My hit counter is still heading skywards (134 and counting, that’s before google spots the Halle Berry naked breasts posting and I start selling advertising space and float on the NasDaq), CoopBlog claims over 1,000 now, Small Values of Smug reckons 2,000 plus per day (but he’s a techie and to be fair, he does know what he’s talking about). The one with the cheese racing link is expecting visitor number 100,000 this weekend, lordy, we are definitely not worthy! The point of this is that I don’t know who you are. Here’s an idea I nicked from CoopBlog, if you’re visiting leave a comment (even a rude one), say hello, I’d love to know who are. It’s probably my mum running around every internet café in Huddersfield just to make me feel important. If so, thanks Mum!

I’ve let some of my colleagues loose on my blog. I was asked at lunchtime, (in Yate’s Wine Lodge of all places) “what’s this blogging stuff all about then?” I was at a bit of a loss on how to explain it. I said that it’s pretty much what you want it to be, you have a thought, write it down, publish it and people either read or don’t.

What do you think this blogging stuff is all about?

I also suggested to two colleagues that they should start their own blogs. Why? Different reason for each one, but it comes down to the fact that I think that they would both make for good reading. Wait and see eh!

There’s some kind of weird connection between bloggers and cheese. Yesterday was Cheese Racing (via Grayblog) today comes The Cheese Counter (via GromBlog). A psychologist would have a field day with this.

Idly flicking through channels on TV last night, I saw that Swordfish was on so hit the button. Bang on time for the gratuitous but very pleasing Halle Berry naked breast scene.

Wonder what this’ll do to my hit counter.

I can’t take credit for this one, it came to me via e-mail but I feel that it should be shared ...

News reports have filtered out early this morning that US forces have swooped on an Iraqi Primary School and detained teacher Mohammed Al-Hazar.

Sources indicate that, when arrested, Al-Hazar was in possession of a ruler, a protractor, a set square and a calculator. US president George W Bush argued that this was clear and overwhelming evidence that Iraq indeed possessed weapons of maths instruction.

My hit counter has hurtled past the 100 mark less than a week after it was installed. Another blogging milestone to add to getting a reader and going international. The definitive novel of the twentyfirst century is in the bag!

The conclusion of the Conclusive Guinness Experiment: It’s official, you can’t get pissed on Guinness, even free Guinness. We proved it last night and we’re willing to prove it again if required. Drinks at the Elusive Camel last night proved to be not very elusive at all. They were giving away pints of Guinness, all I had to do was fill in a form which promised that really cool stuff would be texted to my mobile if I told them the number, yeah right, just gimme the free booze!.

Small values of Cool (Simon) and Neveratoss (moi) were joined for a while by CoopBlog (Eloon) which was a pleasure. It’s great being able to put a face to a blog. She's as “Upton Park” in real life as her blog suggests. Simon and I went on to Cubanas which was a great idea at the time. We managed to prove that you can get very pissed on cocktails (I knew that already though). Ninety seven margueritas later we moved on to daquiries (or however you spell/pronounce them). The next thing I knew I was waking up on the train at Godalming. There’s life in the old dog yet!

The Conclusive Guinness Experiment is on for tonight. I’m looking forward to proving beyond any reasonable doubt once and for all that it is physically impossible to get pissed on Guinness.

My wife received a call on her mobile this a morning from the police in Derby. The officer admitted that it was a wrong number and that she had added an extra digit. Shouldn’t they be out catching criminals not hassling innocent ladies in Surrey? Not surprising that the crime figures are all over the place when they go around adding extra digits willy nilly is it. I’m glad I don’t live in Derby, bloody fascists. I think that we might sue for wrongful ringing up or something. I demand a public enquiry!

I e-mailed some mates down under yesterday, just to get in touch, say g’day and do a bit of hit whoring (hey, have you seen my weblog?). Turns out that one of them has been reading my blog for a while. I’ve gone international! The world is my lobster!

If you like drinking games then you’ll love the Gulf War Drinking Game which you can play whilst watching the latest BBC saturation coverage in the pub. It’ll go down a bomb (oops!) in the officers mess Rupert!

via vodkabird

Simon’s posting “Blogging is not journalism” reminded me of “The trouble with weblogs” by Dave Green which I read with some dismay when I first started this bit of “internet dead air”. It almost put me off the whole idea of keeping a blog but I kept going and now have a huge following of three or four regular readers. Perhaps as my confidence grows, say when I have five or six regular readers, I might write something which will “expand the field of human knowledge in some particular area”, I might find some direction, and I might even use it as a springboard to write the definitive novel of the twenty first century. In the meantime, I’ve paid my annual subscription for my bit of web space, I’ve registered my domain and I’ll do what I bloody well want with it because I enjoy it! By the way, I had a really crappy Lancashire Hotpot for lunch!

I finally made time to clean the bike on Sunday. Sam helped. A little boy, a very dirty motorcycle, a large bucket of very soapy water and a hose pipe made for a great bonding experience. Now of course, I need to find the time to clean Sam.

My friend Colin and I were outed on Friday night. We went for our customary eight pints and a curry in Guildford. Sitting next to us were two couples from the local trailer park, loudly discussing ‘olidays in Magaluff or Tenerife. One of the lads was so pissed he tried ordering the chicken phaal but was negotiated down to a dansak by his bird.

Out of the blue, “chicken phal” boy leaned over and said “’scuse me, can I ask you a question?” “Sure” says I. “Are you gay?” says he, “Splutter, splutter, what?” says Colin. I’m sure some korai lamb came down my nose. “Why do you ask?” says I. “Well, two blokes having a nice quiet dinner and you look gay!”, says he. Can’t argue with his logic, we’re both good looking lads.

Now, I have nothing against being gay, it’s just not for me. I like girls, I’m “straight not narrow”, live and let live etc. But, we’d just spent the last half hour discussing the impending birth of Colin’s (and his wife’s obviously) first baby with me as an old hand giving expectant father loads of useful advice. Enough I should have though to establish our orientation.

Guildford is not known as the San Francisco of Surrey, it’s not the most cosmopolitan place on the planet. I hope “chicken phaal” boy doesn’t find a less easy going “couple” to try his gaydar out on next time.