Paracetomol...

Why oh why oh why are you not allowed to buy more than two packets of paracetomol (or products containing the same)? If I was contemplating suicide would it really defeat me to have to go to more than one shop to buy enough to kill myself? And would I really choose to end it all with Lemsip? Come on!!!

I just don't get it...

Why is it that the greatest crime of the 21st century is having a hairy back? When did this happen? And why is it such a big deal? Questions, questions and more questions. I for one have quite a hairy back, and should I ever become single again (Heaven forbid!) I worry that I would have to make a visit to the waxing salon before I even thought about entertaining the idea of a 'date'...

What I don't quite understand is why it's the back that's the problem. If you don't like hairy men, well fair enough, we all have our types, our likes and dislikes and the things that are deal breakers (mine's mainly children or the desire to create them), but why is a hairy back so much worse than a hairy chest? I just don't get it.

Really, if that's the biggest problem you have in a prospective relationship, then either your priorities are all off kilter or you have truly met the perfect man. I have this imaginary scenario running around my head where I am on a date with a hot woman and I keep spewing out all my heinous faults, my huge gambling debts, my inability to stay faithful, my out of control drinking, my 40 a day habit, my sudden unprovoked jealous rages, my uncontrollable letching at inappropriately aged girls in bars... all of these are dismissed with little more than a roll of the eyes and an almost imperceptible shrug. And then I hit her with the big one, the hairy back.

No sooner have the words left my lips then she's on her feet, her wine glass thrust into my face, it's contents soaking slowly into my Armani shirt... "You pig," she screams as she flees the restaurant, only pausing at the door to reveal my terrible secret to the rest of the diners, before hurrying from sight, the cold night air streaming in through the open door until one of the sour faced (and no doubt smooth backed)  waiters crosses the now utterly silent room to close it. I look around the beautifully decorated room but see nothing but dozens of disbelieving eyes starring unblinkingly at me, their expressions somewhere between horror and disgust, until finally I can take it no more and call for the bill.

The smooth backed waiter brings my check immediately, bends close to my ear and whispers in his most disdainful voice 'Don't come back here until you have your affairs in order, your kind make me sick'.

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After reading this Mistress R and I discussed this and she said isn't it weird how not that long ago having a hairy chest was a sign of male virility, and if you have a hairy chest you probably have a hairy back too. She went on to point out that she couldn't actually think of a single male 'celebrity' with any hair at all, front or back, which seems incredibly unlikely doesn't it? 

You got served...

This post isn't so much a rant, because the subject doesn't annoy me, more bemused amusement...

Walking through Asda (that's Wal-Mart for our American readers) yesterday I spotted a selection of cheap DVDs. Among them was a DVD called 'You Got Served', a phrase I'd previously heard on South Park. And sure enough the DVD in question appeared to be a 'Dancing' video. Now I don't know about you, but outside of the school of performing arts or possibly the set of 'Glee', has anyone ever had someone come up to them and challenge them to a dance off?
Really? Well, not round these parts, but perhaps since this seems to be an American thing it's more common over the pond?
It's a strangely Pythonesque idea that if I was ever to venture into 'the Hood' (as I believe it's called), that rather than being mugged and shot by drug-dealing Yankees-cap wearing yoofs, I might be challenged to dance for my aggressors. I can see them now, leaping over cars in brightly coloured clothing, brandishing a ghetto blaster (can we still call them that or have the taste police put a stop to that?) and bouncing around me in their unlaced, and again almost inevitably brightly coloured trainers (of course, being English, I have almost certainly no talent for dancing. We Brits are about as stiff as it's possible to be when it comes to that sort of thing).
Or perhaps it's a load of bollocks that only actually happens in films and on TV? I hope not, cos it would be quite funny to watch and a positive step up from drive-by shootings.

Peach halves...

Fucking peach halves piss me RIGHT off. I like tinned peaches, they are much nicer than proper peaches and healthy and all that jazz (in juice not syrup!). Peach slices are bloody lovely, but peach halves suck. First of all, when you tip them into a bowl they are too big so they splash the juice over the side and onto the worktop. Second of all, you have to cut them up so you can eat them. What's the point of a peach half? Nobody is going to eat them whole so everyone is cutting them up. Thirdly, for some reason known only to Del Monte and the people who make supermarket peaches, peach slices are immune from the curse of the hard red bit where the peach flesh sticks to the stone in the middle. It is ghastly. And peach halves always have a bit of it.
Of course, you could well ask why then, instead of moaning about it, don't I buy peach slices and not peach halves? Well, there's a very simple answer, I would if I could find them. Plenty of peach halves for sale, not so many peach slices, perhaps cos everyone else thinks the same way I do and they've all been snapped up? I wouldn't be at all surprised!