Best Fwends

Friendships are supposed to last a lifetime. Friendships are the glue that hold together the people you know and without them we’d all be strangers wearing sunglasses trying to buy scouring pads. Nobody would expect a friendship to last a mere 24 hours and yet for it to mean so much.

Juggy was more than a friend. In the short space of time that we spent together it was obvious that he was more than a jug too. Juggy transcended the norm and exceeded all expectations.

What started out as a clearing out exercise at Kevin’s house, where he was sifting some carpets and buffing the parapets when I arrived, quickly turned into one of the moments that stay with you forever. Juggy met me with a high five and shortly after were cruising down to Stockport, singing along to the mix CD Kev had made when he wasn’t milking the rafters.

Juggy loved to sing. Not only this but he encouraged us to join in. He was the life and soul of the party, and when we actually reached the party he also became the loul and sife of the party too. So it was with a heavy heart that, learning of someone’s need for a jug, I handed him over to serve a greater cause. It was clear that it was destiny that Juggy came with us in order to help another’s plight and without him that person would have had to go to Wilkinsons to buy one. It was too much. I only have this photo to remember him by but, my God, he was one hell of a guy.

Here’s to you, Juggy. Salute!

Been Shopping

After Kev and I wrote “biscuits” and “breakfast” as the first two items on our shopping list, it became clear that our entire shopping trip would be only for items beginning with B.

So we took our bags, browsed the bargains and bought a bounty.

Things we bought:

Biscuits
Breakfast
Buns
Beef
Burgers
Bananas
Bread
Beer
Bacon
Big tomato
Banoffee pie
Brown onion
Bow tie pasta
Bourneville

Things we listed but decided not to buy:

Bath oil
Biscotti
Bovril
Brut
Butternut squash
Brandy snaps
Bearnaise sauce
Bruschetta
Bassoon

It was, clearly, brilliant.

The end (probably) of #TapSaga

That’s it. It’s over. For now at least anyway.

If anyone ever suggests to you that changing the taps in the bathroom is a quick and easy way to ‘refresh’ your room, my advice is to punch them swiftly in the face.

Let me give you a summary of what has gone on so far in #TapSaga in abbreviated bullet list format:

A Cry For Help

Hi, my name is (deleted for legal reasons) and I have a problem. My problem is that I am drawn towards fake doctors, some of which I create in my own mind and some of which are presented to me in my daily life.

I suppose it all started a couple of years ago. I was on a friend’s stag do and go violently sick for no particular reason and had to abandon everyone at the restaurant we were dining in. My food was wrapped up for me and I retired to the hotel room feeling very unwell. The next day the only thing that made me remotely better was Dr. Burger, a delectable cut of meat wrapped in salad and soft white bread. She looked after me as I recuperated, watched over me in my time of need and when we had to part I felt a great sadness.

A year or two passed and despite a brief fling with Dr. Pepper nothing seemed to emerge. That is until I met Dr. Pepper’s sexy sister, Dr. Fizz. Whereas the former was very sweet and accommodating, the latter was dark and adulterous. She was all over me. I just couldn’t get enough of her and, every weekend, I would hide away with her and refuse to come out until we were done. I’m trying to distance myself yet no matter what I do I seem to end up with her.

So here I am, a wobbly mess, unable to cope without my hit of Dr. Fizz. Sometimes I find myself wandering the 24hr supermarkets at 2 in the morning sniffing around Dr. Oetker. Sometimes I’m found crying into Dr. Beckmann and his Glowhite Sheets. Dr. Karg and his organic cheese and pumpkin seed crisp bread offer me no salvation. Dr. Fresh and Dr. Salts stand at the back and point and laugh at my plight.

I need to know if there’s an end to this all because if there isn’t, one day you’ll break open into my flat and find me buried under a large mound of Dr. Brown’s wide neck silicone teats… and then it’ll be too late…

Owl be watching you

He sits in his hiding place. He is brightly coloured, vivid even, and yet difficult to see.

You walk up the street. It’s a nice day, there’s nobody around. And then – when it’s already too late – you see him. Dark eyes stare you down. He has been watching you. Judging you. You feel guilty, but no apology will be enough.

Beware the owl.

Crab in control

We all knew that design genius Kevindo Menendez was destined for great things long before his stylish designs graced the catwalks of Micklefield Fashion Week.

But surely it’s a true sign that his thrusting work has achieved worldwide penetration that one of his classics, the “Crab” mug, has been spotted in the Master Control Room of a major broadcaster.

It’s one thing to have your “Penguin” t-shirt worn by Naomi Campbell but it’s days like this that must matter the most to a leading designer like him.

Jamiroquai is not… #57 – a swift

Jamiroquai is a band. Jamiroquai is fronted by the singer Jay Kay; we all know this. But do you know what Jamiroquai is not? This revolutionary series sets out to reliably inform the world all of the things that Jamiroquai is not.

57. A Swift

Jamiroquai is not a swift. However you look at it, whichever angle you come at this from and no matter how bad you squint your eyes Jamiroquai is not a swift. You could certainly draw a beak and wings on the band members. Heck, the lead singer has a name that actually is a bird. But is Jamiroquai a swift? No, not in the slightest.

Tests carried out on various members of the public also confirm almost conclusively that the residents of Tumbridge Wells do not consider Jamiroquai to be a swift. The local newspaper has never run any articles about the bird-like nature of any member of the band. None of the benches in the city centre have any graffiti whatsoever that has any connection to ornithology or the British funk/acid jazz group.

I’ve never met anyone who has ever mentioned in passing about Jamiroquai pertaining to be anything else other than a band who have sold in excess of 40 million albums worldwide. There are no pictures of swifts in the RSPB drawn by children that are called Jamiroquai or have been sketched by anyone called Jamiroquai.

Little Richard never sang a song about how alike the high aerial birds are to the MTV and Grammy award-winning group. Ross Kemp has never been in a documentary detailing the comparisons between the two.

In short, I think it’s fair to say that out of all the things that Jamiroquai could be, they are not a swift.

Wiping away history

Today I did a kind of cleaning I’ve never done before: I cleaned the keys of my computer keyboard. Not where crumbs have landed in between them – the keys themselves. Some of them were dirty, you see, with a sort of browny-grey film on them. The keys I use all the time were white, the ones I use occasionally had a white middle and dirty edges, and the ones I never use were just dirty all over.

It’s annoyed me for a while but today I hit on the solution. I took a rubber to the keyboard and rubbed out all the dirt. Now it’s sparkling clean and all the keys are white. But while I was erasing the filth, it occurred to me that in its dirty state I effectively had a keyboard-sized infographic showing which keys I use and which I don’t. For some reason, the square brackets were completely filthy, even though I’m sure I use them sometimes, while the weird § key had a clean spot, even though I can’t remember ever having used it before typing this sentence. Comma was dirtier than full stop. Q was cleaner than Z.

Even weirder, the numbers got gradually dirtier from left to right, so 1 was clean while 9 was pretty mucky.

It’s nice to have a clean keyboard again but I feel like I’ve lost a historical record of the letters I type and the keys I don’t need. A little bit of history wiped away.