Download audio version here

After our love chair adventure (see yesterday’s Dollop if you’re confused) me, Sean and Ben went to a music shop to buy a new keyboard for The Young’uns tour, which starts next week, although you’ll all know that, because you’ve already got your tickets for one of the gigs, obviously. If you have enjoyed these free Dollops, then you can show your appreciation by coming to one of the gigs, otherwise I might be forced to sell my computer to make ends meet, and there’ll be no more Dollops. I know that some of you might be a bit put off by the fact that there’ll be two other people sharing the stage with me, and that you’d rather it just be me for ninety minutes talking about kettles and going to the shops, but think of you coming to this gig as an investment in the possibility of one day making that a reality, because if I have enough money then I’ll be able to concentrate on putting together such a solo show in the future. It is important to support The Young’uns in order to support my future solo career, so please buy a ticket and try and tolerate the other two, if only to help make my ninety minute stand-up show about my kettle a reality. But if you really can’t bare listening to Sean talking and singing about his dead grandmother, then you don’t have to come to the gig, just buy a ticket and stay at home and wait for the Young’uns Podcast to be released, where I will have diligently edited the other two’s nonsense out, as I know that this is what people really want.

We wanted to sell our old keyboard and buy a new one, and we hoped that we could do both at our local music shop. We did some internet research before setting off to find out how much the old keyboard was selling for, and also to ascertain the price of the new keyboard. Upon entering the music shop, we noticed that the price of the keyboard was quite a lot higher than it was at other stores. However, we ideally wanted to sort out the purchase there and then and part-exchange it for the old keyboard, rather than having to faff around with Ebay, which would involve having to wait for buyers and bids, and then sorting out postage and packaging. But the price was ridiculously high. I anticipated getting about £200 for the old keyboard, and even knocking £200 off the price for the new keyboard would still only mean that we’d paid the full price for it, given that the keyboard was priced £200 higher in this shop.

If I was by myself, I might have given up and walked out of the shop,. Perhaps I might make some very diffident enquiry about whether we could maybe get the price of the keyboard down a bit, but I don’t think I’d possess the requisite confidence or staying power to properly haggle. I turned to the other two to suggest that we left the shop, but Ben had already started purposefully marching towards the counter.

By the time I’d joined him at the counter, mere seconds later, he had already talked the man into knocking £100 off the price. But he wasn’t finished yet. Ben proceeded to execute some highly impressive heckling tactics. It was me who was buying the keyboard, but it was very much Ben who was in control of the situation. After a further couple of minutes of impressive haggling, Ben got the price down by another £100. He had now got the price down to match the price set by the other stores which we’d researched online. Ben had also managed to get them to take the keyboard for £250, which was better than I’d anticipated, given that it was an old model. Brilliant, I thought, and reached into my bag for my card. But then I felt Ben tug my arm.

“Come on lads, we’re walking,” he said, and proceeded to march in the direction of the door. Sean and I followed, even though I was happy to accept the price they were offering. It would be more of a hassle to sell the old keyboard on Ebay, and at least this way we’d take care of both buying and selling, and end up in profit. But Ben had said “we’re walking,” with the kind of authority that I’d not heard from him before.

But, Ben’s ploy completely worked, for just as we were reaching the door the called us back, and knocked another £50 off the keyboard.

“Now you’re talking my language,” Ben said, again with the kind of confident swagger in his voice that I’d never heard from him before. I once again reached into my bag to retreave my card to pay, but it transpired that when Ben had said, “now you’re talking my language,” that hadn’t meant that the haggling had finished.

It went on for another ten minutes. At first Sean and I felt a bit awkward and embarrassed, but as time went on I began to really start enjoying it. It was clear that both Ben and the man were rather enjoying the haggling, and I began to start appreciating it as a sport. We were watching two heavy-weight hagglers at their very best. I’m pretty sure that the haggle became so compelling that other people in the shop turned to spectate. Ben and the man kept doing things like, stepping towards and away from each other, moving closer if they felt as if a deal was maybe being reached, but then one of them would turn away and take a couple of steps back, until the other one backed down and presented a new offer. They were clearly both enjoying themselves, because they were properly bantering away with each other as they haggled. This sport had everything: drama, physical and verbal theatre .

For the last five minutes of the haggle, they were essentially quibbling over £5. Ben had managed to knock a further £70 off the price, but was still endeavouring to talk the man down by another £5, but the man was having none of it. Neither of them were budging. Eventually the man agreed to knock an extra pound off, but stated in a very self-assured voice that this was definitely his final offer. Ben accepted, they shook hands, and I was finally allowed to get my card out and pay, shaking slightly with the adrenalin and excitement of it all.

As I paid, Ben and the man continued to banter with each other. Whenever Sean or I tried interacting with the man, it was clear that he didn’t hold the same respect for us, viewing us merely as ordinary, common garden shoppers, whereas he clearly had proper respect for Ben, seemingly impressed by his haggling abilities.

Ben is a music technology teacher and buys a lot of instruments for the college, and so has cottoned onto the fact that people in music shops are used to haggling over the price of equipment, something which I’d never really considered before. I was massively impressed with this other side to Ben that I’d not seen before, and when we got home I snuggled him extra hard in the love chair to show my gratitude, which, let’s face it, is probably the reason why he’d haggled so well on my behalf.

As much as I enjoyed the haggling experience, I hope that Ben doesn’t let this success go to his head and start haggling in other places. We are going out to a restaurant and some pubs tonight, and as fun as the haggling was, it does take up quite a bit of time, and does make you a lot more conspicuous, and I am already conspicuous enough being in The Young’uns and being the creator of David’s Daily Digital Dollop, which obviously garners me a lot of attention from adoring fans.

David’s Daily Digital Dollop is available as an audio podcast. You can subscribe with Itunes here
or view the RSS feed here

You can also subscribe with any podcasts app on your phone or computer.

Download the audio version of today’s Dollop here

Yesterday, Facebook rolled out a new feature which describes Facebook photos to blind people. While this could be seen as a great step forward for accessibility and equality, in practical terms, all it means is that now blind people will have to endure hearing about superfluous, pointless crap such as, “photo of average looking lasagne; photo of fairly generic looking spaghetti bolognaise.” In the past our screen readers would have simply ignored the photo, but not any more. So I’m all for technology making the world more accessible and equal, but at the same time I am a not too happy about being dragged into this whole new world of tedium. There are few advantages to being blind, but being able to skip pointless pictures of people’s meals was certainly one of the rare bonuses, and now Facebook have taken that one consolation away from us, the evil bastards.

