Tag Archives: schoolboy humour

Floating Liquid Natural Gas

“Floating Liquid Natural Gas is the technology of the future”. That was the prompt for our Inkslingers Writers Group this week, the idea being to get us to write about something we knew absolutely about. Unfortunately, no matter what the topic my mind seems to march determinedly off in the most schoolboyish direction …

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Natural gas is drilled deep underground, piped through pipes (what else?) and brought in from the sea, in a shell apparently, though I may not have been listening properly to that part.

This is a complete waste of time and, ironically, energy. Truly Natural Gas is not all around us, it is inside us. We each literally have it within us to be practically energy self-sufficient.

If harnessed correctly the burp after a Coke could charge an iPhone. A plate of cucumber could run your hairdryer. A quickly-drunk can of lager could power a vacuum cleaner.

Floating Liquid Natural Gas is simply Truly Natural Gas harvested into something such as a bottle with a cork stopper (but not a helium balloon, that would just be silly) and then distilled in liquid form into giant floating hydrogen tanks. In this way the Gas can be used only when it is needed, otherwise we could find ourselves burping the television on in the middle of the night.

As with more traditional gas, Truly Natural Gas has a distinctive odour, though it has the advantage that this does not have to be artificially added.

It may not be clean, God knows what you’ve eaten if it’s green, but Floating Liquid Natural Gas really is the technology of the future.

Why? Because the backlash, as it were, from a night on the Guinness can, if properly combusted, blow you into the middle of next week.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Big

The WordPress Photo Challenge as taken on by a man whose camera is broken…

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The sea was a constant source of fear in Lillput.

Its giant waves, taller than any Lilliputian, crashed all day every day onto the shore. While this did mean that the surfing was terrific, it brought in stones the size of labradors, seaweed the length of bunting and dog-turds the size of skyscrapers.

It had even once brought in a spaceship, a giant red cylinder with the words “Coca-Cola” printed on its side, presumably the name of the planet it had come from. This had been hushed up by the Emperor and his Government, along with the worrying fact that a door in the front had been open.

There could be no cover up this time, though. It’s hard to deny the existence of aliens when a man the size of the Gillaspian mountain range is lying flat-out upon the beach.

“What will we do?” asked the Emperor.

“Run like hell,” said Falal, who was ironically his Defence Minister. “We can’t fight something like that.”

“We could tie him up,” said Larken, the Justice Minister, who had two basic plans for administering justice – tying people up or putting them to death. “Then we could put him to death.”

“On what charge?” asked the Emperor. “Being big?”

“The more important question,” said Sensible Minister Jonassus (a post which has regrettably become unfashionable in modern democracy) “is where he came from, and are there more like him.”

“Perhaps he climbed down a beanstalk from the clouds,” said Falal, who used to have bedtime stories read to him by his mother. “Maybe he’s a one-off.”

“Unlikely,” said Jonassus, “since there is no beanstalk reaching the sky anywhere in Lilliput. We’d probably have noticed by now.”

“How do we even know it’s a he?” asked Larken.

“We could open his trousers,” suggested the Empress, voicing a wish that she’d had ever since she’d first set eyes upon him.

“Not going to happen,” said the Emperor firmly. The Empress, a former lap-dancer who was much younger than the Emperor and had married him purely for the title, lapsed into sullen silence.

“Well, we can’t just wait for him to wake up and trample all over us,” said Larken. “I still say tie him up.”

“Dear lord no,” said Jonassus, “that’s a really bad idea. Have none of you heard the tale of King Kong?”

“Er, no,” said the others. “What is it?”

“It’s the story of a giant monkey who gets tied up by little humans like us and is really pissed off when he wakes up.”

“What does he do?” asked Falal.

“Well,” said Jonassus, suddenly wishing he hadn’t started this example, “he climbs a tall building and gets shot at by the humans till he falls off and dies.”

“Ok,” said the Emperor, “tying him up it is then.”

The next six hours were spent tying the giant down. They used ropes, they used fishing-nets, they used a pair of hand-cuffs that the Empress produced from the royal bedroom, to the mortification of the Emperor. They connected all of these things to tent-pegs and hammered those into the beach he was washed up on.

In other words, they tried tying him to sand.

Jonassus took one look, got on his horse, and rode off towards to the next kingdom.

So he was five miles away when he heard the yells of fear, the twang of ropes and the roaring yawn. He looked back over a hill and saw the giant sit up, stretch, and, because he was a man, greet the dawn chorus with a trumpeting of his own.

Jonassus, as I’ve said, was five miles away, yet was still knocked off his horse by the force of Gulliver’s fart.

A Bit Of The Other

The challenge at Saturday’s Irish Writers Centre Workshop was called “Fifty Shades of Oh Please NO, no sex! I’m Irish!”. The idea was to write about desire, and sex, without mentioning sex.
Those of you who come here regularly are probably dreading what’s to follow…
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She had lovely melons.

That had been the first thing that he had noticed when he saw her at her stall at the Farmers’ Market. As well as her melons, she had great buns. He stared at her and felt a stirring at waist level, near where his striploins were. They were on a little shelf in front of him, because his butcher’s stall was next to hers.

She noticed him looking at her, since men lack subtlety in these things.

“Cucumber?” she asked.

“Er, what?”

“I said, would you like to try some of my cucumber?”

She didn’t normally offer her wares free, but she felt strangely drawn to this man. He had strawberry-blond hair, and she grew strawberries. Some people, of course, would have called him ginger and that was fine too, she used it in her baking.

