Download today’s Dollop in audio form here

I was in Sheffield city centre this weekend. There were delays on the trams due to some rioting football fans, or probably more aptly, rioting rioting fans, since the football was probably just a superfluous precursor to the main event.

The reason for the fights soon became clear. Sheffield Wednesday were playing Leeds United, and naturally there is a huge tribal divide that exists between these two places, after all, the two cultures are so vastly different, which probably has something to do with the fact that the two cities are so far apart from each other. It’s inevitable that there will be culture clashes. Sheffield and Leeds are about thirty miles apart for god’s sake.

Their two worlds are just so different. Sheffield, Steel; Leeds, wool. Little wonder that these two disparate tribes clashed on Saturday. They just can’t comprehend each other’s crazily different worlds, and ignorance and fear have naturally led to hostility. Leeds, with its four universities, compared to Sheffield with a poultry two. These proud Sheffield men have never really recovered from this unjust imbalance. It was only a matter of time before war broke out. Then to add insult to injury, the Global and World Cities Research Network ranked Leeds as a Gammer World City, and the men of Sheffield were livid. They declared war on Leeds immediately, and also sent a sniffy letter to the Global and World Cities Network in which they told them where they could stick their Gammer World Cities ranking decision, and also pointed out the needless tautological nature of their name – surely global and world both mean the same thing? “I know we only have two universities,” they sarcastically wrote, “but that doesn’t mean we don’t have the education to realise a tautologically named organisation when we see one.” That would show them.

But it would take more than a strongly worded grammatically nitpicky letter to avenge the people of Leeds. The tribesmen of Sheffield donned their steel toe cap boots, and the tribesmen of Leeds responded by putting on their thickest woolly jumpers, as they prepared to do battle.

So, this Saturday, after the football match, the real action kicked off. It started with a man from Sheffield singing a self-composed song into a megaphone, all about the fact that Sheffield has the highest ratio of trees to people than any other European city. This has always been a sore point for the proud tribesmen of Leeds, who instantly became riled by the song. One of the men from the Leeds tribe punched the singing tree man in the face, and wrestled the megaphone from his grasp. He then began to sing his own self-composed song all about how Leeds was the second largest legal city in the UK, after London. Well, the proud tribesmen of Sheffield weren’t having this. A group of them charged towards the megaphone barer and began to kick him with their steel toe cap boots. The Leeds tribesman dropped the megaphone, but not before he’d shouted that he would sue his attackers, because being from Leeds he knew hundreds of lawyers.

By this point the fight had well and truly started. Ben and I were trying to get home, but stupid Ben was foolishly wearing a hat made from wool, which caused a group of Sheffield tribesmen to charge towards us, assuming us to be Leeds tribesmen. Neither me or Ben come from Sheffield or Leeds, but the hat had incurred the Sheffielders’ wrath. A man ripped it from Ben’s head, and urinated in it while singing an anti-wool song that had been passed down to him by his granddad, one of the proudest Sheffield tribesmen that ever lived.

We were now surrounded by Sheffield tribesmen, and I knew that we were for it. But then I had an idea. I produced my cane out of my bag, and frantically pointed to the steel tip on the end of it whilst shouting “steel, steel, steel!” Fortunately, this seemed to convince them that I was not a Leeds tribesman and I was safe, but Ben had been the wearer of the hat, and Ben did not have anything steel on him to appease the aggressions of these fervent Sheffielders. Fortunately, inspiration struck Ben, and just in the nick of time. He was just about to be kicked in the face by a Sheffielder’s steel toe cap boot, but assuaged his assailant by singing the chorus to I Bet That You Look Good On The Dance Floor by Sheffield band the Arctic Monkeys. Instantly, the Sheffielders joined in, and Ben and I had no choice but to wave our hands in the air chanting the lyrics loudly and out of tune along with everyone else. Through cunning we had managed to escape our violent fate at the hands of the notoriously ruthless and fervent Sheffield tribesmen, but we were not out of the woods yet (which is not a pun on the amount of trees that Sheffield boasts. This is a serious story. Our lives are in danger, and now is not the time for flippant wordplay.).

A group of Leeds tribesmen had heard our Arctic Monkeys chant and were foaming at the mouths, ready for a fight. It was clear to both of us that when the fight broke out, we would be very much a prime target. We were at the centre of the Sheffielders’, having been the people who had started the song, and to add further insult to injury we were stood right next to a urine soaked woolly hat, which was bound to draw attention to us and incur the Leeds tribesmen’s wrath. To make matters even worse, I had been holding my cane, and had been waving it in the air, steel tip proudly and clearly on display while I shouted “steel steel steel” and then sang the Arctic Monkeys. How would we get out of this?