Today is a very special day for my housemates Ben and Elsa, as they are taking their relationship to the next level. They have bought something called a Love Chair, also known as a Snuggle Chair. They are both playing this purchase down, claiming that it’s merely a compact, practical chair, but I think that this is clearly a major step in their partnership. They have reached the snuggling stage of their relationship. Who knows, give it a year and they might be sleeping in the same bed. But for now, I don’t think they’re ready for that quite yet, and so naturally, Elsa will be continuing to share my bed with me until she is ready. It’s important for them not to rush these things, as I am at pains to remind them. But I am really happy for them both that they have reached the snuggling stage, and that they have expressed their love for each other through the medium of chair-purchase.

Elsa has been at work all day, so Me, Ben and Sean went in The Young’uns van to pick up the chair, which was at someone’s house, as Ben had found a good second hand deal on Gumtree. The three of us went into the house. We each had a sit in the snuggle chair, and it was very comfortable. But the husband and wife who had owned the chair insisted that two people needed to try it. “It’s a snuggle chair,” she implored, “designed for two people to sit together, and it’s much more comfortable when two people are sat on it, as opposed to just one person.”

Ben and I both sat on the chair together. It’s essentially a chair designed for couples, and it’s quite intimate as there’s not much space. The cushions also sink down quite low, and the way it sinks causes the two people to recline together.

“You both look very homely on there,” the lady said, sounding pleased. I think Sean and I had both started to realise that the husband and wife had obviously assumed that Ben and I were gay, in the way that they were looking at us and interacting with us. I don’t know why it even mattered what the old couple thought about us, but for some reason I started to try and explaine to them that I wasn’t Ben’s partner, I just happened to live there.

“Oh no, I’m not Ben’s partner,” I said, as I got out of the seat.

Ben still hadn’t cottoned onto the couple’s assumption, as he was too busy assessing the chair, checking that it didn’t have any blemishes. Ben turned to Sean, patted the seat and invited him to sit next to him. This made the couple assume that if I wasn’t Ben’s partner, then Sean must be.

“Ah, yes, you both look very homely on there,” the wife said, sounding even more pleased, as if trying to overcompensate for her previous mistake. Last time she’d said that Ben and I looked “homely,” before discovering that we weren’t actually partners, so this time she presumably said “very homely” and delivered it with extra relish so as to placate Sean, in case he felt jealous by the couple’s previous assumption.

Sean, like me, for some reason felt the need to correct the woman’s assumption about us being gay and in a relationship with Ben, and so he also pointed out to the woman that they were not a couple. He explained that me and Ben lived together and that he was just a friend. Ben, for some reason decided to add some extra information to that statement, mentioning that although technically me and Ben lived together, me and Sean probably spent more time away with each other than I spent at home with him. This was simply meant to be a casual throw-away statement about me and Sean being away gigging, but without the inclusion of the gigging element, it merely seemed to make the couple more confused, as they tried to work out just who was with whom.

“We’re away playing together quite a lot,” I began, about to add the fact that we were in a folk group, but seemingly the pause between that next fact was too long for Sean, and so he hastily interjected, “in a band, he means. We’re in a band together.”

“A folk band,” I added. In hindsight, I think it’s safe to say that the line, “we’re away playing together quite a lot,” although intended as a harmless statement, did seem a little suggestive, given the thoughts that appeared to be running through this confused couple’s heads. Sean had instantly realised this, which was why he’d interrupted so quickly to point out that when I said “we’re away playing together quite a lot,”I was referring to playing in a band. Sean’s hurried comment about being in a band made me realise how my original statement must have come across. Therefore, in order to make up for my previous accidental euphemistic line, I decided to furnish them with more information to help give more credibility to our explanation. So I added, “a folk band. It’s a folk band.” But I think this probably sounded to the couple like I’d added this extra bit of information because I’d realised that our cover-story wasn’t sounding particularly convincing.

There was a bit of a pause. The wife cleared her throat, and the husband asked, “so … er … what instruments do you play?” The wife cleared her throat again, maybe because she was picking up an awkward atmosphere, and wished her husband hadn’t asked this question, as now we’d have to manufacture more lies and develop this already fragile cover-story.

Sean and I both spoke at the same time. I said, “I play accordion,” and Sean said, “it’s unaccompanied singing.” We were both correct, as we do a mix of unaccompanied songs and also play with instruments, but to someone who didn’t know our band it sounded like two completely contradictory statements, as if we were both just continuing to badly busk our cover story, trying to hide the fact that we were in a gay three-way relationship with Ben.

There was another pause, and the wife cleared her throat again. Sean and I realised how ridiculous this whole thing was becoming and started to laugh. Ben had begun to register what was occurring and he also started to laugh. This only made the three of us more embarrassed, and no doubt look even more like we were in a gay three-way relationship which we were completely failing to cover up.

When we’d stopped laughing, we all decided to just give up our attempts to explain that we weren’t in a gay three-way relationship, as it was clearly a lost cause. Ben hurriedly handed over the money and we took the chair out to our van, helped by the husband. As I’ve mentioned before, The Young’uns van is meant to be a three seater vehicle, but in reality it’s more of a two and a half seater, as the three of us have to squash in very tightly together. I don’t think seeing me, Ben and Sean squashed up very close together in a tiny van did anything to disavow the couple of the notion that we were in a gay three-way relationship. They probably assumed that we’d bought the van deliberately because of its intimate size, which is why we’d also bought an intimate snuggle chair. They probably assume that the three of us drove home in our intimate van, got the chair in and spent the rest of the day snuggling together. Which is of course not what happened at all; we only spent half the day snuggling, because Sean had to go home to his “fiancée” to sort out things for their forthcoming wedding, which let’s face it, is clearly a smokescreen to distract people from Sean’s real relationship with me and Ben. Oh what the hell, there’s no point denying it. And before you ask, no, there is absolutely nothing going on between any of us and Michael; we’ve not stooped that low.

David’s Daily Digital Dollop is available as an audio podcast. You can subscribe with Itunes here
or view the RSS feed here

You can also subscribe with any podcasts app on your phone or computer.

Download the audio version of today’s Dollop here

I went to asda today. That’s right, not Sainsbury’s. You can’t pin me down. I thought I’d mix things up a bit for the blog. Some bloggers get stuck in their ways and end up standing still, writing about the same supermarket over and over again, but not me, I’m keeping it moving, keeping it fresh. Sorry Michael Wackington that it wasn’t the co-op, but Ben wanted to buy some clothes, and some drain unblocker, as well as food, and so the co-op just wasn’t going to cut it on this occasion. But there’s still another 270 Dollops to go, so there’s plenty of time to write about a visit to the co-op.

