Who Not to Marry

I have fallen out with Mr Delchem. His Flapper Flush Valve (with Lever) has caused a great deal of strife and could lead to the immanent collapse of civilisation as we know it. Not a great loss I know, but some might miss it.

It was the ‘with Lever’ bit that started the whole sorry mess.

This is what happened:

Having satisfied myself that the cistern had stopped leaking from the many orifices that cisterns enjoy leaking from I decided to replace the 22 pieces of tongue and groove panelling attached by 66 screws. This is where I discovered that Mr Delchem was not quite what he seemed. The Lever he was so very proud of had no capacity to lengthen. Not an unknown problem for men like Mr Delchem. But, (and perhaps this is a testament to my general attractiveness) a problem that I had never come across before.

I could not, therefore, replace the 22 pieces of tongue and groove panelling attached by 66 screws without impairing the effectiveness of Mr Delchem’s Lever. I’m sure you will agree that this was a serious problem. But not as serious as what came next:

I decided there was nothing for it but to cut a hole in the 22 pieces of tongue and groove panelling attached by 66 screws to allow the free movement or Mr Delchem’s Lever.

For this I needed my hacksaw.
For this I needed the light that illuminated the small room in which I keep all my tools for just this sort of serious situation.
The lightbulb broke.
The light fitting turned out to be a crumbling mess probably first installed in the latter part of the fifteenth century.
I set forth to my favoured DIY emporium for the appropriate replacement.
I broke down.
And caused a traffic jam.

Normally, a small traffic jam on the A470 leading into Cardiff is but a twinge in the otherwise cheerful side of civilisation.

Not today. Today all of the world was on its way into Cardiff to watch our gallant boys with the large thighs and moth-eaten ears beat the world in that thing they do with the ball they never quite managed to work out how to make into a sphere.

Civilisation, essentially, was caused a nasty case of acute appendicitis. I blame Mr Delchem. And his Lever.

He has yet to respond to my proposal of marriage and perhaps it is all for the best.

How Yoga Might Not Improve Your Sex Life

They say that yoga can improve your sex life. I’m an avid follower of They. So this was promising stuff.

I looked into it in detail. On the internet. I have books but they were on tall shelves and I couldn’t stretch up that far.

This is what happened:

I breathed in.
I breathed out.

So far so good, no problem really.

I practiced some specific yoga postures:

Vibhadrasana – I can’t pronounce it but essentially you have both feet on the ground and your arms in the air. I did that.

Parsvakonasan – same sort of thing but with one hand on the ground. I did that.

Things began to improve significantly because suddenly the postures had names I understood.

In quick succession I performed the ‘upward facing dog’, the ‘downward facing dog’ the ‘camel’ and the ‘fish variation’.

My body was beginning to feel like Pavlova after Swan Lake, or possibly Pavlov after ‘the dog’.

But improving my sex life was a goal worth struggling for. I struggled on, performing a shoulder stand, a head stand, a hand stand, a stand.

My body was beginning to feel like Pavlova. Without the meringue. And perhaps this is what they were getting at.

You know that feeling – after a really good orgasm – how one’s body and brain feel sort of like whipped cream? I was beginning to suspect that maybe there was some truth in this whole yoga/sex life thing. It was working.

A glanced around the room (my bedroom appropriately enough) for my dream lover. I checked under the bed (the Beloved might have mislaid his glasses/teeth and was looking for them). I glanced out of the window for the usual white steeds and metal-clad hunks.

Nothing.

Ah, but I then discovered that I hadn’t finished the important yoga stuff. There was one final posture that was vital.
The ‘corpse’.

I lay down and waited.

I still am.

How Not to Meet Mr Right on Valentines Day

It was Valentines Day today. It still is. But luckily there’s only 35 minutes left.

This is what happened:

I received something red in the post.

Some twelve hours later I discarded it as I really do have loads of those elastic bands that the postman uses already. We have a ball of them even. Called Cyril. The ball. Not the postman. Although the postman might be called Cyril. I’ll ask him tomorrow.

So, today was Valentines day. It still is. But luckily there’s only 33 minutes left. A day for finding love.

This is what happened:

After a lengthy discussion with my mother as to where all the handsome rich men with cute children hang out I decided to go to the gym. Because it was a good a place as anywhere to start on my search for Mr Right.

And obviously any sexy blokes, or even just ok blokes, or even just blokes with all their tackle intact, who were in the gym on Valentines night were bound to be single. Or in serious trouble. Thus my arrival on Valentines night (as opposed to my arrival on every other night this week) would cunningly lead to my knowing exactly which of those sweating regulars were, or were not, single. Cunning eh?

I went to great lengths to look good, wearing my new M&S gym trousers – ‘cotton fresh’. ‘Feel me’ the label said. I left it on. As well as the label ‘£12.99 fantastic value’ in case any of the men I was about to meet happened to have £12.99. I washed, brushed, put on several bras (needing all the support I could get) (especially whilst running) (which I might have to do) (if I met Mr Right and he tried to run away).

