There is some good news and some bad news

My Gosh! I have just got back from the hospital, where the doctor told me it was one of those good news bad news situations. This how it went:

Doctor: Perhaps you would like to sit down. That's great. As you know, we have been in surgery for the past thirty-six hours. I must say that your husband has a remarkably thick scull.

Me: My god! It took you thirty-six hours to get inside his head?

Doctor: No, no. Though it took much longer to get in than usual, that is not what took the time. In fact, the fall did not even penetrate his scull, the brain pan was virtually untouched.

Me: Not even that twelfth step? He sommersaulted onto that!

Doctor: The lack of internal damage to his body was remarkable but not the most surprising thing we found inside his scull. What would you say if I told you that most of your husband's mind had been replaced with a turnip. A pristine, shiny turnip!

Me: Are there some hidden cameras somehwere around here? Is this like one of those TV shows where someone jumps out with a microphone?

Doctor: I am afraid not. Your husband was cogitating with a turnip. It seems that it had been displacing his brain through his nose as it grew. I have stunning sketchy black and white video footage which I intend to set to the Ride of the Valkyries. Like that Welsh boxer the other day, I have had my career defining moment. Also like him, someone had to be hideously damaged for me to go forward.

Me: Could this explain that strange double life he had been leading? Factory worker by day, roaming the internet by night.

Doctor: He sounds like Neo from Matrix. But without all the PVC and technobabble.

Me: No, he has the PVC, too. His PC is so full of smut it needs three hard-drives. I haven't been so ashamed since he met my mother. Is he going to pull through?

Doctor: It is hard to say. We have removed the turnip and donated it to charity. The remaining brain matter may or may not be able to support his body.

Me: What is the good news, then?

Doctor: He may just have little enough brain power to be romantic, if he ever wakes up again.


You are never going to believe this but....

This is Mrs. DC

You wouldn't believe some of the things I have heard in the last few days. It all started when Mr. DC fell down the stairs at home, all four stories of them, and had to be taken to hospital. They say his chances are fifty-fifty at the moment. I'm keeping my fingers crossed, and I will let you know what happens. He is going in for surgery tomorow.

He isn't here now so I thought I could get away with using his computer. As I thought, it was not rigged to blow when anyone else touched it. The silly fool had left it on standby. It seems that prior to his rapid descente he had been symultaneously writing a "piece" and browsing some particularly nasty Fem Dom sights. The latter I knew about, though the blog was new to me. I changed the password and had a bit of a read. I am not pleased.

There are a few things that need straightening out between us. Firstly, the closest he had, excuse me, has ever been to dog surgery is in fact a dog food factory. Secondly, he is not a doctor, having barely graduated from the University of Life, no honours. Thirdly, the thing about the illegitimate children was all a fiction, based largely on his hero Flashman.

More to come.



DDC likes entry:

Internet portals are one of those things that I love about the net. Let me tell you why!

When I make an account with a site I usually put in a bunch of odd details in:
Name: Kaiser Willhelm
Occupation: Manicurist
Country: Azerbaijan
DOB: 1922, 23rd November
Favourite colour: Peach

I don't see why anyone should get free marketing data from me. Like the native american indians with their camera-shy soul-stealing excuses, I beleive that the more of myself I give away for free to Microsoft or whoever, the less of a man I become. Less of a person too, though that is a different story.

So, this morning I was somewhat surprised to recieve an email saying, "happy birthday" from profession.com. The way it must have happened is this: I have been on the websphere for so long that I have randomly put my actual birthday into some poor, unsuspecting commercial site. My happiness knew no bounds when I realised that he angels had actual programmed a computer to say happy birthday to me. That is how much they cared. But no, it wasn't!

Once I had picked myself up out of my happy, warm puddle of manmilk I got round to reading my happy return and found an invitation. An invitation. A dream bit-stream. It emerged that for my minutes of dedicated skimming I was to be indulged in a trip to the sponsor site!



I am still alive, and what's more - I've been watching full metal Jacket again.

