Everyone – and I mean everyone – has been waiting for this moment impatiently and, in some cases, violently. I am pleased to now be able to bring the impatience and the violence to an end, with the release of the answers to last month’s Pouring Beans crossword.
Back in early March, I stated very clearly that there were “no prizes”, but then shortly afterwards in the comments I appear to have also promised everyone prizes, so I suppose we’d better go ahead and analyse the entries that have been submitted.
Kev made a very good attempt in which he got all the answers right. His handwriting (or “handers writers”) was a bit messy but it would be churlish to deny him a prize on that basis, so a prize it is for him.
Ian made what I can only describe as an avant garde attempt at the crossword, getting only five of the twelve clues right, but redeeming himself with clear typography and also a very enjoyable drawing of a stickman with a ladder. On that basis I think he also has to get a prize.
So, with all the formalities out of the way, it just remains for me to offer my congratulations to the winners, whose prizes are now on the way, and to thank you all for taking part. Thank you. No, no, thank YOU.
Warning: this post contains gratuitous scenes of exercise. Viewer discretion is advised.
This boy has been running now, jogging now, a bit of a mix of the two since the start of the year. Rogging arounds wrong so let’s stick with junning. I’ve been junning since January. I have dabbled in it in the past however nothing substantial. I suppose with a lot of things collapsing in on itself it’s only fair that one tiny thing in my life prevails in a positive and optimistic fashion.
Cut to Thursday night though when shit got real.
I prefer junning at night because there are less people around to point fun at the tiny shorts I wear. The temperature is at a steady balance, much better than slogging through ice and snow anyway. I start my jun and headed off in the direction of my route. This route has been planned to perfection i.e. it features very little uphill bits and mostly flat or downhill bits.
There is a housing estate close to where I live that I do a couple of laps of to warm up. As I approach the edge of it I’m feeling the juice, I’m feeling the jun through my veins so I decide to speed up a bit. Down the first street, right at the end there is a footpath which curves round a corner down to the next street. Bounding like a chopper I go, I approach the curve and this is where it all goes wrong.
There was no slow motion here, no events slowing in my brain or anything like that. It was a short, sharp pinch in the eyes as far as my recollection of events goes. One moment I was junning away, the next I’m lying on the ground with scrape marks on my legs and blood staining the palms of my hands.
Some little dear had left their scooter in the middle of the path, something which you couldn’t see because it was round a blind corner. Unless I had leapt 2 or 3 feet in the air I was going to hit it every time. Not a full size scooter, no no, something someone just out of toddler-dom would use. I have no concern for myself, my god, I must check that my electronic life partner is still okay! The phone is nestled snugly in my jacket pocket, safe and sound. I stagger to my feet to assess the damage under a dimly-li lamppost.
Now this is exactly the kind of thing that I would do to myself; I am no stranger to injuring myself in unusual circumstances. What really sealed it as an ‘Ian’ moment though was just as I turned the corner and collided with the scooter a teenage boy was walking up the path from the opposite direction. He daren’t touch me, for obvious reasons (following Bovona guidelines to a tee) but asked if I was okay which was nice. As I stood up to brush myself down and turn to start running again he called for my attention. To my confusion and astonishment the boy brought over the tiny scooter. “You forgot this.” Luckily the violently sarcastic part of my brain was sleeping at the time.
Unreasonable reaction: WHAT THE F*CK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING, LAD? DO YOU REALLY THINK THAT F*CKING SCOOTER IS MINE? F*CK ME, I COULD BARELY GET ONE OF MY TOENAILS ON THERE LET ALONE A FULL F*CKING FOOT. I’M WEARING SHORTS, I’M OUT JOGGING. WHY THE F*CK DO YOU THINK A F*CKING 37 YEAR OLD MAN IS SCOOTERING AROUND AT 9PM ON A THURSDAY F*CKING NIGHT? DOES THAT SOUND SH*TTING PLAUSIBLE TO YOU?
Panting through the stinging in my hands, I merely said that it wasn’t mine and thanked him for his concern. There I was, stumbling in front of a member of the public only for him to believe that the situation was that much worse because I had embarrassed myself by failing to use a scooter properly. Remarkably my legs were fine, a gash on one knee and nothing more, so I carried on with my jun.
