Monday seemed like a regular day. I had woken up, gone to work, come home and eaten a hearty meal of mince, mince and mince. It was a good day.
It was a good day apart from the weather. It was freezing. I couldn’t feel my hands and feet, I clearly needed to do something to warm my flat up. But what can a regular Joe do in these awful times? Modern life is so expensive and there was no way I was turning the heating on for anything less than a blizzard. We were still several hundred flakes away a blizzard.
I therefore turned to my old friend, the hot water bottle. It has saved me from the cold on so many occasions and after a period of ten years was still going strong. I boiled the kettle and filled it up, and got comfy on the sofa with it positioned on my lap. I could feel the heat and it was so nice. I warmed my hands up on it then moved it to my back when it got a bit too much for my stomach. That’s the best thing to do with a hot water bottle, give it five minutes somewhere and then move it on. You have a whole body to warm up and there’s only so much one little HWB can do. Perhaps someone should invent a device that moves it round for you so you don’t have to?
I was sat in front of the TV watching a film with the HWB on my lap again when I noticed something was amiss. A searing kind of shock suddenly sprung forth between my legs. I’ve never set my testicles on fire however I would imagine the uncomfortable feeling I felt that day was very much akin to that. I pulled the hot water bottle from my lap to stop whatever was happening. Then heat turned to wetness, I could feel a wet sensation which confused the hell out of me. “What on earth is going on?” asked my prehistoric brain still trying to catch up with everything.
It was then after some close examination that I saw it; a little cut at the neck of the hot water bottle. Something (or someone) had cut a little slither meaning that any pressure applied to the bottom would force the water to come spurting out. I had accidentally burned myself with my own salvation during this chilly evening. Oh the shame I felt. Oh the humanity of it all! Who could have done such a thing to me, of all people?
My question therefore is what is the most embarrassing thing you have ever done to yourself either on your own or in public? I await your responses.
I’m in a ridiculous position. Normally, on the last day of the month, I’m scrabbling around for something to turn into a blog post so I can earn a bean before the clock runs out. Nightmare. What picture can I find on my phone? What mundane event can I expand into a witty anecdote? What horrifyingly self-important letter of complaint from my past can I share?
This month isn’t like that. This month, on the final day of November, I find myself with a different kind of anguish. This month I have a whole series of blog post ideas ready to go, but I can’t use them yet.
I’ve got pictures from the Papples recording session for Pop Squared. Tons of them! And they’re great, and funny, and there are stories about them. But I’ve already posted one set of Papples photos this month and I haven’t uploaded these ones.
Then, I’ve finally edited the behind the scenes footage we shot while we were making “Space for an Ace”. It’s great. I pulled a few clips from it a few years back but the rest has loads of fun stuff too. Trouble is it needs another tweak before I do a final export, and in any case it would need to go on YouTube and there’s no time for that tonight.
I’ve also got Four Word Reviews brewing. The album “Tubthumping” by Chumbawamba has been on my desk for the last two weeks, but every day I thought I’d have time to listen to it I ended up not having time, so I haven’t managed to fit it in yet.
This is all without mentioning my camera roll, which is of course brim full of potential posts. Probably.
Anyway, the point is that this month I’m tossing off a last minute post not because I’m short of material, but because I’ve got loads of stuff lying around and yet I still don’t have anything ready to go. So instead please enjoy this teaser trailer for upcoming posts here on the Beans. You’ll love them. If I ever get round to them.
I have been meaning to make a confession for some time now because it’s happened again and it happened right under my nose. I didn’t mean it to happen and it did. Oh, what a fragile and tragic series of events it was!
Some years ago I “purchased” a locker from a local art gallery. By “purchase” I mean I paid the £1.00 to use the locker and then kept on using it. It was practically a purchase after all because money changed hands, they got something and I got something. I would return to the locker to store things inside, hiding them away like a squirrel burying nuts for the winter. After several months of this I returned to a sign telling me that my purchase had been rescinded and the art gallery had taken the locker back by force. This was completely unacceptable and in my outrage I fled the scene and never returned. I didn’t agreed to these terms and yet I was being forced to comply with them. Absolute b*stards.
All those lovely trinkets of mine were lost. I had several diamond necklaces, a couple of Monets (rolled up very tightly and very carefully of course), a wallet full of oil and a Chinese urn signed by every member of the Ming dynasty amongst other things. Priceless.
In my new place of work I was assigned a locker. Actually, it’s less a locker and more lockable filing cabinet. It’s mine though and I keep only the essentials in there in case it gets taken away from me again. It’s a very busy office so the majority of the lockers are already taken by other members of staff however a few nights ago I was walking through and noticed that I was making a mental note of the odd ones that were still free. I had previously borrowed one to keep my gym items in until I worked out how to use the lockers at the gym (that’s another story in itself). When I returned to my locker the next day though I realised that the one adjacent to it was free. How had I not realised this before? Why was this only being brought to my attention now?
I took the key and kept it. Obviously the idea of knocking through the wall to make it a double locker is not permittable but it’s still good to have a spare. Is it though? Am I only coveting the locker because I can and because of what happened previously? Am I destined to continue to take lockers that don’t belong to me? I don’t need it and yet I keep it as mine.
I need some advice so please help in any way you can.
It has recently come to my attention that I may have been a little hard on something that has always caused trouble in my life. I have my reasons, believe me, this isn’t something that I have plucked out of thin air. Looking back on my behaviour I am a little ashamed; I suppose everyone makes mistakes and the only way to learn is by making them. That said, how can anyone like 3/4 length trousers?