She looked at his body. His biceps were well-developed from wielding his chopper, his legs were strong and firm from chasing escaped cows, and his abs were rock-solid, because he went to the gym three times a week.

And besides, if you can’t have a man in uniform then a man in an apron is the next best thing.

And he knew that she was hot since she had just had to bring her box over from her van.

Whenever business was slow they would chat. And over the weeks they got to know each other better. He learned to his delight that she was great with her hands, as she practiced both knitting and crochet. She discovered to her surprise (and delight) that he knew twenty-two positions, vacant ones at various Farmers’ Markets around the county.

Eventually they became partners. It was a relationship made in heaven. She was a grower, he was a butcher, and between them they could produce the most impressive meat and two veg you have ever seen.

Hand Relief Again

I have never re-blogged an old post before, but since I seem to have sprained my left wrist in my sleep I can’t really type anything (it’s taken four minutes already just to get to here), so here is a post called Hand Relief, that  I wrote the last time I hurt my wrist….

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Today’s post starts with a plea for sympathy, which I have a feeling I’m not going to get.

I think I have Repetitive Strain Injury in my right hand.

Already I can sense the giggling bubbling out across the internet, as my virtual friends treat this news with the same ribald hilarity as my pubmates did. I have received a number of suggestions in my local as to what might have caused this, and to say that there is a recurring theme to these suggestions is putting it mildly.

I have pointed out to them that I am not, in fact, a fourteen-year old schoolboy, and that there are a number of activities that could cause such an injury, such as sword-fencing, bell-ringing or staking vampires through the heart. They in turn have pointed out that I don’t actually take part in any of those activities, and I in turn have pointed out oh, shut up.

I think that I actually got it at work from using the mouse so much, since whenever I put my hand on the mouse now the pain seems to sit around my hand like a glove. I (*sigh*) shook it off at first, but the pain is becoming more consistent, and now I’m finding it hard to grip things (oh come on).

In an attempt to ease the pain in my hand (hence the post title, of course) I decided to use Voltarol Gel, the one that’s used in the Tinhouse whenever we have muscle pains. The tube that we had was empty (but had been carefully put back in the cupboard by whoever used it last), so I went to the pharmacy to buy a new one.

I’ve noticed a welcome development in my local pharmacy recently that, if you order some well-known product, they will offer a similar generic product that’s cheaper. This is what happened when I asked for the Voltarol, so now I have a tube of this:

Now, I’m full of praise for companies making generic products cheaper by cutting costs, but I have to say that had just a teeny amount of money been spent on branding or market research they might not have come up with the name above.

Anyway, you’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve to rub it in three times a day. We might as well continue the theme the whole way through.

Thank you all for your concern.

Hand Relief

Today’s post starts with a plea for sympathy, which I have a feeling I’m not going to get.

I think I have Repetitive Strain Injury in my right hand.

Already I can sense the giggling bubbling out across the internet, as my virtual friends treat this news with the same ribald hilarity as my pubmates did. I have received a number of suggestions in my local as to what might have caused this, and to say that there is a recurring theme to these suggestions is putting it mildly. 

I have pointed out to them that I am not, in fact, a fourteen-year old schoolboy, and that there are number of activities that could cause such an injury, such as sword-fencing, bell-ringing or staking vampires through the heart. They in turn have pointed out that I don’t actually take part in any of those activities, and I in turn have pointed out oh, shut up.

I think that I actually got it at work from using the mouse so much, since whenever I put my hand on the mouse now the pain seems to sit around my hand like a glove. I (*sigh*) shook it off at first, but the pain is becoming more consistent, and now I’m finding it hard to grip things (oh come on).

In an attempt to ease the pain in my hand (hence the post title, of course) I decided to use Voltarol Gel, the one that’s used in the Tinhouse whenever we have muscle pains. The tube that we had was empty (but had been carefully put back in the cupboard by whoever used it last), so I went to the pharmacy to buy a new one.

I’ve noticed a welcome development in my local pharmacy recently that, if you order some well-known product, they will offer a similar generic product that’s cheaper. This is what happened when I asked for the Voltarol, so now I have a tube of this:

Now, I’m full of praise for companies making generic products cheaper by cutting costs, but I have to say that had just a teeny amount of money been spent on branding or market research they might not have come up with the name above.

Anyway, you’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve to rub it in three times a day. We might as well continue the theme the whole way through.

Thank you all for your concern.

A Boy at Heart

We grow up, and become more mature. We get ourselves up in the morning, and drag ourselves off to work as hard as we can at jobs that we have found for ourselves. We buy houses, find spouses, have children. These children think that we are the most most mature and sensible people they will ever meet. In short, we become adults.

And yet inside each of us adults there is still a schoolchild, a kid who finds the words “poo” and “bum” funny, and to whom the ultimate in humour is a person falling over.

Yesterday I watched the golf on telly, and ,while it was an amazing and unforgettable day, as 59-year old Tom Watson came so close to winning, what I will remember most was a remark by one of the commentators. Speaking about fellow commentator and former player Ken Brown, Mark James said:

“Well, it can get cold. That’s why Ken Brown used to soak his balls in hot water for an hour before going out.”

(Did you smirk when you read that? See?)

And last night in my local, when the highlights of the Tour de France came on (I don’t know why we put it on every evening, none of us have a clue what’s going on), I found myself thinking “I wonder do cyclists soak their balls in cold water for an hour after coming in” and realised my inner schoolchild is still going strong.

He’ll be around as long as I am.