As we wondered through the shop, we were treated to the sounds of Asda FM Live. The Voice Over kept proudly declaring that the station was Asda FM live, even though it sounded like it was just an automated station comprising pop music, and a few adverts for Asda products. There was nothing to suggest that the station was broadcasting live. There wasn’t a presenter, there weren’t any listener calls, texts or tweets. No travel bulletins: “and thanks to Jenny, currently shopping at the Asda superstore in Luton, who called to let us know of a hold up at the drinks isle, apparently due to a spilled crate of beer, caused by an accidental collision with a trolley being pushed by a harassed and flummoxed parent. Staff are currently cleaning up the spillage, and the drinks isle should be free-moving once again very soon. We will of course bring you more news on that as we get it.” No weather reports: “Asda stores’ average temperature is 21 degrees Celsius, that’s 70 degrees Fahrenheit. Although, things get a little bit cooler as we head towards the frozen foods section, with an ambient temperature of about 7 degrees Celsius, that’s 45 degrees Fahrenheit. Highs of 23 degrees Celsius, 73 degrees Fahrenheit, that’s in our bakery isles.”

But alas, none of that, sadly. It was clearly just an automated station, yet the Voice Over kept saying “Asda FM Live.” But what did they mean by live? Surely they didn’t employ someone merely to sit there and occasionally press a few buttons, given that an automated play-out system could replicate that just as easily; in fact, it sounded exactly like an automated system, making that person’s job completely redundant. Even if it was an automated system, they could have still recorded a presenter doing some links that could then be interspersed throughout the music, which would have made it sound a bit more live. But they didn’t even do that. So I really think it’s stretching the point to call the radio station Asda FM live. In fact, even the FM part of the station name is a lie, because they’re not broadcasting on FM. Basically, the whole Asda FM live thing is a complete sham, and it’s about time someone was brave enough to say it. At least the co-op’s radio station actually have real presenters, isn’t that right Michael?

The Voice Over and jingles would frequently inform us that Asda FM is available “online and in-store.” I was quite surprised to hear that Asda FM is available online, given that it is just a selection of fairly generic pop music that can be found on every pop commercial radio station in the western world, interspersed with Asda related adverts. Why would anyone choose to listen to Asda FM online? Who are the people who choose Asda FM as their favourite radio station to listen to at home? Do they listen to it in order to try and recreate the magical experience that they get whenever they shop at Asda? If they could, they would spend their entire day in Asda, but alas, the staff eventually move them on after about ten hours. But at least when they’re at home, they can tune into Asda FM online and feel that they are in some way still connected to the Asda store. I cannot comprehend why, of all the choice out there, someone would choose to listen to Asda FM Live online. I assume though that they must get enough online listeners to make it worth their while. Unless of course they are lying about being online, just as they are lying about being on FM, and lying about being live. The whole thing is a sham I tell you. I wouldn’t be surprised if it turns out that even the asda stores don’t actually exist, but are a very elaborate illusion, perhaps part-orchestrated by someone like Derren Brown.

Anyway, we got everything we needed in Asda (or did we? Was it just a clever Derren Brown mind trick?) including the drain unblocker, which cost £4 for a tiny bottle. We took it home, and poured it down the sink. Despite the smallness of the bottle, it seemed to do the job, but still, that’s 4 quid down the drain. Hahaha. That wasn’t my joke; it actually came from Ben. I told you these blogs would start picking up once he and Elsa got back, didn’t I?

Download the audio version of today’s Dollop here

I hope the hangover from our crazy party last night wasn’t too bad for you all this morning. I woke up really refreshed. I think my sleeping patterns maybe back to normal, as I fell asleep at 11pm, and slept right through until 7am, feeling fully awake.

I then did an article about The Young’uns for the Big Issue. So I’ve already written 2000 words today, and now I’ve got to write some more. I mean, I suppose I could cheat and use my Big Issue article as today’s Dollop, but then I am a bit worried that this might affect the newspaper’s sales, resulting in homeless people all over the country starving to death. Of course, this is working on the assumption that I am going to be that day’s headline story, the big draw to get people to buy; but is that such an outrageous assumption to make? I mean, is it? What? OK then, fair enough, probably yes.

I’d like to think that even if I did put my article up here for free that you wouldn’t refuse to buy the Big Issue as a result. I think you are all far too conscientious to do that. But I would hate it if word got back to me from the Big Issue that they’d not seen the major boost to newspaper sales that they’d imagined my presence would have afforded them. I don’t want to hear back from a member of Big Issue staff that a load of potential buyers picked up the newspaper, saw my front-page article (I assume it’ll be on the front page), said “ah, that’s a brilliant article, I read it for free on David’s website last week” and walk off, maybe chuckling to themselves remembering their favourite line from the article that’s still in their memories because of how funny it was, while the poor Big Issue vendor shivers in the street next to a pile of unsold newspapers because everyone’s already read it online for free and have already printed out their own copies, laminated it and put it up on their bedroom walls. “Curse that David Eagle,” they will whimper. “The Big Issue staff told me that today’s newspaper would sell so many copies that I’d be able to buy a house. Why did he have to put it up online for free, the bastard? Why?!” I don’t want to be a figure of hate among the homeless community of Britain.

Or even worse, the Big Issue staff might not know that I’ve put the article online for free, and when they get the disappointingly low sales figure, they conclude that I’m obviously nowhere near as popular as they assumed me to be. I’d hate them to think that. That would be a terrible blow to my ego, and would be arguably worse than the shivering, whimpering homeless people. Hey, I said “arguably,” don’t look at me like that.

I’m not sure when my article is coming out, and I probably won’t get to know. I hope though that this blog post isn’t going to result in people approaching a Big Issue seller, picking up the newspaper, rifling through it in order to see whether I’m in that day’s publication (not that you’ll have to rifle through, because I’m obviously going to be on the frontpage as their leading story) and then, upon discovering that there’s no article by me, put the paper back down and walk off. Perhaps I should email the Big Issue to warn them that this might happen, and ask them to alert me as to the day of my article’s inclusion, in order to avoid this kind of thing occurring, which could be pretty psychologically damaging for the poor Big Issue sellers.

