Wake Up and Smell the Deep Heat: It’s the London Marathon

I’ve put down some words of advice for nervous London Marathon runners. It’s so indispensable it will probably be read out over a loudspeaker on the start line on Sunday. Regular readers will recognize it as a amalgamated revival of some posts I wrote a year ago. I would say about 50% of the text is new so you may just want to read every other word. Here it is.

Still haven't found Wally.

Ian Wheelie

It’s tragic that misadventurous Segway tycoon Jimi Heselden careered off a cliff to his death. For many reasons, not least that he was unable to witness perhaps the crowning achievement of his beloved machine:

 

I love how carefree and happy he looks as he glides past Mark Nicholas into the gaping maw of catastrophe.

One Barmy Soldier

Normally the Barmy Army trumpet rings out it works as a call to arms, the signal for a thousand stupefied contract workers to form a disorderly conga and sing ribald songs about Mitchell Johnson. In Dubai it sounds like a lonely last post. Where is everyone? Perhaps the insurmountable clash of cultures is to blame. Beer snakes and t-shirts bearing unhilarious ‘all Australian people are convicts’ slogans are actually forbidden according to sharia law. Getting lashed is stitched into the constitution of the Barmy Army. But not with an actual lash.

The ICC are hoping that the attendance will double when the series returns to Dubai for the final game. I’m going.

As for the team, maybe they are pining for the boozy encouragement from the sidelines. Or maybe they didn’t prepare properly. A lot has been spoken about the issues that the English batsmen had picking the length of the spinners. Thanks to an e-mail from a nice woman who appears to be doing PR for dhows, I’ve found the reason why:

 

Worst Blog Set To Coldplay

I am descending into a dangerous obsession with the way in which people stagger onto this site. Of course the more I discuss the squalid succession of search engine terms that have been typed in to arrive at this destination, such pearls as “sex Hazel Irvine snooker” and “Sue Barker discusses Serena Williams tits”, the more likely it is that these kind of internet bottom-feeders will find themselves here.

Today we had a visitor with the following query, “what is the worst hurdler set to Coldplay?” Well that certainly is a question that needs to be asked. I’m not a expert in the field of athletes performing to alternative rock music but if I was pushed for answer I would probably plump for Tony Jarrett. He seems like the type of hurdler who would struggle to run to the tunes of Coldplay.

Anyway, all this is just leading up to a plug for my latest piece for the Huffington Post. They don’t really accept articles about Hazel Irvine’s breasts so I’ve written about fat people instead. Here it is.

 

A Pointless Nerd Analogy

This blog is rapidly degenerating into a conduit for my contributions to the Huffington Post. I have to point these articles out to you otherwise you wouldn’t know they were there.

Think of the HuffPost as a novelty box of retro sweets. The political comment pieces are the Wham bars. The cultural reviews are the chewy Drumsticks. The celebrity blogs are the fizzy strawberry laces. There’s a particularly interesting one written by Martine McCutcheon who explains how yoghurt changed her life.

My review is the single loose Nerd at the bottom of the box. You probably don’t want to eat it because you’re just coming down from the sugar rush of reading of how Susan Boyle conquered her demons.

Here’s the Nerd anyway.

There Are No Tits Here. Hazel Irvine’s Or Otherwise.

A few weeks ago I reported that this blog had been laid siege to by a deviant of the worst order. Some diabolical pest has typed in “Hazel Irvine tits” into a search engine, one would have to presume to ogle at images of the diminutive Scottish sportscaster’s breasts.

I am sad to relay that affairs have darkened since. The fiend has visited again, three times. Firstly he or she landed following the query “Hazel Irvine sex tits”. I may be naive but I don’t know what a “sex tit” is. I’m pretty sure it’s bad though. And again today, two more hits: “snooker Hazel Irvine sex tits” and “snooker Hazel Irvine sex titss” reveals some sickening fetish for Hazel Irvine in sexy bar game situations. As well as negligent spelling.

I urge this person to reveal themselves, figuratively speaking obviously, and perhaps some kind of support can be sought. There are people who can treat you, injections they can give you. I know a good surgeon if necessary.

Down With The Trumpets

I’m blowing my own trumpet again. If you are fortunate to have your own trumpet, what else are you going to do but blow it? It would be a waste of a good trumpet otherwise. That said, I do possess an electronic keyboard which I seldom play, except to amuse myself with its built-in helicopter sound effects. I can play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star in chopper. It’s become quite a hit in Dalston.

Anyway, here’s the my latest piece for the HuffPost.