almostwitty: (monkey)

According to a YouGov survey, they’re all examples of the “widest range of sexual behaviours”, in an article for BBC News.

Wait till I tell the wife this…

Captured on 1 Dec 2014

Mirrored from almost witty.

almostwitty: (monkey)

A long time ago, I made a mental note to myself to try and formulate at least one joke a week. And as with most mental notes, promptly forgot about it. But I’ve come up with a rather geeky joke this week, and am inordinately chuffed by it. So, here goes:

Everything Everywhere are now to be called EE. When they diversify into tasty chewy snacks, it’ll be called EE Buy Gum.

Thank you, I’m here all week, do try the fish.

Mirrored from almost witty.

almostwitty: (monkey)

Amongst all the time-sucking hassles that December brings along is the need/desire to set up Christmas decorations.

Admittedly, only those with a true heart of rock-solid stone could fail to be impressed by blinking fairy lights and tinsel chasing away the dark December nights, but oy vey, the hassle of setting it all up.

First of all you have to get all the decorations, tinsel, lights and then the huge plastic tree from last year down from the attic or your storage arena. Or struggle to wrestle a new natural tree all the way home from the local dodgy pop-up market around the corner, covering yourself with thistles and thorns in the process.

Then you have to carve out a space in your living room area near the window just to put up the tree. Assuming you had any spare space to begin with. For bonus points, if you have a crawling baby, you have to put enough obstacles on the living room floor so that he can’t actually try to climb up – or more likely, eat – the tree.

Then out come the fairy lights out of the box. Which are all hopelessly tangled, so you have to spend a good 30 minutes untangling them to begin with – while also keeping an eye out on the baby to ensure he doesn’t try to chew the fairy lights. Once you’ve untangled them comes the joyful task of tangling them again around the tree. Before realising that it’s all too far from an electrical outlet so you’re forced to decide whether to move everything else out of the way so you can put the tree near the electrical outlet, or try dangling an extension cable in such a way that the baby won’t eat it.

Then you open the box of last year’s tree decorations, and hope to goodness none of them have been smashed. Then you realise you can’t use any of them anyway because the baby may just decide to try eating a glass globe.

Which is why, this year, my wife’s taken the initative and set up a unique Christmas ‘tree’ of our very own, incorporating books and a fez. Because fezzes are cool.

Our Christmas tree, 2011

I still wish I had the time to set up some more fairy lights around the place, though.

Mirrored from almost witty.

almostwitty: (evil)



Lunchtime in Wrexham

Originally uploaded by almost witty

Many news outlets (including BBC News and Gawker) are showing CCTV images of a man trying to take a pony on a train amongst other places.

But when I was in Wrexham in 2005, I saw a pony moored next to a cash machine, so it’s not that unusual…

Mirrored from almost witty.

almostwitty: (evil)

It’s kinda alarming and interesting how many of these phrases (with the British meaning) has been used in conversations at work…

(spotted via @JackSchofield)
As found on jack Schofield's Twitter account
Anglo-EU Translation Guide

Mirrored from almost witty.

almostwitty: (evil)

While walking through West London, I got a sneak peek at Foursquare’s new expansion plans …

Foursquare

I wonder how many points one gets for checking in there… ;)

Mirrored from almost witty.

almostwitty: (evil)

I’ve always wanted to be a stand-up comedian. But after doing a mini-course on it and being part of a British-Chinese comedy sketch troupe, I’ve been aware that I have zero perfomance skills, and gave up on the idea, while trying in vain to groom my wife for the job.

And then I stumbled across Andrew Wong the stand-up comedian. He’s British, and at least half my age. Fortunately, he’s not a professional – but at the same time, his YouTube channel is the 19th most subscribed channel in the British comedian category.

However, I’m too far in to tell if he’s actually funny or not. Is he?

There’s also an Andrew Wong who was a ninja contestant on Australia’s Got Talent … who got mistaken for another Andrew Wong with suspected benefit fraud. Apparently.