Obviously, I am not being serious, and think it is very doubtful that my inclusion of the +article on this blog will have any affect on Big Issue sales. I may be in the Big Issue, but I am not a big issue. They’ll probably edit what I’ve written down quite a bit, baring in mind it’s 2000 words long. So I may well release the article as tomorrow’s Dollop. Then hopefully you will enjoy it so much, that you will buy loads of copies of the Big Issue and give it to your friends so that they too can enjoy my amazing words.

My housemates Ben and Elsa return from their holiday in Spain tonight, which will be good news for any Dollop readers who have missed those particular characters. I don’t know if there’s anyone out there reading this who has missed their mentions in these Dollops, but that news may bring cheer to someone reading this. I am in the house and have no plans until Saturday, so I hope that Ben and Elsa will be able to offer some inspiration for these Dollops, and not just be all boring and ordinary around the house. One of the terms and conditions of me moving into the house was that I write about them, and I haven’t done that for the last month, due to being in Australia, but now that we will be once again united tonight, I am obliged to start writing about them again.

Now and again they deliberately do things in order to gain Dollop inclusion. Elsa bought a needlessly complicated kettle, knowing that I’d mention her in my Dollop, which obviously succeeded because it spawned my hilarious kettle-based observations. Who knows, maybe they’ll have brought back another needlessly complicated household appliance for me to write about.

Oh what excitement, friends. Will it be my Big Issue article? Will it be some observations about a stupidly overly complicated domestic item? Or will it be something else entirely? Join me tomorrow to find out; as if you’d be able to resist.

David’s Daily Digital Dollop is available as an audio podcast. You can subscribe with Itunes here
or view the RSS feed here

Tonight, we Step into the night club of the future, where records and CDs are things of the distant past, and the DJs prefer to whip the crowd into a frenzy by using the yamaha keyboard.

Download today’s audio Dollop here.

David’s Daily Digital Dollop is available as an audio podcast. You can subscribe with Itunes here
or view the RSS feed here

Download the audio version of today’s Dollop here

My sleeping patterns are all over the place since I got back from Australia. I’ve been falling asleep at about 10pm and waking up at about 3 or 4 in the morning, unable to get back to sleep. Today I woke up at 3, and I did the egotist’s equivalent of the counting sheep exercise. I decided to go through all 92 episodes of David’s Daily Digital Dollop and tot up how many hours of audio the podcast version amounted to. Obviously I didn’t listen to them all one after another, I simply looked at the file, which had the length shown after the title. This game did not yield the soporific effect that I was hoping for, therefore I can tell you that the amount of hours this project has provided so far is just over twelve hours. I can’t remember the exact amount of time, probably due to the severe lack of sleep impacting detrimentally on my memory, but only the most pedantic of people could care about the exact amount of time. Sorry Jools. Only joking Jools, I love you really. Probably a bit too much. Stay away from me for your own safety.

We’re just over a quarter of the way through the project and I’ve already produced over half a day’s worth of audio. If the Dollops continue to be of a similar length, then by the end of the year I will have produced two days’ worth of audio.

It would take you two days’ of uninterrupted listening to listen to David’s Daily Digital Dollop from start to finish. I wonder what psychological effects that would have on someone if they did decide to do that, although, to be honest, if they have made the decision to do such a thing then they are clearly already psychologically damaged. Having said that, does anyone fancy giving it a go? You could maybe do it as a sponsored event for charity. Two days of uninterrupted listening. You’re not allowed to sleep, but you are allowed to eat and go to the toilet, so long as you keep your headphones on at all times. I think the psychological damage caused by this endeavour would be severe enough without compounding it by the fact that you’re also sitting in your own waste matter, because you didn’t have the foresight to stipulate the rules about toilet visits.

“So, tell me, how did the charity Dollopathon for the British Deaf Association go, mate?”

“I got six hours in and I was already starting to hallucinate and think terrible dark thoughts. Then he started talking about watery cat faeces, and I couldn’t take it any more.”

“But what about the money? What about those poor deaf people?”

“Sod the deaf people! At least they’ll never have to suffer the harrowing experience of listening to David talking about his kettle for hours and hours. Those deaf people will never have to experience that, the lucky bastards.”

Perversely, I think the only person that has any chance of ever considering doing the two day Dollopathon, tragically, is me, probably while masturbating as well. Obviously that was a joke, because I wouldn’t be the only person, as I’m sure Chloe would be well up for that sort of thing. Perhaps we could do it together Chloe? For charity you understand, obviously, not for our own perverted enjoyment, clearly for charity.

At some point though, I probably am going to have to go through these Dollops, because the idea is that I want to take some of the content generated by this project and turn it into standup routines. I have been very lapsed with standup, having only ever done four gigs in the space of a three year period. I’ve written about those experiences in previous blogs. If you’re interested then go here to access the standup category of my blog, which will provide you with all the blogs I’ve written about my incipient standup experiences.

The last standup spot I did was in February 2015. at Manchester’s Comedy Store at an event called the King Gong, where each act gets a maximum of five minutes to perform. However, audience members are issued with red cards, and if three red cards are held up then you are dismissed. I won’t reveal what happened in this blog post, in case you want to read all about it, which you can do by accessing the above links, however I will divulge the fact that I didn’t make the full five minutes. In fairness, the comedians who did make the full five minutes were in the minority – the atmosphere was rather gladiatorial, with audience members seemingly enjoying the power that having the cards afforded them – and those comedians had clearly performed their routine many times before, whereas I was doing the material for the first time.

I’d really like to go back and do the King Gong night again at some point, but I’m not sure how valuable it is for me to be trying out ideas for the first time in such a setting. I think it would be better for me to go to non-competitive nights first and build up the routine a bit before throwing it on the mercy of a load of drunken people who enjoy having the power to dismiss you if you haven’t made a joke about cocks within the first thirty seconds. Maybe that’s a bit unfair on the audience and the night, but I’m sure you get my point. If I had to write these Dollops in a room full of drunk people looking at what I’d written and loudly berating me, then I doubt that I’d have written very much. I think, even the fact that I’d have some fans in the room with me wouldn’t offer much in the way of comfort: Jools would be shouting out grammatical corrections, while Chloe would be feverishly masturbating, which would both be highly off-putting for very different reasons.

if I can get some experience of doing non-competitive spots in a more friendly environment, then I can really develop and work things out, so that I am then ready to return to the King Gong more prepared. That is my logic anyway. Perhaps it’s just an excuse born out of fear, but I think it makes sense.

