I would like to have smoking on bridges banned. I know smoking in all enclosed public places has been banned now and that's obviously a good thing but what about smoking in windy spots like bridges. Most people would think that all the smoke will be blown away and so there's not a problem, but having just had a lump of ash blown into my mouth I can tell you that I think it is.

Labels: Articles

[This is the final part of episode one of Snakebite McMuffin. If you feel lost and confused you may want to check out parts One, Two and Three].

"Well," said Felicity, "it's like this..."

The words hung in the air, for what seemed to Snakebite like just short of a week.

"Like what," he said.
"I don't know... I don't know how to say it."
"Well just speak, you know, in English. I'm sure I'll understand."
"I'm trying to, Mr McMuffin... Snakebite. I'm trying, but it's hard. Haven't you had anything that you've found hard to say?"
"Yeah, sure, for a while I found it hard to admit that I was addicted to eating terrapins".
"That's awful. How did your family react?"
"It was a turtle disaster. My sister's still shell shocked. See sometimes something sacred seems strange. Secret's so seriously secret. So she seemed strange. Sis sensed some sincerity somewhere surrounding Snakebite. Snakebite seemed sound so suddenly she suggested some strawberry sundae."
"Strawberry Sundae?"
"Surprised?"
"Certainly."
"Yeah, it was a bit weird. But it is something I find hard to say."

McMuffin looked her up, and to a certain extent down, and noticed something on her leg.
"Is that," he asked, "a tattoo?"

There was a small tattoo nestling on her right ankle. Snakebite admonished himself for not having spotted it earlier.

"No." Felicity moved her leg backwards as though that would stop Snakebite from being able to see it.

"Yes it is," Snakebite moved forward as thought that would help.

"It's not a tattoo it's a birthmark."

"But it can't be a birthmark. Are you sure it's not a tattoo or mud or something."

"Mr McMuffin, I do not have mud on my leg."

"But... But... It simply can't be a birthmark."

"Why ever not?"

"Because I was at your birth and you didn't have one then."

"What? You were at my birth? My father must have trusted you!"

"Well, actually you were born in a pizza restaurant. You were very early. I just happened to be another customer. But I drove you and your family to the hospital. I remember what your father said, 'For a large man you were surprisingly willing to give up the rest of your pizza'. I never had the heart to tell him that I was planning on sending back that pizza anyway, they'd put anchovies on it when I'd expressly said, 'no fish' when ordering. But I think it made your father trust me."

"Well that's quite a story."

"Yes it is, but it isn't as fascinating as the story I now want to find out. I need to know how you got that birthmark. That's what I must find out. I'm sorry I must know this before I accept your case."

"Don't worry Mr McMuffin, we're investigating the same thing. That was what I was hear to find out as well."

And with that McMuffin and Trousers shook hands and walked off to get a coffee to celebrate the beginning of a rather unusual friendship.


[Snakebite McMuffin will return... At some point.]

Labels: Fiction, Long, Snakebite McMuffin

The man says, "I'm going to make you the happiest woman alive."

The woman replies, "I'll miss you."

Labels: Jokes

Nick has raised an interesting point over at his film blog in a post about "Who are we". He asks a question about what writers should do when writing a scene. Writers should always know who the focus of a scene is. There should always be a protagonist per scene (even in an ensemble performance). There should also although not touched on in the post always be a clear "want" or "reason for the protagonist to take part in the scene" and a conclusion, eg. Did the protagonist get what they wanted or not.

But on the particular point about protagonists there is a very clear argument that you should always have one protagonist. Most people don't notice it, but there always is one in good drama. Things aren't wishy washy. You must have a focus. In sitcoms its usually obvious, Seinfeld and Frasier are about the person in the title and the family around them. But what about the modern archetype of Friends. All of the actors had the same salary, all of them were given equal screen time and none of them were famous first (essentially). But in reality Rachel was the protagonist of the series. She was the most normal character so people could instantly identify with her, she didn't really have any massive idiosyncrasies (Ross - Nerd, Chandler - Joker, Joey - Sex / Food, Monica - Obsessive Compulsive, Phoebe - Kooky). Rachel was the fish out of water. All of the other characters know each other before the first episode starts, and Rachel is the one who makes the decision to end the series by going and then not going to Paris, she hooks up with Ross at the end and then the premise set up in the first episode is sealed. As was said originally by Blake Snyder it was the promise of the premise. The side line that Monica and Chandler were moving isn't the key that's the writers ratcheting up the ticking clock of the ending, it isn't even mooted as a concern in the first episode so can't be considered. Most times in an ensemble the protagonist is the fish out of water, they help us understand the group. They draw us in, usually are near repulsed or excluded at the beginning and through the film or series learn to love the group as do we.