This is getting too long. I did consider that perhaps this was some kind of cosmic karma for something else. A balance had to be made by me making a tit of myself. The day after I was in agony. Some bruising to my right side meant breathing, coughing, you know, any kind of movement caused a little jolt of pain to explode under my ribs. I am on the mend after a few days of rest and hope to be back junning later on this week.
How will you be remembered? What will be your legacy?
What small nugget of nonsense will you leave the world so they know that you were once here, plugging away through all of life’s shambles like everyone else? Most people think it’s easy enough to pop out of a couple of kids and job done, right?
While my legacy is currently encroaching on my status as ‘tallest person in my family’ and ruffling through cupboards looking for chocolate cereal, there is another way that I will be “fondly” (?) remembered for years to come.
My nieces have all collectively lost their minds, which is nice when you think about it; they could have lost them one by one but they chose to do it all at the same time like sisters. together as a family. Adorable. I’m so proud of them. They then decided to write a song, which is clearly inspired by me, and John sent me a video of them performing it. The internet doesn’t deserve that but what I will do is show you the lyrics to this timeless masterpiece. It’s so poignant that if that rumoured Papples reunion ever happens they may have to croon a cover of it.
Now all I need is someone to paint my beautiful visage next to a newly-commissioned big-chinned, bollock-necked MaGee with the lyrics surrounding me in a halo of light and my voyage to immortality will be complete.
Hello and welcome to a new series where we invite guest speakers to come into the hallowed halls of Beandom to talk about interesting and varied topics. We hope that by doing so it will create a rich slunge of conversation between all members and denizens of the public.
Today’s guest needs no introduction but thankfully I have prepared one anyway because I like the sound of my own voice. Please welcome to the stage to stand at the beautiful lectern I made with my own small man hands, noted customarian and three times winner of the sexiest man in Cross Gates, Pop Giegel.
“I was ten when I first sat down on a chair and, boy, I can tell you that was a day to remember. The way you didn’t have to stand anymore, it was a massive eye-opener. Shortly afterwards I told my friend, Jill, and she said that she had been sitting on chairs for most of her life which made me embrace a deep melancholia because there had been so much chair-sitting that had been absent from my life, so many hours passed without sitting.
The chair was invented in 1842 by Grandalf Miscus, an Austrian professor who had grown tired of the choices of standing up or lying down. He theorised that there must be some kind of go-between and set about looking for that alternative. After ten years of research he finally built the prototype chair, the Oxi, which is still on display at the Hofburg museum in Vienna. It may look crude by today’s standards however without it you would not be able to sit and watch television, sit and read a book, sit and flick through nondescript advertisements on overbearing websites.
Grandalf’s “chair” or mikrowellenpizza in his native language revolutionised the world and how we approach it. He saw through the mire and decided that perhaps standing and drinking a cappuccino is not as relaxing as it first sounds, and perhaps there is something a little cushier available. There have been many other variations of this such as the leg chair, the head chair, sofa maze, office chair, waiting room bench chair and the still popular Halloween mask chair.
Since my first life-changing sitting experience I have spent most of my adult life sitting or trying to sit down. When I went to see U2 at the 3Arena in Dublin a few years ago, standing room only, I let off fireworks until someone brought me a chair to watch the concert from. If I have to get on a crowded train I have a travel chair or Schnursenkel which I keep with me at all times. It is also useful when waiting for the bus or if there is a long queue for the Oblivion at Alton Towers.
I hope you all do not underappreciate the long-standing effect and influence that the chair has had on the human race. In fact, it’s influence cannot be understated. Wars have been fought over the positioning of chairs in the dining room. Religious leaders have publicly spoken to millions of people from chairs, possibly. Imagine trying to eat an omelette with one hand because your other hand is holding the plate or, maybe even worse, having to bend down to the table to reach your omelette because there is no other way of eating it. Tragic.
If you’re going to do something nice you best do it standing like a titan.
After helping the doggos earlier on this year with my walk around my flat, which sounds about as strenuous as a trip to Waitrose, I have decided to further the cause and lend a paw to someone who needs my help.