Mirrored from almost witty.

almostwitty: (evil)

There was a time when I’d be going about my daily work business, somehow manage to spot multiple celebrities passing by and get ever so slightly excited. But those days seem to be fading ever further away. Someone once showed me a Facebook picture with them and some bloke, who turned out to be Stephen Gately from Boyzone.

And last night, I managed to stumble past three celebrities without even noticing.

Thanks to Screenjabber, Hyperham and I had tickets to a Cineworld screening and Q&A of Believe: The Eddie Izzard story, hosted by Phill Jupitus. Thanks to London traffic, we got to the cinema 25 minutes late, convinced the screening was about to start, so we barged past some hangers-on and …

ended up on the red carpet, with journalists and camerapeople all in front of us. I walked on bemused, convinced that if all these journalists were in front of us, the whole thing was running late and …

walked past Eddie Izzard himself, who was answering questions. Indeed, I didn’t spot him until HyperHam pointed it out to me. We tried to get a quick photo with HyperHam beaming next to Eddie, but we were very politely ushered into the VIP bar. Which had one barman, and a scowly-looking tall woman with ridiculously high shoes. And for whatever reason, HyperHam and her made eye contact and shared a mutual whinge with HyperHam about the lack of canapes. We left the bar, and then Hyperham ducked back in to say something else to the tall woman, before coming back out to me that …

she had just exchanged pleasantries with “the first supermodel” Janice Dickinson. This somewhat surprised me because I’d vaguely seen her on TV a few years ago, and the two images didn’t exactly mesh.

Anyway, we finally made our way to the auditorium – surprisingly, in a crowded theatre, people will make way for an 8-month pregnant lady – and watched the documentary. (Full review to come: but in essence, very good if you love Eddie Izzard. If you don’t like him, then why on earth would you watch it?) The Q&A that came afterwards was surprisingly disappointing, seeing that most of the questions had been submitted before people saw the film, so the film pretty much answered most of those questions.

We stumbled out of the auditorium, and HyperHam yet again somehow cunningly worked her way to stand next to Eddie – who had been patiently standing by the box office alone for about five seconds till the crowd pounced on him – and got her picture taken with him.

On the way out, fighting the crowds, I somehow managed to miss the moment when HyperHam stumbled, and clambering onto anyone for quick support as WeaponX made his presence felt, managed to grope Phill Jupitus.

And in all the chaos, we somehow managed to totally miss the likes of Derren Brown, Bill Oddie, and Vanessa Feltz who were also there.

Maybe I’m getting too old for this sort of thing, which is quite disappointing!

(Read HyperHam’s version of events on her Facebook)

Mirrored from almost witty.

almostwitty: (evil)

Unfortunately, I’ve found myself following this thought process before when it comes to updating social media. And yet, I still don’t get paid for doing it. Harumph.

Mirrored from almost witty.

almostwitty: (evil)

I am… The Token.

Well, unless another Chinese or Other person walks in. And then this happens:

Mirrored from almost witty.

almostwitty: (Default)

So psychic Derek Acorah’s had to cancel a few concerts at short notice. The pun writes itself. Which hasn’t stopped me in the past.

When I was flat-hunting in Cardiff, I saw an ad with a flat to rent above a psychic’s shop. So I called the number, and ended up speaking to the psychic’s son, who said that she’d fallen in a serious accident and was now in hospital.

I could see the joke coming towards me – and insensitive as it was – I just couldn’t escape the full-on headlights of the joke as it hurtled towards me.

And inevitably I uttered: “Sorry to hear that – did she see it coming?”

Surprisingly, the son carried on talking to me, and invited me round to see the flat. Although I shouldn’t have bothered. When there’s weird splatterings on the wall and floor covered with gay pornography, it’s not exactly a selling point for the flat.

Mirrored from almost witty.

almostwitty: (Default)

At least according to BBC Three’s new comedy puppet show

Then again, this shouldn’t come as a complete surprise to me. When I was living in Cardiff and hanging out with Miss H (naturally, a lesbian), I’d end up chatting to an intelligent, attractive, funny and uninhibited woman, only to find out from Miss H that she was, indeed, a lesbian. Hell, one night I was chatting up a lady who seemed inordinately keen and interested in me – and somehow, Miss H managed to pull her instead.