The whole thing can be summed-up with one mighty phrase. It is the kind of phrase I used to use at school when i was still funny and writing a book was not only within my grasp but a way of occupying free time in English lessons while the dude (who is a hero of mine) waffled-on about Chaucer.

Around about the time that The Mary Whitehouse Experience bit the dust, Brasseye was still freshly-squeezed and Paul Coogan was getting really funny. Father Ted was still alive along with my childish dreams. I have others now but they were my first.

"We are like jolly green giants striding the land, with guns."

I know exactly what he meant.


Don't say that ever.

If I had a dick you would have no ass-hole.



Budding romance nipped in the bud:

Dr. DC: I love you weather dude.
Weather dude: Gee, this is all so sudden. You're so very male that I wasn't expecting this.
DDC: I just can't hold it in any more. I feel like I am going to burst.
WD: How long have you felt this way?
DDC: Weeks, months!
WD: I'm sure it is just a crush, a brief passion.
DDC: Call it what you will. This is how I feel. It isn't going to change. Not unless you change.
WD: I caught you looking at me on TV the other day. You seemed upset. I thought you hated me.
DDC: Well, you will say these things that you don't mean.
WD: Now I am confused. What are you talking about?
DDC: That time the other week, with your cocky smile you told me it was going to rain. It snowed all weekend!
WD: I see. I think we have our wires crossed.
DDC: Not so! You did it again this weekend. The half winking eye, the hand in pocket. I understand body language, it's my mother tongue!
WD: This weekend?
DDC: The weather dude says, "starry night." The window says, "snowing".
WD: It isn't going to work. I'm not gay and neither are you. Also, Mrs. DC will remove both of our testicles if she even catches a wiff of this.
DDC: OK, but promise me one thing...
WD: If it involves bodily contact I am going to scream.
DDC: No. No! Just, this summer, can you predict lots of rain?



Athletes in fury as offhand comments spoil promising compensation chance

With the increasing number of injuries on the luge in the Torino Winter Olympics a number of athletes had their hopes of compensation ruined at the hands of the British medical team.

Lugelist Anne Abernethy had been quoted as saying that the design of the course may be at fault and was secretly aranging a group claim against the ruling body of the games, the IOC, earlier today. However, this evening she was quoted as saying that she was "bloody furious" at allegations made by the British medical team officer, Dr. Richard Brudgett. She added that the eminent medic "knew little of the sport" and was "a bit of an arse all-round".

The row centers around a claim made in yesterdays Guardian. The doctor made this statement;

"Certainly one of the responsibilities of the doctors involved is just to make it as safe as we possibly can." Then he adds, dryly, "though we are limited by the fact that they're hurtling down a tube of ice."

Sources close to Abernethy were quoted as saying that though she enjoyed the witty British sense of humour she thought the doctor concerned might want to try the event before dismissing it as "Inherently dangerous".



"What is this shit," asked the guy behind the table. Part of a panel of experts, it seems.

The dishevelled man in front of them answered, "Well, I was hoping that you could tell me that."

The wizzened expect looked at the item in the box. "I certainly don't see one like this every day. You must have had a few late nights recently, eh?" Without waiting for an answer he plunged straight on. "The colouration is extremely odd. It has something of guinness to it, yet also something of red wine to it. Let me ask you a question young man; did you have any difficulties producing this? Usually, examples of this kind can take extreme ammounts of time and effort."

The dishevelled man sank lower into his brown and white striped shirt. "It couldn't have been easier, sir."

A younger, fatter expert asked, "and this is the whole batch and not just a section, I assume?"

"Yes, sir."

"And can you account for it's oddities? Given the details one might expect a thinner, more watery one."

"Yes sir, i know. All I can say is that I have been working out quite a bit, and maybe that had had some impact on matters." He scrtached his head. "Does that mean you'll take it off my hands?"

The wizzened man laughed and said, "why no, my dear fellow. Why would we want it? No, no. We just like to see these things from time to time. FLush itdown the toilet for all I care."