I'm writing an ensemble drama at the moment. I must say it is one of the hardest things to write for because of this particular difficulty. I think the essence is that you want at the beginning to leave things free and easy. Let the protagonist emerge or rather the balance emerge. I particularly want, like Friends, for it not to be obvious who the protagonist in the series is. But I have learnt through writing it that it is vital at the very least to have a protagonist per scene. And as I start getting into re-writes I'm going to have to do far more work to reshape the first episode because of an inability to commit to what effectively boils down to your "in". The vessel through which the audience accesses your drama.

It doesn't have to be the ing'enue who is the "in" to your drama but in many ways it better be if the series doesn't have a clear main character. The only successful ensemble drama I can think of which has neither is "The West Wing". Who is the protagonist? Charlie is the ing'enue so to speak, and the President is the most obvious main character. But actually Charlie doesn’t even appear until episode three, and the president isn't the most on screen character at all. In many ways Sam Seaborn's character is the protagonist because he is the one who is still learning the most. But could you guess that character who is in the most episodes? It's CJ. It almost by default makes her the winner, but I think this has happened perhaps because Rob Lowe quit. CJ did have a transformative character arc but then almost everyone did. In fact in some ways Toby Ziegler is the only character who doesn't change at any point and therefore should qualify for some kind of accolade - maybe not changing at all makes you special. Bradley Whitford's character Josh Lyman (one less episode than CJ) is probably the most likely protagonist because he is the only one going on at the end whereas everyone else stops. But it's pretty clear that the West Wing is one of the least clear cases of protagonist that there is.

Well I have tried to hide it in my series, but who knows if I will be successful. I think that whatever happens the key is that the author knows what is going on. That's what the audience picks up on. They can tell instantly if the author hasn't thought about it, if the author isn't sure. If the author is sure but holding it back that creates a very different sensation for the viewer.

Labels: Articles

Because he didn't have the guts to fart.

Labels: Jokes

It's late, or at least it's late for you. It's past your bedtime. The room seems more alive in the dark, than in the light. You get up, turn the light on, and then get back into bed and look around. That's the curtains that are swaying, that's the door to your wardrobe that's casting a shadow over your bed from the light above the door. You try and remember it so that when you turn the light off it will all seem normal. You get back up and turn the light off. You jump back to your bed just in case there is something hiding underneath there. It's okay when you get off quickly because then whatever it is as surprised as you are and the lights on. But when you're making your way back the thing will know you need to get back into bed. You jump back in and look around. It's okay now. You can make out what is the curtain, you can make out what is the wardrobe door. It's all okay.

But jumping back onto the bed has had repercussions. They've heard you downstairs. One of them comes up to check on you. You can hear the steps approaching. You close your eyes tight and pull the covers up and try hard to lie really still. One of them, it sounds like dad from the footsteps, comes in. He notices the window is open and goes over and closes it and re-arranges the curtains. He walks over to the wardrobe and closes the door. He murmurs "Goodnight" under his breath, and then walks out of the room.

You sit bolt upright, look around the room, and again everything seems to be moving towards you. It all seems a lot closer than it would in the light. If the window is closed, surely the curtains wouldn't be moving so what is that coming towards you? Something shimmering and hissing coming towards you like a sheet. If the window is closed it can't be the curtains! What is it? You leap out of bed and run towards the light switch hitting it just in time to see… Nothing… There was nothing there. The window just wasn't closed properly, it was just the curtain. You can hear your mother calling up from downstairs. Urging you to go back to bed. But will you turn off the light? You know you're just being silly. But… But… But… You can't help it, tears leak down your face and run salty into your open mouth that's already whimpering and the heat of your cheeks heats your tears and makes your skin tighten. A lump in your throat rises, you know it shouldn't your big and grown up, but it comes and once it reaches your mouth your bawling and all you want is your mother to come and rescue you. From what? From what it doesn't matter, you just want to be reassured, you just want a night light in your room.

Labels: Fiction, Short

What's the ideal thing to do?



Practice conquering the world of course...

I may as well jump on the bandwagon here of writing articles about how everyone else is writing articles about Paris Hilton. The funniest thing is the unknowingness that these articles have. Basically the gutter press have the balls to go and report the incident directly. The mainstream press want to talk about it but know they can't directly because even they know it's not really news. So what they instead do is talk knowingly about how everyone else is talking about it - seemingly ignoring the fact that they are part of everyone. And I'd like to make it clear at this point that I know I am part of everyone as well, but the simple fact that I acknowledge it makes me at least slightly different than the others.