I know it would be more interesting for this blog if I did go an do the King Gong nights, but I don’t want to obliterate my confidence about doing comedy altogether, just for the sake of entertaining a few hundred blog readers and podcast listeners. The only reason I am trying out standup comedy anyway is because I’ve had lots of people saying that I should do it, and eventually they have ground me down, so it’s not as if I’ve made this decision based on my own self-assuredness and have lots of confidence about my abilities. At one point I was having meetings with a massive agent who represents loads of A-list entertainers (I won’t reveal who it is and how it happened, as I’m saving that for the book. That is a joke, just in case you took that literally and branded me an arrogant idiot), who was interested in my comedy career, but I managed to let that slip due to my lack of confidence and thus in turn my lack of commitment. Chances are though that these opportunities are all still out there, and I might be able to pick them back up once I start doing some gigs. It’s good to have spoken with so many people, including big-time high profile agents, who have faith in my abilities, even if I don’t really have much faith in them and am riddled with, at time,s crippling self-doubt.

Perhaps I should be using this blog as a way of committing myself to action. Perhaps my goal for the end of the year should be to have done some gigs, then gone to the last King Gong of the year and last the full five minutes. Hopefully, this blog post will prove to be the catalyst for taking positive action. The main purpose of doing these Dollops was to help create material for standup, and I think it’s succeeded in that. I mean, the crowd are going to go wild for my ninety minute standup show all about kettles. Chloe: if you decide to come to the show, could you please make sure to sit at the back? Thanks.

I hope you appreciate the amazing cleverness of today’s Dollop title: Stand Up And Be Counted. I am talking about standup, and this blog is about holding myself to account. But also, the first part of this blog post was all about me counting the amount of hours this project comprises. Not funny, but very clever. Are you having that, Jools?

David’s Daily Digital Dollop is available as an audio podcast. You can subscribe with Itunes here
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Download the audio version of today’s Dollop here

I’m now over a quarter of the way through this project. Only 274 consecutive daily blog posts to go, easy beansy. Hang on, no, that’s not right, it’s easy peasy, isn’t it? I got peas and beans confused there. I’ve clearly been spending too much time with my lady friend from Sainsbury’s. +Oh yes, yet another hilarious joke courtesy of David’s Daily Digital Dollop. What are you going to do with your lives when this project is over and you’re not treated to jokes like that on a daily basis any more?

My frequent references to sainsbury’s has caused a little bit of disgruntlement with one Michael Wackington, who commented on Dollop 90 saying, “Sainsbury’s … why not your local Co-op,?) The first time I mentioned that I’d gone to Sainsbury’s in these Dollops, I was sure that someone would question my shopping habits, suggesting that I shouldn’t be using supermarkets.

This is the problem with going around the world singing all these songs of social conscience: people expect you to actually really have those values, rather than the fact that I obviously just do it for financial gain, conning the gullible lefty idiots out of their money. We tell them all sorts of nonsense, and they just lap it up, the feckless fools: our CDS are made out of bio degradable material and contain 100 % organic music, recorded in a studio which is powered purely by the sun. Actually, this statement isn’t entirely false, although, what the gullible lefty idiots don’t know is that when I say the sun, I am not referring to solar power, but the fact that our albums are funded by Rupert Murdoch’s tabloid newspaper. In fact, if you listen to our albums in reverse, you’ll discover that it’s littered with subliminal sensationalist, factually inaccurate right-wing propaganda. The only reason none of the folk magazines or radio stations have outed us is because our connections with Murdoch means that we’ve got access to everyone’s personal phone calls and data, and we’ve amassed a large archive of incriminating evidence which we’re ready to unleash on the public if word gets out. One false move from Mark Radcliffe and we’ll reveal what he got up to in Soho in July 2010. One tiny remark from Mike Harding and you’ll all get to hear about that thing with the goat in August 2012. There is a reason why we won the BBC Radio 2 Folk Award last year; you didn’t think it was talent did you? Of course it wasn’t. We’re hardly going to win a Folk Award on merit, at least not until we ditch Michael Hughes. And we’ll win it this year as well, unless one of the other nominated bands have done a similar deal with a disreputable tabloid publication.

Anyway, the reason I shop at Sainsbury’s, Michael Wackington, is because it is only a five minutes walk away from where I live. Plus it is well staffed, meaning that it’s easy for me to get help from someone, because being blind I need someone to get the things for me. My nearest co-op is over a mile away, and is nowhere near as big or as well staffed, meaning that it would probably be more difficult to get someone to go around the shop with me.

In my defence, when I was living in Manchester, I used to shop at the independent shops that were on my street. Also, at that time I was in a relationship with a girl who lived right next to a co-op. I know check me out. In fact, that was the reason we started going out. She mentioned her proximity to the co-op and I instantly became sexually aroused. She’d inadvertently discovered my sexual Achilles heal, and I just couldn’t resist. The next thing I knew we were both naked. Let’s just say that the shop wasn’t the only thing in her street that night that was cooperative. (I’m suggesting that we had sex, just in case the joke was too subtle for you.) Let’s just say that the shop wasn’t the only thing in her street that night that was doing special offers. (I’m referring to sex again there; I wouldn’t want you to miss the jokes because they’re too clever for your unsophisticated mind.) Let’s just say that it wasn’t just the prices in the shop in her street that were dropping that night. (That’s a joke about her dropping her knickers, because we had sex, so naturally her knickers had to come down to facilitate the sex. OK, are you catching on to what’s going on now? Right, OK, well let’s see if you can spot the jokes without my help from now on.) Let’s just say that the shop wasn’t the only thing in her street that night that was hosting a blowout sale. (no, are you still struggling? That’s a reference to oral sex. ,Keep trying, you’ll get there. I know I’m very quick and very clever with the comedy. Don’t beat yourself up about it.) Let’s just say that the shop wasn’t the only thing in her street that was open all night. (haha, yes, you got that one? Well done.) Let’s just say that the shop wasn’t the only thing in her street that night that was experiencing unexpected items in the bagging area. (What? You’re struggling with that one are you? OK, that’s fine, let’s work through it slowly together. So you know how those self-service checkouts often say “unexpected items in the bagging area?” yes? Good, OK, well I’m taking that well-known phrase and reappropriating it in a sexual context, which could be interpreted as suggesting that we were engaging in anal sex, or alternatively that I was inserting various objects into her. It’s open to individual interpretation. It’s an open-ended punchline that allows the joke’s recipient to create their own meaning.) Let’s just say that the shop wasn’t the only thing in her street that night that … er … I think I’ve run out. Even a comedy genius such as me has his limits. Feel free to insert your own – which come to think of it was one of the things she said to me that night. Hahahaha, I’m unstoppable!

