticking along nicely with the Wench and her mum doing their thing. As long as I get my pimp cane, top hat and topless ushers I'll be fine.

Labels: crap, drinking, hangover, health, holiday, wedding, wench