Anyway even though she's as dozy as anything I can't help but feel she probably doesn't deserve the treatment she's getting. She was pretty much hamstrung from the moment her parents named her. I mean surely they realised that "Paris Hilton" is the name of one of their own hotels (well "Hilton Paris" is at any rate). Surely they must have known? And in case you don't believe me here's the link. Paris Hilton has 15 meeting rooms, an Executive Lounge, a business centre and wireless internet access.

Surely her parents should have been stopped at the stage that they tried to name her after a hotel? Or maybe they are just as stupid as she is? I mean old Conrad Hilton didn't want to let his family have access to his Hotel Empire. Maybe this was the reason? He tried to donate the whole empire to the Catholic church but after his death his will was contested and overturned.

He was pretty kooky himself though, his final words on his deathbed were, "Please keep the shower curtain inside the tub".

For a long time, I suppose, it has been imagined that this would be the greatest contribution of the Hilton family to the world. A comedy quote on his deathbed. But Paris has finally gazumped him by actually making an even more amazing quote this week. And it is this quote that I leave you with:

"In the future, I plan on taking more of an active role in the decisions I make"

Labels: Articles

Back to me writing for Part 3

[This is part 3 of the 4 part story, Snakebite McMuffin. Before reading part 3 you may want to check out Part 1 and Part 2.]

Snakebite had just mentioned how much he admired Felicity's clothing, but that was simply him skirting round the issue.

"So what can you tell me about this case Miss Trousers?"
"I can't tell you anything about the case until you agree to take it. I know the rules."
"Well I don't, Miss Trousers. I've never met a rule I wouldn't break to break a case wide open. I'm wide open to breaking rules - you could say."
"I'm not sure I could."
"Really? It's just a few words?"
"No I mean, I couldn't say if those words applied to you Mr McMuffin."
"Call me Snakebite."
"Okay, I couldn't say if those words applied to you Snake… No I really prefer Mr McMuffin."
"Please yourself Ma'am."
"Don't call me Ma'am, I'm not a old lady."
"Well don't call me Mr McMuffin. Mr McMuffin was my uncle."
"What was your father?"
"He was Mr McMuffin's brother."
"No, I mean what was he referred to as?"
"'Mr McMuffin's brother', I just told you. His whole life he never once engaged anyone in direct conversation so people just referred to him indirectly."
"What not even your mother?"
"No, she was a deaf, blind, mute, autistic son of a bitch - but I loved her, and so did he - not that he said."
"You had quite an odd childhood."
"By all accounts, so did you Miss Trousers."
"What do you mean by that?"

Snakebite could see she was unsettled by this. Partly because she took a step backwards, but partly because she lost her balance and fell to the floor. Snakebite rushed forwards to help her up, but she was already getting up and they knocked heads.

"Sorry," she said.
"No, it was my fault," said Snakebite.
"I was taken aback."
"Literally."
"Yes, that's why I said it."
"Indeed."
"I just wasn't expecting you to know anything about my childhood."
"Well I told you, your father trusted me."
"But how much? How much did he trust you?"
"Well he let me borrow his 1st edition pressing of the White Album which had been signed by all of the fab four and rather bizarrely Elvis."
"But father never let anyone borrow his 1st edition pressing of the White Album which had been signed by all of the fab four and rather bizarrely Elvis."
"Well he didn't let anyone but me borrow it."
"He must have trusted you."
"Yes. He did."
"And you in turn returned his trust?"
"Well lets just put it this way, I returned his record."

Miss Trousers visibly crumpled at this point. Snakebite knew that if he was going to press forward with this case then he was going to have to iron out some of the details.

"So, Miss Trousers. Your father trusted me. You can trust me. Please. Tell me what is the nature of this case?"
"Well," said Felicity, "it's like this..."

[What is it like? Tune in for the final part on Friday next week (or thereabouts)]

Labels: Fiction, Long, Snakebite McMuffin

A hummusexual

Labels: Jokes

I was logging into blogger yesterday when I discovered a strange set of number combinations. The days in the year, 333 and 666.*



I mentioned this to Adrian (who was sitting beside me) and he said, "quick, stand on one leg".

It's important to point out that Adrian is a cricketer. And in the world of cricket they have some very strange customs. And one of them is known as the Nelson. If the score is three digits and all of those digits are the same then you have what is known as a Nelson. And the umpires have to stand on one leg to ward off bad luck. No really.

Supposedly it started off with 111 being bad luck because it symbolised the three sumps without bails, aka a wicket being taken. But the name comes from the idea that Lord Nelson lost an eye, an arm and a leg. But actually Nelson never lost his leg so the name is a bit silly really (well the whole thing is pretty silly so maybe that's how the name thing snuck past - everyone was watching the umpire standing on one leg).