Another dip into the the life and times of a dog surgeon in a strange place:

I mentioned the new bindings that I got for my board, but neglected the rather odd circumstances under which I bought them. Imagine if you will:

A bunch of rice fields with a snowboarding / skateboarding shop in the middle.You imagine that this place must have incredible customer loyalty to survive being, as it is, no-where near anything, least of all a place where you can find slopes or snow.

You get not quite a sneer from the the guy who owns the place, as you have been before, bought nothing but taken lots of his time. He is dealing with other customers. He has just flogged a board for about 700 dollars.

You pick up a binding. It has no price on it. You go to fetch your boots from the car to see if they fit the bindings. The woman in the shop comes over to "help". She says, "Wow. Your boots don't have laces, they have a kind of pulley system." You look around the shop, spot the same kind of stuff all over the place and mentally note the fact that the woman knows fuck all about snowboarding gear.

You discover the one you are trying is the most expensive in the shop, if not the world. It costs more than you have in your pocket. You pick up another and end-up buying them.

The owner is suddenly all smiles and fifteen percent discounts. As usual with the locals, he is eager to speak English and alternates dishing up single words with the woman. The deal is done. He puts the bindings, expensive Burton ones, in a bag.

Now this is the crux of the story. This is not just a bag. Imagine the thing that your gran takes / took shopping. make it about three times as big. Make it bright red with the word "Burton" surounded by snowflakes on both sides. This thing is gloriously gaudy and fairly camp into the bargain. I kind of like these things, usually as presents for other people. I am now off-balance.

The guy says, "isn't it cute?" You are faced with a dilema: Do you take what he is saying at face value or assume that he is being sarcastic?

Let me fill you in on some of the details. The guy is about five foot ten with died blond hair and likes snowboarding. If he were American he would use words like "stoked". He drives a black van with stickers in the back window.

You hedge your bets and say, "Yep, you could take it down to Friendmart (the local supermarket monopoly) to do the shopping." You then spend the rest of the conversation trying to correct your mistake.

After this you don't take anything for granted. After falling through the middle of the last conversation you somehow manage to negotiate a trip boarding for free, so long as the trip is done in English.

Job's a good one.



... but DDC has given up on the idea of saving up for and buying a car:

I'm just not sure I can make it pay, i.e. buy a car here, ship to the uk and sell after the tax watershed. I have added up the various variables and costs and taken them away from the difference between the prices in both countries and been left with not a great deal for my pains.

And in a completely unrelated, though geographically close, decision I have purchased a pair of boots and bindings for my snowboard. Now, my boardwear is good, my boots are baddass and my bindings no longer make cracking noises as I land my jumps. My board, however, is a different matter. It is not that far removed from a Roumanian orphanage floorboard. That's fine because I'm experimenting and falling off stuff a lot at the moment.

From falling off to falling out: I nearly got into a fight on Saturday when some guy slewed his board in front of me under the rope of the queue leading to the lift. Some phrases can transcend mere language and the guy, definitely a non-English speaker, caught my drift when I spoke the words, "What do you think you're doing, ou incredible fucking twat?" He squared-up quick smart, and squared back down fairly quickly when he saw the murder in my eyes.

When i mentioned this to another boarding buddy, he said he'd been pretty riled-up to, which came as a shock because he's generally much calmer than me. It emerged that he'd lost a turn avoiding beginners and ended-up stuck in a hollow. Then, just when he had got going again a dog jumped out from behind a tree and scared the shit out of him. Not what you need when you are finely balanced on a plank hurtling down a hill. Once he was back up again the dog started chasing him down the hill.

I could see his point, bearing in mind my speciality and the nature of the snowboard: It is basically a wooden butter-knife with a sharp metal rim. Ah well, there goes the chance for another cryptic post.


I forgot to mention the best part. The second time he found he dog he had to maintain his honour with a snowball barrage. After that he slid off to make a jump and found his hands full of yellow snow.