Also, when I look back at some of the celebrity ladies I fancied – as much for their wit or personality as their curly hair – they turned out to be lesbians. Cynthia Nixon, Sue Perkins, Donan McPhail to name but three.

To this day, five years on, my Cardiff friends will often remind me of the fact that I used to share a house with a lesbian couple, and give saucy nudgy winks about what must have gone on in the house. Indeed, one of my Cardiff colleagues once gasped with amazement at the stuff said lesbians left behind when they moved out – ignoring the fact that being a lesbian doesn’t mean automatic entry into the cool and fantastic division of people. Nor does being anything else for that matter.

What is the fascination with girls kissing girls anyway?

Mirrored from almost witty.

almostwitty: (Default)

At least according to BBC Three’s new comedy puppet show

Then again, this shouldn’t come as a complete surprise to me. When I was living in Cardiff and hanging out with Miss H (naturally, a lesbian), I’d end up chatting to an intelligent, attractive, funny and uninhibited woman, only to find out from Miss H that she was, indeed, a lesbian. Hell, one night I was chatting up a lady who seemed inordinately keen and interested in me – and somehow, Miss H managed to pull her instead.

Also, when I look back at some of the celebrity ladies I fancied – as much for their wit or personality as their curly hair – they turned out to be lesbians. Cynthia Nixon, Sue Perkins, Donan McPhail to name but three.

To this day, five years on, my Cardiff friends will often remind me of the fact that I used to share a house with a lesbian couple, and give saucy nudgy winks about what must have gone on in the house. Indeed, one of my Cardiff colleagues once gasped with amazement at the stuff said lesbians left behind when they moved out – ignoring the fact that being a lesbian doesn’t mean automatic entry into the cool and fantastic division of people. Nor does being anything else for that matter.

What is the fascination with girls kissing girls anyway?

Mirrored from almost witty.

almostwitty: (Default)

Sure, it looks nice, but once you get into it, it’ll drive you insane with bright lights and a pounding headache afterwards.

(inspired by Swiss Toni)

Mirrored from almost witty.

almostwitty: (Default)

So HyperHam has been living with me for over two weeks now – and it’s been going alarmingly well. Except when it comes to the battle for personal space.

At first, it was little minor skirmishes – she loves loads of pillows, I’ll just settle for one hard pillow. She likes her mattress soft and pliant, I like it hard. She tends to leave things all over the place – whereas I leave things in an organised pile of mess. Instead of asking me to allocate her some drawer space, she complained to my friends that she didn’t have one drawer. So I emptied a drawer for her, and as far as I know, she hasn’t used it.

Then I came home after a particularly hard day at work to find she’d rearranged the furniture to split the room in half, and create a relaxing space and a work space. I did point out that the original layout had been specifically designed to meld the relaxing and work spaces together and to create an open feeling that would be welcoming to guests. At which point she fixed me with a stare and challenged me as to how many people had dropped by in the last two years. Pwned.

The feeling gradually crept over me that something was *wrong* with this. I couldn’t put my figure on it – then I realised. Thanks to the rearrangement, things had not been allocated their proper place. Everything had been piled onto the coffee table, so consequently you couldn’t put coffee on it. Instead you put coffee on one of the remaining bookshelves – the bookshelves on that had been temporarily moved to a spare side table. The papers on that were temporarily on the sofa.

Things were not in their rightful place. This is wrong.

I should have tried to relax. But I just couldn’t. We were watching an episode of House - top marks for drama, but really, the patient-of-the-week had been involved in a side-on collison with a bus, her heart had stopped, they’d cracked open her chest to see what was what, her lungs had been pumped full of a freezing solution to induce hypothermia, her kidneys were shot to buggery, and yet they were able to revive her for one long last farewell before she died – and I just couldn’t relax. Even mild surfing on the Internet wasn’t doing it. It wasn’t until we embarked on an organisational orgy that I was finally able to relax. And then it was time for bed.

Now I’m wondering what other mild mental malladies will be sparked by the ongoing co-habitation wars…

Mirrored from almost witty.

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