Although the practice had been carried out pretty widely in the upper echelons of cricket for some time it wasn't really known widely because the umpires fearing the silliness only raised their foot a little bit. However umpire David Shepherd was far more flamboyant with his leg raising and so simultaneously raised the profile of the Nelson. And now everybody is at it.

The Cricketer magazine decided once and for all discover if there was any truth in the rumour and went back through the records to see if Nelsons were actually unlucky. It turned out to be false. In fact the score you're most likely to get out on is 0 - a duck. Of course the problem the Cricketer has is that the official records presumably don't indicate whether the umpire raised a leg or not during play. As this wards off the bad luck these instances shouldn't be included in the stats. But presumably they were - bad statistics in my opinion.

And so I've had to stand on one leg ever since I discovered it yesterday. Luckily this post takes me over the edge.

*You may be wondering why there are 365 gamboling posts now and 555 the other week. There are 190 articles which are on gamboling but aren't in blogger. They're in the Older Archive section there on the left.

Labels: Articles

And he says to the doctor, "Doc, I hurt all over."

He touches his leg, and he winces.

He touches his face, and he winces.

He touches his stomach, and he winces.

The doctor says, "you've got a broken finger".

Labels: Jokes

I can feel it. The poison. It's cold and sharp and I can feel it slucing around my brain. As the icy liquid curls round the inside of my skull I can feel thoughts being taken away from me. Stolen. Gone. I move my head up and as I do more function escapes. The poison dripping down, edging down to my spine. I open one eye and look at my poisoner. As I look first I see a syringe and a man. But after a second it all becomes shapes. No edges no definition. No memory of what an edge is. No memory at all. For a brief second everything in my head is pure light.

Labels: Fiction, Short

I had my dad, Ellen, my brother, and Nick over for Father's day. We drank beer and wine and watched the grand prix.

Here's my impression of the event...

Labels: Illustrated

The ultimate English Breakfast is a difficult thing to do right. I had an English breakfast this morning, and on the menu it didn't mention bacon. So I ended up having to ask for the full English Breakfast with Bacon. It turned out that it was just a misprint. But it's a problem that exists. At motorway service stations they have a full English breakfast which actually has 2 sausages but only one rasher of bacon. Surely you want to have that the other way round. Surely you must!

Sausages are lovely. And good bacon is fantastic but surely everyone must agree that there is move variation between good sausages than there is between good and bad bacon? Surely everyone must see that. And if you don't see that then you haven't had a Ludlow Sausage (or a home-made sausage). Great bacon tastes better than okay bacon (is there bad bacon?) but it's a matter of a slight improvement. Lovely if you can get it, but not the be all and end all. Sadly most sausages are pretty terrible. It's only when you have a proper sausage from an independent butcher or actually Sainsburys. Taste the Difference are very good when you suddenly realise the difference. The difference is such that you automatically vow never to have a bad sausage again. Bad sausages are such horrible things, whereas poor bacon is there or thereabouts. That's why bacon is more important than sausage in the Ultimate English Breakfast. It's simply more consistent.

In a surprise twist, Part 2 of this story has been written by Nick. I hope to get a third outsider to write part 3. If you fancy giving it a go, then either drop me an e-mail or leave me a comment on this post. In exchange for Nick writing part 2 of this, I will be writing a post for Nick's Stranded Cinema which should hopefully be appearing today and tomorrow, I'll post the link in the comments here. But for now, on with the story.

[This is part 2 of the 4 part story, Snakebite McMuffin. Before reading part 2 you may want to check out Part 1.]

‘Oh, your father trusted me, Miss Trousers. But that’s exactly why he never hired me. If you trust someone, it makes you vulnerable.’

Snakebite could see he now held the upper-hand, although neither of them were playing cards. She didn’t know the true nature of his relationship with her father, the old bastard. Perhaps it would be better to keep that to himself. After all, where had she come from? Trouser had never mentioned her to Snakebite before, only that she went to school ‘out of town’, and there were rumours she wasn’t even his daughter.

‘Even so, Mr McMuffin, he never hired you. But I want to. Will you take the case?’

He paused, and reached towards the draw where he knew his bottle was waiting for him. But no, that could wait. He needed a clear head. And besides, if he had a drop, he’d have to offer her one. His stuff was too hard to get hold of to go dishing it out to some dame, even if she was heir to the Trouser millions.

‘What does the case involve?’

She frowned and shook her head, taking her gloves off and sitting seductively on the corner of the desk in front of him.