So if it’s any consolation for Michael Wackington, when I was going out with my girlfriend, we would often shop at the co-op. If you feel as if me shopping at Sainsbury’s is in some way unethical, Michael, blame it on my ex for breaking up with me. If we were still together then I’d still be shopping at the co-op. In fact, we’d probably be buying even more food than before, because we’d be comfort eating in order to take our minds off our miserable, failing relationship. I’ll text her and suggest we get back together. After all, we owe it to the planet!

My ex-girlfriend reads this and comments from time-to-time (I know, she’s clearly regretting her decision, now that she’s seen just how funny I am in these daily Dollops) so perhaps she will get in touch and we can restart our previously failed relationship, simply in order to save the world. And obviously we’ll have to have lots of sex, not because we want to, or in anyway still have feelings for each other, but because the more sex we have, the more condoms we buy from the co-op, making our ethical cause all the more stronger. In fact, why don’t we go the whole hog (which come to think of it was another one of the things she said to me that night) and get married. We could have a co-operative wedding, with everything sourced from the co-op: all the food, the confetti, we could have one of the DJs on the co-op’s instore radio station doing the wedding disco. And then it probably wouldn’t be too long before we end up getting on each other’s tits again, due to us being essentially utterly incompatible, meaning that we drive each other insane and end up killing each other. Of course this would be great news for the co-operative, because we’d have already given instructions to our families that in the event of our deaths we want to have a lavish funeral, provided of course by co-operative Funeral Care. A perfect, flawless, ethical, world-saving plan, I’m sure you’ll agree, Michael Wackington. As long as I don’t die before my 366th consecutive daily blog post, I am more than happy to marry my ex, with a view to us killing each other at the start of 2017. I await her comment with interest.

Michael also goes onto ask me if I tasted the Australian fruit the fingerlime while I was Down Under, which sadly I didn’t, as I was unaware of its existence until now.

“If Peter Kay wants the Finger Lime line, I can split the royalties with you,” writes Michael. Excellent thinking Michael, although I think that perhaps it would be too much of a niche fruit for his English fans, but would go down a treat in Australia, assuming that the Australian audiences have sophisticated enough comedy pallets to appreciate the joke.

“I also want to buy a fingerlime.”

“What? A What?! Fingerlime.” Pause, to heighten the tension; make the audience wait for the big laugh that they’re teetering on the brink of. “Finger?! Lime?!” Another pause, to create further anticipation. “Lime?! Finger? Finger Lime?! As in … like, a lime that tastes of a finger? No thank you. I mean, I wouldn’t imagine it would taste very nice!” Huge eruption of laughter and thirty minutes of WILD applause. Obviously I don’t have the skills of delivery to do the joke justice, but Peter Kay would tear the place apart with that one. Well done Michael Wackington, it’s good to have you onboard.

David’s Daily Digital Dollop is available as an audio podcast. You can subscribe with Itunes here
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Download the audio version of today’s Dollop here

I woke up this morning to the sound of birds. Just to be clear, I am referring to the feathered creatures, just in case you thought that, being the sexist chauvinist that I apparently am, I had decided to employ a harem of women to sleep in my bed, who were chatting away with each other, as women are of course prone to doing, on and on relentlessly. Obviously if this harem of chatty women did exist, then presumably they’d be talking about shopping or make-up, right men? And before any women write to me about me being sexist, I want to reiterate again that I am not sexist, I am merely just stating a fact, which as I’ve said before, is very different. You are just being over-sensitive, which is only natural because you are a woman, and women tend to get a bit over-sensitive; it’s probably your time of the month or something. if this is your first Dollop that you’ve read then you might be wondering what the heck is going on. See yesterday’s Dollop if you’re confused, which to be honest, if you’re a woman, you probably will be anyway even if you have read yesterday’s Dollop. But don’t worry your pretty little heads about it.

Anyway, I woke up at 530 in the morning to the sounds of the birds outside. It was a really beautiful experience. The bird sounds of Australia are very different. I think the birds in England are much more melodic. Perhaps if the over-sensitive Australian woman from the Blue Mountains Festival is reading this, she will now be seething at this comment, seeing it as proof that as well as being sexist, I am also racist, and my preferences for the bird sounds of England is proof of my anti-antipodean opinions. I think it’s the familiarity of the sounds that I appreciated, and after 30 hours of sitting in a metal box, emitting the same annoying droning wining sounds (that’s the plane that’s doing that, not me), I found the sounds of bird song was quite emotional, joyous and life affirming.

I just lay there, basking in the beautiful sounds, until I noticed that there was another sound lurking below the birds. It was the noise of the aeroplane’s persistent drone and wine. For a brief moment I was filled with horror. Had I been dreaming? Had I dreamt that my journey had ended and that I was at home in bed with the sounds of birds outside? Was I about to wake up and realise that I was still on the plane, with another 15 hours still to go?

Apparently, the brain constructs our reality partly around what sensory information it expects to receive, rather than simply what it’s actually receiving, so that we can get the information transmitted to us quicker. Therefore, even though there wasn’t actually a droning wining plane sound occurring, my brain had presumably processed that sound for so long that it was still presenting it to me, assuming it to still be present. Similarly, I could also feel sensations of movement, even though I was lying motionless on the bed. It felt as if I was still on a plane experiencing turbulence. I could feel myself rising and falling. I focused with more intensity on my actual surroundings, the feel of the bed beneath me and the birds outside, and after a few minutes the droning and wining and sensations of movement began to dissipate. But it was an odd experience while it lasted.

I got back home last night about 8pm. The first thing I did was go upstairs to the bathroom in order to brush my teeth. I hadn’t brushed them for 44 hours. I’d brushed them upon waking up on Tuesday morning, before checking out of the hotel. In my rush to leave the hotel I left my toothpaste behind. I suppose I could have bought a mini tooth paste at the airport, but with all the hassle making sure that we were in the right place at the right time, I never got around to it. So as soon as I got into my house I went upstairs to give my teeth a good brush, which I’d been looking forward to doing, as my teeth were hurting due to the lack of cleaning. I rinsed the tooth brush under the tap, and reached out for the tooth paste, but it wasn’t there.