This is Sunshine and he is a star in waiting.
For a blind breed of unknown origin, he has a whole lot of charisma at his disposal. Sunshine or “the Moose” as he has affectionately come to be known (nobody can remember who gave him the nickname although I am still adamant that it was me) claims to not be able to see out of either eye, a fact that still has not been proven. I have asked him several times and he refuses to answer the question.
With all this potential it seemed like a waste to let him hide in the shadows of obscurity so despite handing the task to Reuben over the summer holidays, the task of raising his social media profile has been passed to me. I have begun this with his own Twitter account for “hilarious” posts about doggo things and photos of him looking like a dog, something the internet goes CRAZY for I am reliably informed.
Comments such as, “you really need to get a girlfriend, Ian” and, “what are you doing with photos of my dog?” have been ignored because currently only I can see the greatness that has been under everyone’s noses.
I also feel obliged because, in a way, the Moose is my spirit animal in that he eats just as fast as I do and is forever looking for more things to eat. Who am I to ignore a fellow gluttonous brother? I have promised to myself not to let any of my horrendous toxic masculinity leak into his cheery disposition, nor any of the wonderful photos of his viso/volto. Trying to keep it under wraps has been very difficult especially with the sheer volume of packets of sugar that I keep downing all at the same time.
I gave him a swish Twitter handle and Twitter responded by giving us a pretty generic name. You can follow Sunshine at @TheMoos90645566 for all the moosing around you (that’s YOU) can handle.
You know what’s wrong with board games these days? They’re not tough enough. Whilst they are entertaining and enjoyable, informative and fun, maddening and frustrating at times there is nothing about them that gives the impression of tough.
Courtesy of my toxic masculinity, I have come with a new take on an existing idea that will blow all you soft willows out of the water and into the gutters. It will remove your eyes and replace them with hot coals of pain.
‘Snakes and Lads’ follows the same basic formula as its predecessor, ‘Snakes and Ladders’; you have a board with one hundred squares and the object is to get from the bottom to the top first.
You play as Tony, a right hard lad who whilst out drinking with his mates decides that they should place a little wager on who can get to the kebab shop first. His best mate, Tony, who has been sh*t-faced since 7pm is of course well up for this. His cousin, Tony, never says no to a bet and the same goes for Tony, Tony and his dad, Tony (I should mention that you don’t necessarily need six players in total but it does help).
So, as one of the Tonys, you wander through the streets trying to get to the kebab shop. If you land on a snake, you strangle it like the piece of savage meat you are. This however does mean that the time you spend boshing that sod into the next week causes you to fall behind and you go back down to the corresponding square below. If you land on a lad, you go right in for a fight with that sucker. You roll the dice and if you get an even number, you smash ‘im down. If you happen to roll an odd number he gets in a cheeky punch and you stay where you are.
The first to reach ‘The Quilted Slosh’ gets to call all the other players whoopsies and collects a tenner from each of them.
Extra points for those who sit on a steak whilst playing and eat a whole bag of sugar all at the same time.
I have never been more convinced of my genius until this idea.
I’ve been driving my car into London a lot since all this nonsense started (the global crisis, that is, not the Beans) and I’ve had cause to ditch my ride in a lot of pay and display parking bays.
Most of the time I’m parking in them when they’re free, but sometimes I need to pay for half an hour here or there if my stay overlaps with the premium parking hours.
The best way to do this is not to stand by the road, like a mug, pushing buttons on your phone to pay for something. No, the best way to do it is to park up, take a photo of the sign for reference, and then stride away like the important London man-about-town that you are, dealing with the parking admin later, perhaps while sipping an organic cappucino in a hipster café, or even better, delegating the whole problem to your PA when you arrive in your 93rd floor corner office.
I suppose what I’m saying to you is that I went back through my camera roll and, even though I usually delete them at the end of the day, I discovered that I am building up quite a collection of parking information for the streets of the West End. And, lucky for you, I am willing to share this for your entertainment and enjoyment.