‘Now, detective, I read on your door the motto of this agency: No questions. Only answers.’

‘With so much money involved, someone’s gonna ask questions. It might as well be me. If I so much as smell a suit, I’m not interested.’

‘Trust me, there’ll be no lawyers involved. Now, will you take it?’

She reached her hand out across the desk to be shook, confirming the deal. Snakebite let her hang it there for as long as possible. He looked her in the eyes. Damn she had pretty eyes, just like her mother. He turned away and stared at the clock on the wall. It had stopped ticking a long time ago, almost three years now. The glass was cracked. The small hand was on 5 and the long hand rested just after 8. Her hand was starting to waver, somewhere between 3 and 4. He took it in his gently.

‘I’m not interested.’

She withdrew her hand sharply.

‘Now I’d heard you were eccentric, Mr McMuffin. But this case, I don’t need to remind you, could help you pay off a lot of your debts.’

‘I don’t have money problems’ he said, smiling to himself ‘just a lot of friends who always make me buy the drinks’.

‘Then perhaps I can interest you in something else.’ She leant over the desk, arching her back, and whispered sensually in his ear: ‘Something your friends can’t give you.’

A bead of sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyes. He blinked, but remained still. It was hot. He really should get the air-conditioning fixed in his office. ‘What air-conditioning?’ his secretary had asked on her first day there. ‘The windows’ he replied.

‘I’m still not interested. The stakes are too high, and I don’t have a ladder.’

She frowned and moved away, slowly stood up, straightened her skirt and turned her back to him.

‘Very well, detective. I hoped it wouldn’t come to this.’

Snakebite knew what was coming. He slowly reached his hand out to the draw on the other side of his desk and began pulling it open.

‘I thought you’d be more intelligent’ she said, opening her handbag and taking something slowly out of it. ‘I’m disappointed in you.’ She turned back suddenly, and Snakebite found himself staring at the barrel of a gun. ‘Now, will you take my case?’ she asked. ‘Or will you take a bullet?’

Snakebite took a deep breath. He had his draw fully open by now but didn’t want to make any sudden moves and startle her. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the shadow of a large man outside his door. He heard a car pull up on the street below. He looked her up and down. She had a great figure, and her clothes accentuated it perfectly.

He said, slowly, staring her in the eyes: ‘That’s a nice skirt, Miss Trousers.’

[What will Snakebite do? Will she shoot him? What’s he got in his desk? Who’s outside his door? And can he fix the air-conditioning in his office?]

Labels: Fiction, Long, Snakebite McMuffin

A buccaneer.

Labels: Jokes

There were two major train related grievences that I managed to miss off of my previous rant on the matter. Both of them relate to MP3 players.

The first is obviously the tinny racket that seems to travel an incredible distance. I'm actually writing this while standing on a train platform. Nobody else is on my platform (maybe I smell, or am on the wrong platform)* and I can actually hear this guy's player from the other platform. That's crazy. It's as bad as second hand smoking.

The second is a subset of these loud MP3 listeners and it's people who are listening to their music so loud that they can't hear that their phone is ringing. Now that's annoying.

A solution suddenly occured to me the other day. It was inspired by something Derrin Brown said. He was talking about how people don't like others to come and sit next to them on the train. Most people look up and scowl if they want to discourage others from sitting next to them. Derrin suggested that the best way to discourage somebody was to look at them with a nice big welcoming smile and then gently stroke the seat they're aiming at. They'll soon get the idea.

This idea works on a similar basis. You start gently rocking in time to the music the other person is listening too, and then when the chorus kicks in start mouthing along to the words. They'll soon realise you can hear all and turn it down. You can even add a fake grumpy look at the end to signify that you're upset that they've turned their music down. I'm sure it'd work.

*Note I was actually fine. There must be less demand for my direction at this time in the morning.

Labels: Articles

One turns to the other and says, "quiet in her today isn't it".

Labels: Jokes

They are lying on the grass. The two of them. Her in a denim skirt, him in tan shorts. They each have a plastic cup, half filled with rapidly warming beer. The odd combination of deep base vibrating you but being unable to hear the melody that you only get at a festival is washing over the whole area. But they are kissing and don't notice.

They roll over each other and giggle. Everything seems possible. They are away from their family away together for the first time. For the first time, they don't feel different than adults. But the adults around them feel different. They look on bored and cynical. As bored and cynical as they usually are, but for a second when they first see the two of them carrying on they think about what they've lost by becoming old. And then they snap back and say something like, "get a room".

The two of them don't notice. They feel adult without feeling like adults and for one day in the sunshine it's the greatest feeling in the world.