As if struck by divine inspiration, Ben and I both simultaneously had the exact same idea for escape. As the Leeds tribesmen rounded on us, we each took off a woollen sock and waved it in the air, and began to belt out the chorus to Everyday I Love You Less And Less by Leeds band the Kaiser Chiefs. The two tribes were stunned into momentary confusion. Just who’s side were we on?

While the two tribes tried to process this information, we made a run for it; well actually, a hop for it, because we’d both taken off a shoe in order to wave our socks in the air. Perhaps a more apt Kaiser Chiefs song would have been I Predict A Riot, for a mere two seconds later a full scale brawl broke out. But we had successfully fled for safety, and were now making our way home in order to write a parody of George Formby’s When I’m Cleaning Windows.

Well, OK, I admit, not all of that was entirely true.

Back tomorrow friends. Another day, another Dollop.

Download the audio version of this Dollop here

Getting yesterday’s Dollop out was a little mayhemic. I conceived the idea for the George Formby When I’m Cleaning Windows parody upon waking up late morning. I then had to go out for a couple of hours. Upon returning, I started writing the song at 230, and had it finished at 430. I had a bus to catch at 6pm to get me to Sean’s house where I was going for a homemmade curry, which was very nice indeed, incidentally. I would recommend being friends with Sean purely on the basis of the curry alone. I think it’s certainly worth the effort, , in spite of everything else that you have to put up with.

So time was of the essence, and writing the song was only the first stage. I still had to record it and upload it, and I had just over an hour. But it wasn’t quite as simple as just sitting at a microphone and hitting record. Not having a ukulele to hand, and not knowing how to play the instrument even if there was one in the vicinity, I searched Youtube for the instrumental of the song. It was at this moment that I realised that, if I couldn’t find an instrumental version then I would have to try and formulate a plan B. As I launched the YouTube app on my phone, I racked my brain for alternative sulutions if an instrumental could not be found. There wasn’t enough time to write an entire blog post on a completely different subject; that would be ludicrous. I could get my housemate Ben to play it on the guitar; he could probably busk the chords. Or I could load a ukulele sample and play the part on the keyboard. All this would add extra time to proceedings, and time was something that I didn’t really have.

Fortunately I found a Ukulele instrumental of the song on Youtube, courtesy of someone called John Worsfold. The recording quality seemed decent enough, although you can hear him humming along at times, but I didn’t have time to prevaricate, and in such scenarios it’s very much a case of bloggers can’t be choosers, so I recorded the audio straight from Youtube into a new multitrack audio project on my computer.

So now the instrumental track was down, I had about fifty minutes to record, edit and then upload the thing, before sprinting for the 6 O’clock bus. However, it wasn’t quite that simple. When I’d written the song, I’d not followed the actual song structure, I’d just written verses and middle sections as they came to me, therefore the chords didn’t always fit with what I’d written. Consequently, I had to move parts of the ukulele instrumental around. I’ve been using ProTools on the mac for the last 18 months, and it’s only very recently that I’ve come back to Windows and started using reaper, the point essentially being that I wasn’t massively familiar with how to quickly cut bits out of the audio and move them around, whilst getting the audio to align itself with what I was doing. It took much longer than the time I had to get it all aligned properly. This now only left me with twenty minutes to record the vocal, edit and upload.

As listeners to the podcast version of these dollops will know, I record inside a clothes cupboard, as it is acoustically better than recording in an open space. The cupboard is full of clothes, and there is also some bed sheets which hang down behind the cupboard. My room is only small, and the bed is only a a few centre metres away from the cupboard, making entering it quite difficult. The difficulty is further compounded by the fact that there are wires all over the place. This means that I have to get into the cupboard in the correct way, or risk becoming strangled by wires. I am also wearing headphones, so it’s very easy for the headphone wires to get caught around any of the other wires. I can’t afford to let this happen because I’m in a precarious enough position as it is, given that I’m trying to carefully get into the cupboard while carrying my laptop computer and electronic Braille display which is connected by a USB wire. There is a chair just inside the tiny clothes cupboard.

You can’t really walk into the cupboard, because the space is so small; there is a chair, and then a microphone stand with a microphone straight in front of it, with just enough room between to sit. So I have to sort of swing myself into the cupboard and on to the chair, while still holding onto the laptop and USB connected Braille display whilst being careful not to choke myself or hang myself on the many protruding wires.