With a jaunty step and a J-Lo like wiggle to my bottom I stepped into the gym. And glanced around. And peered around some corners. And under some running machines.

There were no men.

There were lots of women.

Like me. Except without the labels.

None of the men whose physique I’ve been admiring all these weeks are single.

This is disappointing.

It was Valentines Day today. It still is. But luckily there’s only 25 minutes left.

How Not to Solve All One’s Problems

I have made a resolution. A post New Year, sort of a bit later in the year, February sort of resolution.

This is what happened:

I was swimming. Up and down. Down and up. And generally along.

The problem with swimming, aside from all the usual chlorine issues, struggles with possible drowning, attempting to move one’s legs so fast that no one notices that one’s forgotten to shave one’s legs and time spent tucking spare pubes back into one’s costume in order to pretend one isn’t middle-aged, is that it gives one too much time to think.

Thinking is dangerous stuff. Questions like ‘What’s happened to my life?’ ‘What is sex?’ and ‘Is it possible to get Bromide on prescription?’ knock incessantly at one’s consciousness like a minor fleet of lion-shaped door knockers on especially strong espressos.

You may think that in these circumstances I might have resolved to give up swimming, or possibly black out my goggles or my mind. You would be very wrong. For I resolved to answer some of the other questions that were arriving like a fleet of lost 134 buses in a chlorinated and badly-lit flood.

These were the other questions –
Why aren’t I sufficiently rich to buy my own Bromide?
Should Bromide be spelt with a capital B?
If I were a celeb would my sex life improve?
How should I become a celeb?
If Big Brother was an invention of the media rather than an Orwellian concept would it have ever worked?
Why did I ask that last question seeing as it didn’t work?
Why don’t I have a column in the Guardian?

Yes, it’s all stunningly obvious isn’t it? The solution to all the above questions. I should be a writer. And that’s what I resolved. But not just a writer of any old nonsense. No, a writer of specific nonsense. This very nonsense you are reading now.

I resolved to remember to write my blog. Everything else will obviously and naturally follow – I will get a column in the Guardian (if you are the person in charge of the Guardian please call asap), I will then be able to afford Bromide and a dictionary. I will be celeb, ergo a proper regime of depilation, ergo people in the swim lane will fancy me and, super-bonus, the whole of the first lot of questions will no longer need answering.

Fucking sorted. Literally too if all goes according to plan.

PS - if I forget please nag me, for obviously my future life and happiness depends upon it.

Not Crème Brulee

I’ve had my first request for a blog post. This is exciting. It happened last night in the pub. The request I mean. ‘It’ could be construed as something far more exciting which is generally not happening in my life. Thus a request for a blog post leaps up the rankings of generally exciting events with all the alacrity and enthusiasm displayed by a flea when it catches sight of a piece of naked flesh. Which is probably similar to my alacrity and enthusiasm at the same sight.

So, a blog post. The request.

Crème brulee.

Now, my requestee claims to be a reader of my blog. But somehow I wonder. What, I’m asking myself does crème brulee have to do with thinly disguised analogies for sex? Or thickly disguised analogies for sex? Or sex?

However I realise after a smidge of further wondering where crème brulee fits into the scheme of things – it’s like custard. Ah ha!!!

I begin to prepare some cunning experiments to test the properties of c.b. Things like swimming pools full of the stuff to test the old sink or swim non-newtonian liquid thingy. Large bowls on vibrating plates to enact the spooky wobbly wibbly thingys. Huge vats with ginormous weights balanced on top to apply however many g’s it takes to rule the world.

I am slightly flummoxed by the lack of this particular culinary delight with which to experiment. I am, I discover, much to my chagrin and mild surprise, crème brulee –less. The cupboards are empty of the stuff. The fridge contains no crème, no brulee. The wardrobes, similarly are rich-desert-less. As is even the shed. Although the camels may have eaten it.

I am left with no choice but to create my own large quantities of crème brulee on which to experiment. I am in no way defeated by the fact that I have very few of the ingredients and specialised tools required for the creation of crème. I can substitute along with the best of them.

Here is the recipe I found on a well know encyclopaedia site:

3 pints heavy cream
¾ cup granulated sugar
¾ tsp salt
1.5 tsp vanilla extract
12 egg yolks

Here is the recipe I used:

3,000 pints of heavy water
340 cups of granulated dust (found under kitchen cabinets)
No salt (as it’s bad for you and I ate it all on my dinner earlier)
150 tps extract of tumble dryer
I thought the eggs were probably not important

This is what I discovered using scientific methods (stirring):

Crème brulee is not a non-newtonian liquid.
I can swim.
Crème brulee when vibrated does not get excited.
I do.
Crème brulee when put under pressure doesn’t flinch in the slightest.
I do.
Cardiff City Council do not offer a free crème brulee disposal service.
Camels do not eat crème brulee.

A special thanks to my requestee for involving me in this evening’s entertainment. If anyone else has any blog requests I ask only this – please supply the correct ingredients. Otherwise fuck off.

Does anyone know what camels eat?