Labels: Fiction, Short

Here's a picture of me (in close up) enjoying myself earlier this afternoon. A very, very relaxing day...

Labels: Illustrated

There is a train station in south London called Smitham and the odd thing is that Smitham doesn't exist. Smitham is effectively North Coulsdon. The entire hamlet of Smitham seems to have been destroyed in the process of building the A23 and the train station. Imagine that planning meeting if you will:

Planner A: Hey there's this small hamlet called Smitham that doesn't have any access to transport.

Planner B: Yeah but it's tiny they'll just go to Coulsdon if they need to get anywhere.

Planner A: No, we must provide them with a busy transport link. That's the only way they'll ever progress.

Planner B: But there's no space, nothing will fit.

Planner A: Well to develop a transport link sometimes you do have to knock down a few houses.

Planner B: But all of them? Surely that's going a bit far.

Planner A: Do you hate progress.

Planner B: No.

Planner A: Well shut up and pass me the protractor.

So they destroyed the whole thing to build it, but then they left the station name the same. That's what doesn't quite make sense. It's an odd solution. And now even that is under attack - from me.

I want to change the name of the station, purely for my own selfish reasons. Basically to make me laugh. I want the name of the station to become Andweep. Why? Well I'll tell you why. The reason is that the station before it on the train line is called Reedham. And I want the announcer to have to say Reedham, Andweep. I know it doesn't make sense, but I want it. And it turns out that it makes about as much sense as the current name anyway. So join me in the campaign to rename Smitham. Leave your votes in the comments.

Labels: Articles

Snakebite McMuffin leaned back on his creaking office chair and tried to think. This had been a complicated case, it was one where it paid to consider all of the angles. With a moments trepidation he wrote down 19.7 degrees. There, he had solved it. There was the proof.

It was with that word, "proof", hanging in his mind that he turned his mind to another kind of proof. One that was lurking in his bottom drawer. One that was significantly stronger than 19.7 degrees proof. He slid the drawer open and reached inside. His he drifted his hand forward until his knuckles gently tapped on the bottle. It was, he always felt, like he was knocking to be let in. He turned his hand and grasped the bottle fully. The cold of the bottle searing into his sweaty palm. He had only just started to pull the bottle towards him when...

BBLLLEEEEEEP!

He let go of the bottle and slammed the drawer shut. He did it a little too hard and then had to open the drawer again, pick up the bottle, right it, and then carefully close the drawer. He had just done this when...

BBBLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEEEEEEEP

Snakebite hit the intercom switch with his fist and shouted, "YeahWhaddaYaWant".

"Dame here to see you".

"Okay. Send her in."

A woman here? In the office? He couldn't believe it. He looked around at the mess of pizza boxes and chinese takeout cartons and shrugged. If she wanted to hire him she had to accept that he was going to have to go on a lot of stake-outs. His secretary had at first complained about how she didn't think he really needed to bring all of the boxes back with him. But he'd explained how it helped with keeping expenses in order.

But just as he looked up to the door in readiness for her arrival, whoever she was, he saw a pile of personal photos relating to another case on the other side of the desk. Old Snakebite may have been a slob but he wasn't sloppy. He could not afford for her to see those photos. He leapt up from his chair and ran round the desk. The movement of air that this created blew the photos off the pile and right onto the floor. He was still scrabbling around down there when the door opened and she stepped in.

From where he was kneeling the first thing he noticed was her dark red heels and then as he looked up there were her legs which seemed to go on for miles and miles or at least for a good number of feet.

Snakebite picked himself off of the ground and as he raised himself he appraised the woman opposite him. She was wearing a deep red skirt and matching jacket, a cream dress shirt, blonde hair and lips that seemed to say, "Snakebite McMuffin I presume".

"What?" asked Snakebite.

"You are Mr McMuffin aren't you?"

"Yes, yes, sorry yes," he replied as he wiped his hand on his shirt and proffered it for shaking.

The lady, initially and almost instinctively had started to offer her hand so she could shake the one that was being swung her way. But then she noticed the stain that Snakebite's hand had left on his shirt and she withdrew it.

Snakebite decided that a different tack was in order so he straightened himself up and ambled back towards his side of the desk. As he walked he said, "I see you know my name, but I'm afraid I don't know yours. Ms…?"



"Miss Trousers. Miss Felicity Trousers".

"Felicity Trousers," Snakebite repeated looking and sounding a little surprised, "as in Felicity Trousers, heiress to the Trouser Millions?".

"Yes," she looked at him sternly, "that Felicity Trousers. You look a little surprised, detective."

