trenchblog

How is it that the best behaved dogs belong to homeless people?

Is the government funding underground obedience lessons for the residentially challenged? Where exactly are our taxes going?

THE PEOPLE DESERVE TO KNOW.

Realised the terrible implications this week when my post-booze snack did not consist of either:

• Something microwaved
• Meat-based product that had been cooked badly

Instead I went for… cheese on crackers. Not just any crackers either. M&S Sesame, Poppy and Pumpkin Seed Crackers*.

Oh dear.

*Disclaimer: Bought as part of the M&S Valentine’s Dine In Meal Offer, not indicative of trench’s actual grocery shopping habits.

Because it features lines like:

This might sound crazy, but do you think that the virus could have come from the Mummy?

Relic Hunter, serving all your low-rent Tomb Raider ripoff needs.

I’d just like to thank Orange for sending me a handy text telling me the status of my bonus top-up credit.

On a Sunday.

At 07:45.

AM.

Oh you hilarious japesters.

With 75% of my move complete, all that’s left is to sort through boxes of nonsense that I’ve kept for far too many years. The worst part of this process is the moment where you have to decide whether to throw out your old toys or not. Being 27 I should have no practical use for toys, but the thought of chucking away a fully working and complete Crash Test Dummies cat into the bin is too much to bare. Maybe next year.

Sadly one of the Crash Test Dummies Car’s siblings hadn’t fared so well, so it was with a heavy heart that I decided to dispose of… my Thundertank.

I do not need to describe how awesome the Thundertank was, and is. With it’s actual tank tracks, pop up ‘attack’ mode and general all-round sweetness. I do not need to mention any of this because you, readers, know all too well how aces this plastic beast was.

Likewise you also know how the hatch doors always fell off. And the tracks always stuck. Until they snapped. And that only one full-sized figure could fit in it unless the hatches were open.

Thundertank, you were a fickle, often broken playtime pal. But the time has come for us to part. Trenchblog salutes you.

Regular readers, (who probably read more regularly than I write, somehow defying all laws of the spacetime continuum), will have built up a fairly accurate mental image of my Mother. If not you can peruse the ‘Conversations with Mother‘ catagory to get an idea of what I have to put up with on a daily basis.

Now readers, given your knowledge of my Mother, I think the following question should be fairly easy. Let’s see shall we?

Q) What leaving gift did Mother give to me to celebrate my in-progress housemove?

A) Was it:

• A handmade trinket
• A delicious homebaked treat
• A sum of monies
• By electrocuting me with my own new cooker

Secretly I think it was part of her plan to hospitalise me for a month or two and squeeze a bit more rent out of me. Well who’s laughing now eh Mother?

Me, with my huge piles of cash and complete lack of eyebrows. Ha!

But today I did see someone wearing an ensemble that made me consider whether I’d entered an unearthly limbo. Frankly you would too if you saw a gent wearing:

• An old school Slayer t-shirt
• Super tight black jeans. Exactly too tight enough.
• White leather cowboy boots. Aforementioned trousers tucked very firmly into.

It was enough to make me want to put the blog on hiatus again.

But I bet that’s just what he wants me to do.

… you turn down a copy of Timecop for £1.

Not because it’s a not partcularly great Van Damme-fest. Or because JCVD demonstrates the patented Van-Mullett, (see also Hard Target).

But because the film is presented in 4:3 crap-o-vision. You’ll be damned before you watch Timecop in anything but the original aspect ratio.

The slimpack instead of a full dvd case did not help either.

Housemove - Verb [houz]+[moov]
1. Process of giving stupendous amounts of money to professionals who then in turn balls up basic parts of their own job. See also Stress, Lifelong debt, Inevitably crappy neighbours, Walking around nude because you can.

An impending housemove means I have developed an unhealthy obsession with appliances and housewares.

So it was that I stumbled across an amazing pair of items in a catalogue.

Battery powered salt and pepper grinders.

Which means that mankind has spent hundreds of hours trying to make salt and pepper dispensal less menial. Clearly someone, somewhere thought there was a market for these devices. Are these people really out there? Do people roll their eyes at the thought of manually twisting a regular grinder to produce the condiment they so crave?

If you factor in the time walking around a supermarket to get batteries and then the energy spent replacing them, you’re not even saving that much time.

I can picture the scene now.

A dinner party. Group laughter. The wine has already started to flow as the main course is served.

Jeff: Here’s Melinda’s infamous beef stroganoff. Tuck in!
Ted: This smells delightful.
Sarah: It really does, you’ve spoilt us Melinda!
Melinda: Oh it was no trouble really, I just hope you enjoy it.
Ted: I’m certain we will. Jeff, could you pass the salt?
Jeff: (Looking excited) Allow me!

Jeff leans over, grinder in hand. Instead of twisting it a few times, he depresses a button.

The grinder whirs for a few moments. Salt falls from the underside.

Awkward silence falls over the room.

Melinda avoids eye contacts with the guests.

Ted: You’re a c*ck.

1. The lock which was so complicated that it took me nearly half a minute to fathom it. Slightly balanced out by the fact that it looked like it could be used to secure a castle gate, much less a lavvie door.
2. The fact that the flushing mechanism was unable to cope with the removal of one modest-sized arse bogey.
3. The fact that the cistern took so long to fill after the aforementioned flush, that a second much-needed attack was all but impossible.
4. The fact that there was no actual toilet paper and I had to make do with paper hand towels instead. Sigh.
5. Worst of all, the gigantic mirror that occupied an entire wall of the facilities. I don’t know about disabled persons, but I certainly don’t want to see a life-sized reflection of myself trying to pinch one out. It very nearly ruined my concentration.

Spotted a sign in a car window whilst walking the dog the other night.

Car for sale.

£295

I can’t help but think that first line is redundant. After all, if I see a car with a sign in the window, I always assume the sign indicates the amount in pounds sterling required to purchase that very vehicle.

This sign maker had stopped short of writing:

This car for sale.

Which of course means they might be selling a completely different car for that amount. A good strategy if the car for sale is much crummier than the one you put the sign in. I fully endorse this approach in fact.

When I need to next sell a car I’ll rent a sportscar for a week and put my sign in that. It will please me to see the buyers face when I hand over keys to a battered Fiat Punto or somesuch. I am sure that in the eyes of the law this is all perfectly legal. So long as they do not ask me directly “Are you certain this Ferrari is the car you’re selling for £495?”, I will be fine.

Step 1 - Be slightly annoyed at light drizzle on the way to the bus stop without an umbrella.

Step 2 - Just reach a pedestrian crossing as it turns to “Don’t cross”, delaying you by at least 30 seconds.

Step 3 - Register your disgust aloud with the unlikely curse “Clucking cluck cluck”.

Step 4 - Turn head slightly and realise there is a woman right behind you.

… pure joy. Yay for cheap dvds.

Reasons I have not cut my own hair for at least the third week I’ve been meaning to:

• Been playing Flatout: Ultimate Carnage.
• Been playing Carcasonne, yes, still.
• Been asleep.
• Been picking up a few last odds and sods in the post-Xmas sales.
• Finally gotten around to watching Carnivale season one, which I must have borrowed from an unwitting friend around 8 months ago. As consolation to him, it is all kinds of awesome.
• Enjoy going in on Mondays sporting the Grizzly Adams look. Makes me appear even less professional and wards off any person likely to start a casual conversation.

Definitely going to cut it next week.

Definitely.

Well, very likely at the least.