That tingle of anticipation that courses through your body when something is going to happen. Modern life hasn’t given us a lot to be excited about (yes I would like to pay more for my weekly food shop, yes I do love it when trains I’m about to get on are cancelled for no apparent reason, it’s probably for the best there’s a shortage of ‘X’ because I was enjoying it far too much and needed a bit of a break) so you have to grab hold of these moments whenever you can and cling them to your bosom.
Sometimes it doesn’t even take that much to be excited. For me, it was three words in an email and I was sent into a wide-eyed frenzy of sorts. “Lord Winklebottom Investigates” said the email, “coming soon”. That technically is five words but I wasn’t focusing on the last two so much. ‘Lord Winklebottom Investigates’. Beautiful. Simple.
It’s so ridiculous and so ‘me’ that I had to know more. It is a 1920’s murder mystery, point and click adventure (inspired by Sherlock Holmes and Agatha Christie) featuring a dashing giraffe detective. It has full English voice acting (with everyone probably sounding posher than a Duke with an afternoon tea set shoved up his backside) and an original 1920’s inspired soundtrack. Given that I have an anthropomorphic badger tattooed on my left arm it’s not too surprising that this has tickled my fancy. I have also played a game called ‘Chicken Police’. I am not an adult.
It is already out and available digitally on Steam, PS4, X-Box 1 and Switch so you can all play this now if you wanted to, however I am waiting for the physical version to come out so I can proudly display the game for all to see, possibly next to ‘Chicken Police’. I want Lord Winklebottom on my shelf so people know just how ridiculous one person can be although deep down I expect they are already aware of this.
I received the birthday parcel. I recorded a video of me opening the parcel. I tried half a dozen times to upload the video and the bon of a sitch website wouldn’t let me. It kept getting to either 80% or 93% and then it would stop.
I am going to keep trying however for now you will have to make do with the “amazing” thumbnail I have made.
Oxford Circus late at night Crowds of wankers, lights shine bright Down below the crowds that mill Sits a sneaker calm and still
Who would drop you in this place? Who has joined the unshod race? Who would think their grand night out Is better with one bare foot out? I see you, shoe, and I see beyond I see how great you’d be if donned I see potential through the grime I see the reason and the rhyme
Oxford Circus late at night One lone trainer shining bright The key to one foot’s endless roam I envy the toes that take you home.
In my long and illustrious career as, well, pretty much everything and everyone I have achieved a number of accolades to my name. I’m not going to list them all here because we don’t want it turning into one of those back-slapping exercises that other people seem to indulge in. I’m far too shy and retiring for that.
That said, I suppose 2020 was the worst time to change my career. I decided to be an animalogist just as the Bovona virus took hold of the world and squeezed it like a sad lemon to make a tiny droplet of lemonade so lacklustre it would fail to quench the thirst of a dung beetle.
For those not in the know, animalogists are those people who look like they got dressed in the dark / with their eyes closed and go out into the world to record all the different types of animals living in the world. All of them from such famous ones as the Alaskan mountain nut boar and the wig herons to the common ‘o garden hassle mice, they all need to be documented as many times as possible so that when you meet one of them you know what their star sign is and how they take their coffee.
When I was (secretly) roaming the more uninhabitable parts of Northern Russia in the later months of the year I came across a species of moose that was yet undocumented. It was tall and graceful, with a large volume of hair that took up most of the horizon line. I could see many nests of birds hiding in there. Worn high over its forehead, it was the most stylish moose I have ever seen with my moose-viewing eyes (they were commissioned especially for this expedition). After a general introduction I started asking it all of the pertinent questions starting with shirt size, favourite astronaut and whether or not their rivalry with raccoons had been blown out of proportions over the last few decades.
The information I acquired was priceless. In my bag I had reams and reams of paper filled to the brim with a veritable cornucopia of details. I was going to offer the definitive take on this new breed, coupled with one of my award-winning and best-selling books to boot. The only downside is that the pompadoose moose would not allow me to take its photo. I could ask all the questions I wanted but the world was not ready for its beauty and so I left pictureless.
To gaze upon its pompadour and its grace was a treasure like no other. I only hope that when the world is ready for it, that I am there at the front, pushing everyone else out of the way, ready with my trusty Kodak Ektralite to record that wonderful moment.
What’s going on there exactly? It’s very odd, as though someone was trying to type ‘coin’ in their phone and came out with a right old mess of nonsense.
The more you look at it the less it makes sense, possibly causing fits of giggles from its nonsensical nature. In a way it’s a bit like that picture of George that got funnier the longer you stared at it; scientists are yet to understand the power of Gorg.
For those not in the know, myself included, a quoin is a masonry block at the corner of a wall. Some are structural, providing strength for a wall made with inferior stone or rubble, while others merely add aesthetic details to a corner.
Imagine that, your corner is looking a little out-dated, not completely on the fashions so you rustle up a sexy quoin and stick it on the outside of your house ot make the neighbours jealous. If I had a collection of quoins mine would all have feather boas and they’d dangle from the side of my block of flats, teasing those that walk past with their dogs.
I wonder how many quoins Kevin has been through in his redevelopment cycle encompassing most of the British Isles.
There I was, minding my own business, asking for a very simple birthday present when I was told, of all people, me, yes I know, that I wasn’t posh enough. The present in question was an afternoon with the very lovely Jeany Spark, an actress so lovely that I lost several pairs of eyes when watching her on my recent re-run of hilarious chortle-fest ‘Man Down’ because the loveliness overwhelmingly blinded me. I take eyes very seriously but I was willing to lose them for her.
So you can imagine my predicament, mainly because I have just explained the whole thing. I am not the kind of person who will take a glove slap in the face and walk away from it. With my trusty photographer in tow (that’ll be Master Reuben), I set out to show the world how posh I really am and when you see the results I expect you will know exactly what I mean.
Rather than clog the whole post up, I’ve used the modern facilities and supped the photos into an album which you should (should!) be able to view whenever you want.