Ben and Elsa had decided to go on a mini-break to Spain for five days, and had seemingly taken the toothpaste with them. I appreciate that the way that I’ve structured that last sentence makes it seem as if I’m suggesting they’d brought the tooth paste along on the holiday as a companion, rather than merely as an item of luggage. Perhaps you read that sentence and jumped to that assumption, maybe thinking that this was just another quirky thing that the French do. So there was no tooth paste. I’d only just got back home after over 30 hours of traveling, and I really needed a shower and to brush my teeth before I went to the shops. It’s not as if I could just walk into a shop, pick up the toothpaste and leave without exchanging a word with anyone. Being blind I’d need to interact with the people in sainsbury’s (the nearest shop to me) in order to get help finding the toothpaste. I dreaded to think what my teeth must look like and how my breath must smell after almost two days without being brushed, plus I hadn’t had a shower for about 60 hours, two and a half days. I’d planned on getting in the shower when I woke up on the Tuesday morning, but I didn’t wake until five minutes before we had to check out of the hotel, and I still needed to pack, so I just hurridly brushed my teeth, packed and left. I really didn’t like the idea of going to my local shop and interacting with the staff, who know me, without first having a good wash and brushing my teeth. But I couldn’t brush my teeth until I went to sainsbury’s and got some tooth paste.

I considered my options. I wondered whether I should put a bit of soap or shower jell on the tooth brush, give my teeth a quick brush, before spitting and thoroughly rincing. Was that better than not brushing them at all? I didn’t know how safe it was to stick shower jell in my mouth. I figured it would be absolutely fine, so long as I didn’t swallow it, and I’d only use a little bit. But would that even make a difference? In theory it should, I reasoned. If there are any dentists reading, or dilettante teeth enthusiasts, let me know your thoughts on this. In the end I just used the tooth brush and water, and did as thorough a brush as I could without tooth paste. I then checked Sainsbury’s opening times and realised that by the time I’d had a shower and got out, the shop would be closed, so I’d have to go tomorrow morning, meaning that by that point I’d have gone for 60 hours without having given my teeth a proper brush.

I’m sure many of you who are reading this are now getting quite excited at the prospect that finally, after weeks of waiting, I’m about to impart another story from Sainsbury’s, but unfortunately I knew that I was going to have to minimise my interaction as much as possible, as I really didn’t want anyone to smell my breath. Before heading out, I gave my teeth another toothpasteless brush. I searched the house for mints, but there was nothing to be found.

I went into Sainsbury’s and asked for assistance, only to be greeted enthusiastically by my usual lady, now infamous to David’s Daily Digital Dollop regulars. This was the very thing I was dreading.

“Hi, welcome back, how was Australia? You’ll have to tell me all about it,” she excitedly declared. I tried to answer her many questions as succinctly as I could, while also making sure not to face her or open my mouth too much. On the plus side, this meant that she wouldn’t be able to smell my breath or see my discoloured teeth, but it probably made me seem very weird, not facing her and speaking with my mouth barely open. I’ve made this woman out to be a bit eccentric and odd, maybe even a bit unintelligent and ignorant about a lot of things, but to her, I probably seemed really unusual with my weird way of talking and my refusal to face her. For all I know, she might have her own blog, where readers are being treated to stories about the weird halitosis-ridden blind man who comes into the shop, buying pretentious vegetables that no one has ever heard of before, who’s not clever enough to have realised that one of the key principles of talking is to open your mouth.

I got the toothpaste, jogged back home and had the best teeth brushing experience of my life, and that’s really saying something, because I’ve had some bloody incredible teeth brushing experiences in my time. But I’ll save those stories for another day and another blog, or possibly I’ll wait until the book comes out and make you pay for them. It would be a shame to give them away for free and squander the financial potential of those brilliant stories. I’ll have a chat with my branding and marketing team about all that when I’ve recovered from the jetlag.

David’s Daily Digital Dollop is available as an audio podcast. You can subscribe with Itunes here
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Download the audio version of today’s Dollop here

Within two minutes of disembarking the plane, it was patently clear that we were in London. In the customs queue, waiting to get our passports checked to allow us back into the country, I heard the following sentence from a very posh upper-class sounding man: “yo Charles, would you pop into Waitrose and pick up a Quinoa salad for Victoria? Yeah, great, chau.”

There were written notices and audio announcements instructing us not to use our phones until we were out of the customs area. However, I’ve just done some Googling, and it appears that there is a caveat in the rules that states that it’s OK to use your phone if you’re a posh upper-class hipster who’s simply trying to procure some South American food from an upmarket outlet. So that’s fine then.

So I’m back in England after a really successful Australian tour, where we only managed to anger one person; or at least that’s all we know about. Last week I mentioned the woman who had a go at us for being sexist. This was because when the sound technician bounded onto the stage in order to change a cable mid-gig, I joked that she could have waited until I’d got off stage after the gig if she wanted to ask me on a date. A lady then approached us after the gig and accused us of being sexist and making chauvinistic comments towards the sound technician, as well as telling us that we wouldn’t have said that if it was a male sound technician. We tried to point out to her that we may well have said the same thing if it was a man, which is true, but this line of defence seemed to anger her more. Apologising for any offence caused ddidn’t really placate her either.

The complaining woman was obviously so incensed by this comment towards the sound technician that she’s made a complaint to the festival, meaning that we received an email from the festival organiser informing us that a complaint has been made against us on the grounds of us being sexist. I’m not sure how seriously the complaint will be taken, and hopefully it will be dismissed pretty swiftly, baring in mind that the rest of the audience were laughing and were very effusive in their applause at the end of the gig, as well as being very complimentary to us when we met many of them afterwards.

Surely one woman’s complaint can’t jeopardise our future festival attendance, baring in mind the tremendously positive reaction we received across the board? It’s one woman for goodness sake. I’m assuming that the festival adopts a points system for feedback, whereby men’s comments are worth double points to that of women’s, which is clearly just basic common sense. I am not being sexist here, for I am in no way sexist; I am just being logical, and there is a fundamental difference. If the festival is using this logical points system, then one woman’s voice is worth practically nothing.

If the festival does decide to ban us from appearing in subsequent years on the grounds that we are sexist, then they should also ban their audience, given that they all seemed to laugh loudly after I made the sexist comment. In fact, they should also fire the stage manager, and all the staff who were working during our gig, because they all said how much they’d enjoyed the show, the bunch of sexists. If you’re one of the festival organisers reading this, you might be thinking, “ah, but David, the stage manager is a woman, so we can’t fire her on the grounds that she was complicit in supporting your sexism, when she’s a woman.” But you have clearly fallen into the trap of being sexist yourselves. If you only fire men on the grounds of sexism towards women, whilst refusing to fire ladies who support sexism against their own gender, then you yourselves are being sexist. In fact, why don’t you fire yourselves while you’re at it? You sexist pigs!