They’re ridiculous. They look like you tried cutting the trousers to make a pair of shorts and gave up halfway through. They look as though you’re wearing ill-fitting clothes. Who’s bright idea was to sell someone an item of clothing that is missing a part of it? What kind of person does this appeal to?
That was how I used to think, the malice lurking underneath the top soil, the brazen hatred seething through the pork vestibule. It’s not as though my wife ran away with some trousers and I have spent the rest of my life resenting the whole lot of them. Whole lot of them, wow, it’s talk like that that made me sound like a trouser racist.
I am doing my best to move on. This is less a plea for help and more an admission of guilt in the hope that by doing so I can exorcise some of the more harsher criticisms that I have levelled at those so-called “missing trousers”. Human nature is so broad that it can cover a wealth of topics. The only explanation why I shied away from them for so long, that I ranted until hot steam poured out of my ears, is because if I did try to wear them it would expose the tattoo of Pam St Clement (aka Pat Butcher from ‘Eastenders’) at the base of my leg. I don’t want people knowing that I have it; my love is a secret kind of love.
Anyway, thanks for listening. I’m going to omit parts of my name so you don’t know who I am.
It has recently been brought to my attention that the world is not black and white anymore. It is a vibrant, colourful, smorgasbord of everything. I say everything because there are a lot of things now. I do miss the days when there were less things although I am quite happy talking to the small black disc in the corner of the room, especially when she plays me Captain and Tenille songs.
What disappoints me though is that there are no new colours. I want someone to come on the television and announce to the world, “Hey people! If you mix this and that you get a brand new shade! I’m calling it quotium brown!” I would prefer brighter colours though. There must be a new red or orange that somebody can rustle up like cookies from the cooker. We can’t have all the colours now that we’re only ever going to have. Forever. Forever and ever. People get so bored these days that they need new and stimulating things in order to keep them from going mad.
Do you think they are holding back on us? Are there scientists lurking within mountains, swirling ominous solutions in test tubes in the hope of squeezing out a new green?
If not, is there any chance one of you could invent a new colour and send it to me in the post?
Let me start by saying that of all the people in the world, I’ve seen keen. I’ve also seen eager, yearning, longing and a level of impatience that put impatience on the map. The map of keen.
The other day though, well, it’s hard to put into words exactly what happened. There was a press release for the new anti-matter water, the third kind of water, that is due to hit shelves in the next few weeks. The sheer volume of hysterical people hit an all time high. Most of the time the level of keen can be read in the face (eyes, mouth, cheek bones etc.) but as soon as these monkeys saw the article their whole bodies were keen. Have you ever seen a keen elbow? A keen shin? I have and I’m worried that now there is nowhere else for keen to go.
By keeping it primarily in the viso/volto it kept keen under control. This is a whole new set of rules for keen and I don’t think the human race is ready for it.
What on earth should we do?
I’ve got a problem that I can’t tell anyone about. Only the anonymous helping hands of casa de Beans can save me. I am sweating like a scamp just typing these words. I will have to use a fake name so it cannot be traced back to me for FEAR of besmirchment. Besmirching? For the possibility of a bad smirch.
My dog, Lavish Kibbles, passed away a few weeks ago. He choked on a sausage mouse and never recovered. I cried for several days after and eventually I got my stuff together, and sorted him out. In order to save on costs and vets bills I buried him in the back garden. The only thing is after I dug the hole I lost all the mud (I think my neighbour may have stolen it, he’s building his own Hawaiian mud shack) so I needed a substitute. With only my wits about me, I turned to the contents of my kitchen cupboards. Thankfully I’d been to Costco the other day to stock up on essentials and I’d picked up a 600lb bag of Bisto. Using the gravy granules I covered up Lavish Kibbles and retreated to the sanctity of my living room.
The crazy Summer weather conditions continued. A hot rain fell towards the end of the week. With it came the tastiest smell, wafting up from the bottom of my garden. I knew what it was and I knew I needed to control myself in case anyone discovered my disgusting yet mouth-wateringly frugal ways.
From my window I can see a river of gravy starting to flow. In my dreams I’m walking towards it, arms outstretched, a gigantic breadbun in each hand, desperate to dip. I’ve tried making my own as a way of appeasing my tastebuds but it doesn’t smell or taste the same. Only the raw, disturbing aroma emanating from my back yard will quench my thirst.
What should I do; give in to temptation and chow down on my now ex-dog or look the other way?
It has been a whole twenty-one years since I was born. I do not remember being born, however I am told that it was a most awful and harrowing experience for everyone involved. Indeed, there are no photos of my birth because I am reliably informed that to remember such a day one would have to be the largest of sadomasochists possible.
Anyway, the reason for my letter has nothing to do with that; I wanted to proceed with a strong opener. My problem stems from something I have had since birth. It is not something that is easy to talk about so I am hoping that we can keep this between me and you.
I have the most unique hair. It is made out of noodles so I cannot go outside when it is raining. When I try to cry over something emotional, such as the film ‘The Quest’ starring everyone ever, instead of water tears I weep tears made of rice. When I get stabbed by local gang members I bleed tomato sauce, and I get followed home by hungry dogs and cats, licking the floor behind me.
This has stopped me from living a normal life. The last time I went out with someone I woke up one morning to find him nibbling on my forehead, trying to concoct some sort of bizarre tomato sauce noodle breakfast arrangement. In fact I am convinced he was trying to assemble a makeshift Virgin Mary.
My confidence is at an all time low. Can you help?
Camerra Von Plusbeets