"Well yes I," he paused clearly weighing up the right way of phrasing something, "well yes I suppose I am. It's just that your old bastard of a father, no offence, didn't tend to farm out any jobs to me. He always used the big boys uptown."

"What Pry, Vate and Dick?"

"Yeah that outfit."

"He certainly did. But I need to use somebody else Mr McMuffin. I surely do. I need somebody my father never dealt with, somebody my father never trusted. Are you that man?"

[What would Snakebite do? Would he take the case? Tune in next week to find out (hint: yes he does take the case)]

Labels: Fiction, Long, Snakebite McMuffin

When one turns to the other and says, "just out of interest, are we poisonous"?
"I don't really know," replies the other snake, "Why"?
"I've just bit my tongue".

Labels: Jokes

My father has a theory about colds which may or may not be backed with any science but seems to be accurate in the field.

First you have to accept that the sniffles does not a cold make. Some people say that being a bit congested is a first sign of a cold but you can get the sniffles completely independently of a cold. First you have to allow this which I think is pretty reasonable.

So while holding that sniffles and a cold are unrelated we can now say that no two people in one family get a cold at the same time. People get sympathy sniffles but not concurrent colds. Each person in a family or an office will, in a rather British way, wait for the preceding person to finish up before falling ill themselves.

This is because, according to my father, there are a finite number of colds in the world. Each person is giving their cold to each other (as conventional wisdom holds) but in this model unlike conventional wisdom the cold departs the giver when it moves on to a new victim.

If you think back to past occasions when colds have been rife you will probably find this is true for you. One person caring for the other and then you swap.

Oh I'm sure you can think of some random occasion when this hasn't been the case. But this is still possible if randomly you caught two different colds from two different people.

This does lead you to a rather interesting conclusion though. If the only way to get rid of a cold is to pass it on maybe lying in bed is asking for trouble. You only see your family members and then when they're sick they only see you. Maybe going back into work works for you, maybe random strangers on the bus. Where ever you decide to do it you'll need to expose yourself to others to get rid of the damn thing. So don't stay tucked up in bed for too long.

Now "Alex", you might be thinking, "if their are a finite number of colds where do they all go in the summer?" The answer is obvious. They migrate. They're all in Australia at the moment as winter approaches "down under".

Labels: Articles

The police are closing in so each of them decide to hide in sacks.

The police enter, and to check each sack a police office kicks the sack as he passes it.

First the policeman goes up to the redhead's sack and kicks it and she says, "Meow".

Then the policeman goes up to the brunette's sack and kicks that one and she says, "Woof".

Finally the policeman goes up to the blonde's sack and kicks that one and she says, "Potatoes".

Labels: Jokes

Oswald didn't like when people noticed he was different. This was a shame for Oswald because it happened all of the time. Oswald only had one eye and it was smack in the middle of his face. His eye was just above his nose. And people couldn't help but stare when ever they saw him.

He had tried to make friends but even the loser kids all shunned him. He had tried to get good at sports so the other kids would like him and pick him for their teams. But it was hard to practice for team games by yourself and Oswald's depth perception had never been that good.

If he ever tried to be smart in class the other kids just hated him more. There didn't seem to be anything poor Oswald could do.

Then one day Oswald was sitting in his English class. English was his favourite class. In fact English was everyone's favourite class at his school because the English teacher was Miss Greg. Miss Greg was a very very attractive young women. At Oswald's all boys school you just had to be female and have a pulse (pulse optional) to attract attention and yet Miss Greg was genuinely foxy. She was a tall, blonde, willowy and she had a slight eastern european accent that Oswald had never been able to place.

So it was English with Miss Greg. They were all paying minute attention to everything she was doing and saying. But despite paying that much attention they could hardly have noticed the draw string of Miss Greg's dress getting inside the book she was reading to them. And that when she closed the book the string was inside the book. And that when she picked up the book the string was still inside the book. And that when she lifted the book above her head to make a point about something her dress became undone. Suddenly the boys could see everything. Miss Greg realised immediately what had happened, but was so surprised that she didn't immediately cover herself. She just stood there - stunned.

Everyone was slient. Nobody was saying anything. And then Oswald said, "That's a sight for sore eye". And everyone laughed. Even Miss Greg (and then she quickly covered herself). That was the moment that Oswald realised it - if you could make people laugh then they would like you.

Labels: Fiction, Short

Nick wrote an article detailing what he felt was, perhaps, the greatest 5 minutes in cinema. They are actually the twelve minutes from near the end of Kill Bill - Part 1.

I wondered about the answer myself and immediately I came up with my choice (it has taken a moment or two for me to immediately post it, but that's another story).