I had two ideas for another post this month albeit they both stemmed from the same prospect of enraging Kevin and there is no way that I am going to post them within a few days of each other. I do like to space these things out so that Kevin’s wrath does not come down on my like a ton of spiky, explosive bricks. Also, you may as well milk this for all it’s worth because everyone loves winding Kev up as much as I do. With this in mind, let me present you with a little review of the Gameboy Colour game ‘Hamtaro: Ham-Hams Unite!”
Hamtaro is a hugely popular Japanese series of anime, manga and video games. It follows the adventures of a group of SD (super-deformed and very cutesy) hamsters and it’s utterly insane. I want to pretend that this is completely normal but it’s not. I have played through the entire game and I am convinced it was designed by the deranged. Even I, with my bat shit crazy view of the world, found myself exclaiming out loud, not in my head, actual audible sounds, of “Eh?” and “You what?” whilst playing it. It is everything that I was hoping for and an extra box of chocolate carpets to boot.
In it you play the titular Hamtaro, a lovable hamster with a heart as huge as his eyes. The boss of your hamster clubhouse has tasked you with locating all the other twelve hamsters and bringing them back for a special surprise. As a small rodent, the human world is big and full of items that would appear normal to you and me. How are you to convince your peers to abandon whatever they’re doing and head back to he clubhouse? You do this using Ham-Chat. Ham-Chat is the secret language of the Ham-Hams whereby instead of using sensible words to describe and communicate they use slight variations or muddied portmanteaus of colloquialisms. It does seem rather odd that this fully-grown hamster does not understand basic words for ‘happy’, ‘tired’ and ‘hungry’; how has he been getting by all this time? Has he been writing down words on a pad and showing them to friends and family? Where did he buy this pad of paper, from a tiny WH Smiths? Who designed and built a WH Smiths so small only small animals can get in? There are so many questions.
So you get given a few to begin with and set off into the world to learn more words. The more words you learn the more puzzles you can solve. When I say “puzzles” what I mean is… what do I mean? You meet other Ham-Hams and they tell you things such as stories or other Ham-Chat words. You pass these on to other Ham-Hams to help them with whatever problem they’re dealing with. Occasionally you won’t be able to proceed in the area you’re in until you find the right word and backtrack to that point. Occasionally you’ll go through every word you have until you do the right thing. Occasionally you’ll have to play a mini-game where you position Hamtaro in the right place so he can head a strawberry like a football. Fruit sports.
The game is relatively open so you can wander around until you find the right thing for the right place. It’s a series of fetch quests hidden behind a brightly-coloured world of absurdity. There are eighty-five words to find in total. As this is a kid’s game, you are also given the choice of purchasing clothes and items for Hamtaro from specialist shops hidden in the game. Fancy yourself a bit of a dance guru? The words from the back of the box say it all:
“You can create dances with Ham-Chat. Every word gives you a dance step – string words together to make your own original Ham-Jam dances then link up and share with your friends.”
I didn’t get this. I mean I understand hamsters dancing but I didn’t see the point of it meaning I ignored this aspect of the game completely and went back to picking up acorns and rocks.
Though I am a little ashamed to admit it, I am still to complete my Ham-Ham Notebook having only found seventy-six of the eighty-five words in total. I appear to have hit a bit of a block where it seems as if I need to do the tiniest of little things before carrying on with the rest of the game and my poor eyes, all sets of them, don’t have the energy to go scouring through the same levels again and again trying to find whatever it is I need to do.
That said, it is a very engaging and silly game, and I enjoyed the majority of it. I first learned of it at the turn of the century and it took me until this year to play it. Twenty years of anticipation. Twenty years of sometimes looking for it on Ebay and then getting distracted by a box of hammers. As it is quite rare I could only find the game and instruction booklet so I bought a reproduction box from Etsy to house it in. Now it looks all complete and shiny the way it should. Look at it, Kev, bask in how great it looks. That repro box was well worth the money. I only wish everyone could experience the comic mischief of ‘Hamtaro: Ham-Hams Unite!” although the chances of an HD remake or remaster are practically slim to none.
It’s a good job then that there are three (count ’em!) three other Hamtaro games on the Gameboy Colour for me to source and play. Life is good.
