Bollog coming up, but first - STOP! Don't move. Now, very slowly, move your mouse down and click on the below link...
Now you have three lovely tunes (at a reduced quality) to accompany your bloggy reading. Hows that for a slice of fried gold?
Ok, so the topic this week is going to be Biology - human biology for preference. But first, I'm just going to have a quick moment of gloomy (albiet tongue-in-cheek) introspection. Bear with me.
The thing is, I've read other blogs before, and it seems that the point of them is to somehow log the events of your life for the consumption of others. And that's where I run into difficulties, because I don't really have one. A life, that is. Not a proper one anyway.
I'm not married, and I don't have kids. I don't even have a girlfriend. I don't have a hilarious nuclear family that are always getting into entertaining sitcom-esque scrapes. I used to have a nuclear family, sure, but then they had a fall-out. Haha, Divorce! Funny.
I don't have an interesting job. I don't have sex, or go shopping. We'll, not much anyway. I probably have sex slightly less often than I go clothes shopping, and a hell of a lot less frequently than when I go food shopping. This goes someway towards explaining why I am so scruffy, fat and horny. In fact, I did maybe two things of note this weekend. One of these was recording the music that you are currently listening to, and the other was painting my face like a cat and climbing into a large four-person jumper that I'd stapled together with three other men.
So, after just over a week of doing these blogs, I was beginning to think that my cup had run dry. But then I thought, 'Who does have a life?' And it struck me. My flatmate Tim (he's the one in the Panda mask. Oh and that's our flat, for those who like to see other peoples homes) has a life! A brilliant one!
Tim has a life. He's the singer of a band. He has a girlfriend, of the small, blonde, friendly variety, and very nice she is too. He has an interesting job, which involves him driving to France and walking around on battleships (no, really). He has a hilarious French family which is very nuclear indeed. He's perfect for my needs.
So imagine my disappointment when I got home roughly an hour ago, eager to pump him for all the exciting details of his day, to find him under a fluffy blue blanket on the sofa, watching a channel 5 movie about injured skiers.
Yep. He's ill. What a tosser.
Still, not to be perturbed, I decided I could still milk him for all he's worth. So I decided to diagnose him.
As far as I can tell, doctors come in two categories. They're either supervillains bend on world domination, or professionals in bad trousers who like to feel your most intimate bits. The first one is out, clearly, but I don't think there's any reason why I can't be the second type. So I quickly got together a basic medical kit, such as a real doctor may use, and set to work.
Here we have:
- A glass, which can be used as a makeshift stethoscope. You know how you can use a glass to hear what the neighbours are saying through the wall? No? Well, like that, but on a chest.
- Then we have a knife and a ballpoint pen. Useful for performing an emergency trachiotomy. Also useful for cutting out tumours and then ticking that off your to-do list.
- A wooden spatula, to put on someone's tongue and ask them to say 'ahhhh'. We've all seen ER. That's basically what doctors do all the time. Isn't it?
- A notepad, to write down all the ailments and then make prescriptions.
Ok, so, kit together, I'm ready to work. Here follows a transcript of my diagnosis with Tim.
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ME: Hi Tim. How are you feeling?
TIM: (groaning) My head's going to explode.
ME: Ok. Good. Have you eaten anything today?
TIM: Yes.
ME: What?
TIM: A teacake. A teacake and a scotch egg.
ME: All the major food-groups. Was it nice?
TIM: Yeah.
ME: Good.
I pick up the glass
ME: Right, I'm just going to listen to your insides. Just lie on your back and lift up your top.
TIM: Ok.
I put the glass on his chest, in various places, but cannot hear anything.
ME: Ok. Interesting.
I pick up the spatula.
ME: Right, I'm just going to shove this in your mouth.
TIM: .....
I shove the spatula in Tim's mouth.
ME: Just say 'ahhhh'
TIM: muuuuuuuuaaaaghhhhhh
I take the spatula out and give it a wipe on the fluffy blue blanket.
ME: Thanks. Right, now if you could just drop your trousers...
TIM: F*** off.
ME: Ok, that's the diagnosis over. You can go back to watching 'Escape to the Country'.
TIM: Meh.
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It's taken me very little time to diagnose what is wrong with Tim. My suspicions were first aroused when I failed to find any heartbeat, or indeed any vital signs at all. His expression was slack and moronic, and his eyes were entirely without merit. My suspicions were then compounded when, after being asked to say the simple word 'ahhhhh', Tim could only manage to grunt like a lobotomised pig. And, when he refused to undress for me, I knew for certain. My flatmate has bcome a zombie.
Of course, I did what any good doctor would do. I drove the knife into his undead brain, then put him into a large heavy-duty binbag and leave him out for the dustmen, who conveniently collect on Tuesdays. I'm now advertising on gumtree for a new lodger - spacious flat, friendly people, no smoking, £300p/m. Let me know if you're interested.
That's it from me. You've probably just finished listening to our tracks. Go back and listen to them again, and then decide to come and see us play on Saturday night at B2 in Norwich. It's gonna be really good.
This blog is brought to you by Buried in Pompeii. It's written by Dan.
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