I feel as if I have so much more I could write about. I was running through today’s Dollop in my head on the plane and I had some really good ideas, but that was before the deep-brain thrombosis set in and addled my mind. I’m writing this in the car on the very last leg of what’s going to amount to a 30 hour journey. Now let’s just hope I don’t get back home and discover that the WIFI is down. It would be ridiculous if I’ve managed to keep this challenge going in spite of the fact that I’ve been in Australia for three weeks, only to then discover that I can’t get on the Internet in my own house to release the 90th Dollop.

David’s Daily Digital Dollop is available as an audio podcast. You can subscribe with Itunes here
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Download the audio version of today’s Dollop here

I’m writing today’s Dollop in the eating area of the hotel. Our flight isn’t until 9pm, and although we had to check out of our rooms by 10am, they have allowed me to stay in this area until we need to leave. I’m not sure whether that invitation will still stand once I start reading out the audio version of the Dollop. There are people eating around me, and so I’m going to have to make sure that this Dollop is completely family friendly, as I don’t want to be turfed out onto the streets by the hotel staff for putting all their customers off eating because I’m audibly discussing vegan porn stars or pissing dog-ladies. Oops. OK, from now on I’ll keep it family friendly. I’m going to have to read those words out now. There is a devilish part of me that wants to write something really inappropriate, knowing that I’ll then be forced to read it out loud, but I must control the demon inside me. Wanker. No, stop it! Arsehole. No, don’t make me say these things, there are people eating! Shit, cock. No, demon, begone! I am an idiot. I am going to have to read that out now. I could delete it and start this Dollop again, but if I do that then I might get halfway through, only for my laptop battery to run out, thus making me fail the challenge.

The song currently playing in the hotel seems to entirely consist of a man singing, “you’ve got to take your medicine, we’ve got to take our medicine, I’ve got to take my medicine,” repeated over and over again, with the occasional “yeah yeah yeah.” I wonder how songs such as this ever get made.

“So, thanks for popping into the radio station and talking with me today. Now, I’ve got to ask you this. Your song about the medicine. How do you possibly come up with such powerful lyrics?”

“Well, there’s quite a story attached to that song. I was visiting my father in hospital and a nurse came to him and said, “you’ve got to take your medicine, Bob.” Bob is my father’s name you see, hence why she said Bob. Anyway, I turned to the nurse and I said, “what did you just say?” and she said, “I said, you’ve got to take your medicine Bob.” At which point I sprang to my feet and embraced the nurse, thanking her for providing me with the inspiration for my next sure-fire hit. I then immediately wrote it down. “You’ve got to take your medicine Bob,” I wrote. I excitedly passed the piece of paper to the nurse, and watched her as she read those words: “you’ve got to take your medicine Bob.” She didn’t seem as moved or as interested as I was expecting, but I guess she’d had a long shift and was just feeling really tired. She passed the paper back to me and walked off, seeming nonplussed, baring what had just happened.

Unfortunately, all of this had completely distracted the nurse from her originally intended reason for coming to us in the first place, which of course was to give my dad his medicine. Sadly this resulted in him dying later that day. However, before he slipped away we had an emotional moment where I sang him the first draft of my song. “You’ve got to take your medicine Bob, you’ve got to take your medicine bob, you’ve got to take your medicine Bob.” The nurse overheard my song and came sprinting towards my dad’s bed. “Shit,” she said, “I forgot to give him his medicine.” But it was too late, for in that moment he died.

Two really amazing things happened as a result of that incident. I was able to sou the nurse for negligence, and my dad left me a small fortune in his will. I was able to use the money from the nurse and my dad in order to buy a recording studio in which I recorded my sure-fire hit all about my dad needing to take his medicine. Looking back on that moment, it’s as if it was meant to be, you know? As if fate had predestined that event to happen.

Obviously, being a professional songwriter, I knew that the song needed to involve more than just “you’ve got to take your medicine Bob.” It took days of painstaking work to get the song perfect, in fact, I had to miss my dad’s funeral because I was just too busy writing. The first thing I thought was, “we need to lose the Bob, because it’s not scanning properly.” I then thought that just singing “you’ve got to take your medicine” over and over again was a bit bland. I was at a complete loss over what to do. These things take time and concentration to make happen. But then, I had a dream, and it came to me: “you’ve got to take your medicine, we’ve got to take our medicine, I’ve got to take my medicine.” I woke up in a cold sweat. I needed to write it down before I forgot it. I jumped out of bed and searched feverishly for a pen, all the while singing, “you’ve got to take your medicine, we’ve got to take our medicine, I’ve got to take my medicine” over and over again, fearing that I might forget this moment of divine inspiration. Eventually I found a pen and wrote it down. But I felt there was still something missing. But what? The song was almost there, so nearly perfect. But there was something.

It took another couple of weeks for inspiration to reach me. Again, it came in the form of a dream. “you’ve got to take your medicine, we’ve got to take our medicine, I’ve got to take my medicine, yeah yeah yeah.” Again, I woke up in a cold sweat, my heart racing. I jumped out of bed. Where was the damn pen. Eventually I found it, and added the final bit to the song: “yeah yeah yeah” I wrote, my hands shaking with excitement. I read it through, over and over again. It was perfect. I immediately went into my recording studio and laid down a vocal track. I listened to it back on loop, over and over again, sobbing, just so overcome with emotion. And that, my friends, is the story of that song that we all know and love today, and I want to dedicate it to my dad, who’s death made the song possible. His death brought that song to life, and in many ways, my dad lives on through that song.”

The song seems to literally just consist of a man singing those same words over and over again. Then again, I’ve kind of done a similar thing with today’s Dollop, essentially stretching out the same single point for over a thousand words, except I haven’t made any money from it. On the other hand, at least I haven’t killed anyone or got them the sack by writing this Dollop, unless the hotel receptionist who let me stay, is fired because I’ve scared away all of their potential diners by talking to myself, and calling myself a wanker and an arsehole. Oops.

This is my final Dollop from Australia, not that I’ve really mentioned anything about Australia in this Dollop. Tomorrow I shall be back home. As an extra special treat for putting up with my ramblings from Australia, I’ll head straight to Sainsbury’s as soon as I get home and have a conversation with the shop assistant. That’s what you want from these Dollops, isn’t it?

David’s Daily Digital Dollop is available as an audio podcast. You can subscribe with Itunes here
or view the RSS feed here