Trick or Treat?

Call me old fashioned if you like. Call me a miserable old bugger if you like. Call me a killjoy if you like. You can even call me a taxi if you like. But what the hell is going on? Trick or treat is not, to my knowledge, British. It should be left to Johnny American to celebrate as only Johnny American knows how, and the best of luck to them. When I was a kid we used to go out on Halloween night dressed in homemade costumes, old bed sheets with holes cut for eyes, black cardboard witches hats, covered in red lipstick or tomato sauce to represent blood, a cardboard axe sticking out of our heads, carrying a turnip (not pumpkin) lantern and shouting "Woooooooo!" in a scary voice. On the rare occasions last night when we could actually hear the doorbell for fireworks, we had a stream of kids dressed up in very unoriginal plastic costumes, £9.99 from Woolies, with half arsed plastic witches hats or a scream masks, mumbling "Trick or treat?" and then thrusting an open carrier bag towards us presumably for the treat part of the deal . Since when did Halloween become the biggest night of the year? As a nation, we're a bunch of gullible mugs, we seem to fall for every marketing ploy in the book. The world is turning Disney, and there's nothing we can do. There is actually something we can do, we can not fall for it, that's what we can do.

And whilst we're on the subject, when did every night of the year become fireworks night? "Oh look, little Johnny got his 25 metres breaststroke certificate today, let's all get pissed and wait until 11:30pm and let off enough fireworks to make the battle of the Somme look like a skirmish. The neighbours will enjoy that." I used to love fireworks, now they're simply everyday background noise. Again, marketing Twats!

On reflection

Here's a nice one for a Friday afternoon. Have a butchers at this from here.

via Small Values of Cool

Where is it?

Don't you just hate it when you can't find something and you know that you only have yourself to blame. Where are you? You little fecker?

Don't touch my computer

We've all got firewalls and anti virus software, haven't we? Well, turn up the volume and have a looksie at this advert (NSFW) for the next level of PC security.

via Grom

Ninety seven, ninety eight, ninety nine, change hands.

I've just fixed the ball valve in the expansion tank which feeds our recently fixed central heating system and the house isn't flooded, yet. Perhaps I should consider plumbing as an alternative career. I'll probably wait until my thumbnail, which I trapped between the pipe wrench and the tank, turns black, falls off and grows back before I commit myself.

This all raises a question. Why does every DIY task require you to be left handed? The obvious exception to this is the one where changing hands half way through is entirely optional.


Must dash, I've got some cracked plaster to repair.

Beer

£6.99 a half pint? What do you want, blood?

It’s arrived

My Blogger hooded sweatshirt arrived this morning, funnily enough whilst I was writing the previous post. I must admit to being pleasantly surprised by this event given the difficulty I experienced trying to key in a UK address into a US biased website that insisted on City and Zipcode being entered. Nice sweatshirt though, and ample compensation for the remainder of my subscription to BloggerPro.

What’s the story in Tobermory?

I’ve been forced to watch Balabloodymory more times than I can remember, familiarity breeds contempt, children. I hate PC Plum, Archie the Inventor, Edie McReady, Josie Feking Jump, Penny Pockets, Suzie Sweet and Spencer the Painter with a vengeance. The only good thing about it is that it reminds me of a superb holiday a few years ago when Cathy and I visited Tobermory on the Isle of Mull amongst other distilleries. It saddens me but comes as no surprise that this beautiful place has been engulfed by toddler tourists.