I have chosen the last 10 minutes of Manhattan as my 5 minutes, they are a fantastic symbiosis of music and action without being quite as flashy as Kill Bill.

As a taster I have also included the first five minutes of Manhattan as well which are also great:

First Five Minutes:


If you haven't seen Manhattan before you probably shouldn't watch this as it is the very end of the movie. Run do not walk to your local DVD retailer and make a purchase!

Last 10 Minutes:

Labels: Illustrated

Some things are difficult to search for on the internet. The best trick to use for finding things on the internet is to think in your mind of an exclusive sentence that is only relevant for the thing your searching for. This is harder than it seems but with a bit of practice you will find that you drastically improve the results of the thing that you're searching for.

But some things are hard to look for. There are generally two reasons for this. One is that although your question is about something specific the specific thing shares a name with something common. Say for example you have a question about the html tag "table" well typing in table alone is no good, you have to type in html because other wise you get lots of information about the kind of tables that you sit at. But what if the modifier word is also a common word?

The second type of problem case is when you are researching something that nobody has ever researched before. If it's something obscure then you are in luck. There are very very few truly original ideas that somebody hasn't written about before on the internet. But if it's about a common thing then it's hard to write a question that lets you find the one article.

I was faced with this problem the other day. I had this strange feeling based on some information that I wasn't sure about that it was a bad idea to take cans of soft drink (like Coke, Dr Peppers etc) in and out of the fridge once they had become cold. I couldn't for the life of me think why this would be a problem, but I had this information in my mind. I came to the conclusion after some time that this was a rumour I had debunked a few years ago without checking any facts. The person who asked me probably left the conversation reassured after having asked Alex that it wasn't a problem, and now years later it had come back to haunt me.

Luckily Yahoo Answers now has, erm, the answer because real people will answer your question for free on the internet. It's all very useful. And I might even ask this question on there, although now my brain has clicked back in I'm pretty sure that it can't be a problem. I have a nagging thought that condensation could be part of a counter answer. But I can't rationally think how this would work.

Anyway, now that Yahoo Answers exists let me let you in on a little secret hack that you could have used in the old days if you needed the answer and couldn't find it on a search engine. It would take a moment or two but in a bind it might be worth it. All you need to do is create an urban legend about your question. So in this example you would create an e-mail like this:

Dear friend,

Unless you forward this e-mail to your 5 best friends they might die and it will be all your fault.

Do you or your friends take soft drinks out of the fridge and then put them back afterwards. Do you do this when you're trying to make room for pot roast leftovers or BBQ? Do you know it might kill you. Bacteria from the drinks arrive when they get cold, and then grow when you let the drinks get warm, and then when you put them back in the fridge the cold temperature causes the bacteria to thrive and mutate thus killing you.

Thanks,

A concerned Buddy,

And then you sit back and wait for Barbara Mikkelson (of snopes.com) to tell you the truth. It's simple, effective, and probably a bit immoral. Hopefully Yahoo Answers will stop people from having to resort to such tactics from here on in.

Labels: Articles

[This is the final part of the 4 part story Scorching. If you're interested in that kind of thing then you may want to check out parts one, two and three before you read this.]

Steven put down his beer and turned himself over onto his back. He knew that he was supposed to towel off the sweat when you turn over. But he couldn't be bothered today. Apparently it meant you got an uneven tan. But he couldn't be bothered today. Today he didn't have time for it, he was playing catch-up.

He'd had to spend all morning with the police telling them what had happened. He'd told them the truth. All of the truth. And they'd believed him. They had even understood why he hadn't come straight to them. They too were men. They too had often thought, when they saw x x x that they would do anything to know her. He had had to spend the day, and the night with her. He made promise after promise to her while they ate, drank and made love. And yet there was no way he was not going to tell the police about the dead body in the master bedroom.

Steven turned slightly onto his side so that he could drink some more of his beer. The slightest breeze caught his chest and made a shiver run down his back. He was transported in his mind back to England. Cold rainy England. He didn't want to go back there.

He wasn't sure what to tell people. The real reason sounded like a laddish lie and so he thought about telling people that the reason he turned Gloria in was because he feared having to go back to England. That he feared being deported.

He thought it sounded better than the truth. That it sounded more reasonable than the reality. The real reason he had turned her in is that despite many attempts to improve things, almost all of the previous day and night had been spent trying. Gloria was singularly crap in bed.

Steven lay back down on the sun lounger and used the chair in exactly the way that the name suggested, he lounged in the sun.

He couldn't shake one thought from his mind, "and people thought I was going to grow up".

Labels: Fiction, Long, Scorching