There isn’t enough room to have the audio computer’s keyboard in the cupboard with me, so if I make a mistake and need to go back and record again, I have to lean right out of the cupboard, and hang off the chair, lying on my front in order to access the keyboard which is outside the cupboard on my bed. This gives the recording process an extra level of jeopardy, as if I make a mistake, I’m going to have to flip onto my front and hang from the chair as I stretch out of the cupboard, then start over again.

Given that I’d only just hastily written this song and I’d never read it before, this rigmarole happened quite a lot. Eventually I got two decent takes, which was a pretty good achievement baring in mind I was rather dizzy during much of the recording, given that I’d been frequently flipping onto my front and hanging off a chair, which arguably doesn’t provide the best mindset for a performance.

By now it was 545. I had about ten minutes to edit the two takes together,, upload it to the server, publish the blog and update the Rss feed for Itunes and the other podcast providers. I knew that this was an impossible task. Even someone as gifted as me couldn’t pull this off. I’d have to quickly edit the file, then save it to a hard drive, bundle my laptop into a bag and do the uploading and publishing on the bus, relying on tethering my laptop to my phone’s Internet connection.

Again, not being familiar with this new audio programme, I found the process of cutting and pasting between the two decent takes very awkward and cumbersome. I’d got 50 % of the song right in each of the two takes, and fortunately they combined to make a fairly well delivered complete take. But as soon as I pasted one bit of audio from one take on top of the incorrect take, the two takes would blend together rather than the new audio replacing the old audio.

It was at this moment that Ben came into my room, all ready to go out. It was time to leave for the bus. If I set off now then I would have failed the challenge, and my 365 consecutive daily Dollops project would have ended after just sixteen days. The doubters would take off their boots and put on their dancing shoes. I told Ben that he could get the bus if he liked, but that I had to finish this. I would get a taxi to Sean’s as soon as I’d finished. Fortunately I am blessed with very understanding friends, and rather than being angry that I’d held up his and everyone else’s plans, checked the time table for the next bus which was leaving in forty-five minutes.

I had been thrown a lifeline. I did feel quite guilty though. I hadn’t actually shouted at Ben, but I was shouting at the computer, and so when I told him that I wasn’t going to get on the bus I probably did sound quite angry. Would this challenge result in the dismantling of all my friendships? But I didn’t have time to ponder such points.

I think my brain had sort of seized up under the pressure of trying to edit in zero minutes. Fortunately, this new grace period seemed to calm my nerves and I remembered how to get the computer to do what I wanted it to do, well sort of. I managed to crudely splice the two takes together. It wasn’t the perfect take and the edits weren’t particularly slick, but at least I’d made a complete take.

I then had to record a very quick spoken introduction to the song. I didn’t even get in the cupboard as there wasn’t time to take on that precarious task, so I just leaned into the cupboard and delivered the introduction as close to the mic as I could get from outside the cupboard. I then rendered the audio to MP3, put it on a USB hard drive, threw my laptop into a bag and joined a harassed housemate at the door ready to run for the bus.

We just made the bus, and I spent the journey writing up the introduction for the blog post and published it to the website. But I couldn’t get FTP working over my mobile internet connection in order to upload the file. I would have to wait until we got to Sean’s house before I could do that bit. I’d already kept everyone waiting an hour, and now I was going to have to be anti-social for the first ten minutes of the evening as I tried to upload the audio to the server. And what if it didn’t work? Surely then I’d have to just give up? I couldn’t get a taxi home so that I could upload it? This project realy had the potential to test my friendships to their limit.

Then I realised I hadn’t even had a chance to listen to the song in its entirety. I’d just cobbled a load of edits together and just had to assume that it had worked, having not had time to check. I nervously listened to the file on the bus, and fortunately it had worked. The clumsy edits weren’t too bad, all things considered.

When we arrived at Sean’s I apologised for our lateness and then for my anti-social behaviour as I used Sean’s WIFI to upload the audio and code the RSS feed to get the podcast updated for Itunes. And then I had lots of beer and delicious homemade curry in the company of friends who’d been kind enough to support and tolerate my ridiculous analness. And that, along with the ability to make great curry and provide beer, are the qualities I most value in a friend; especially the curry and beer.

I Hope this Dollop wasn’t too geeky
for you. I thought it might be interesting to give you a glimpse into what happens as a result of taking on such a challenge, but now I’ve written all these words I am not so sure it will be particularly interesting for you to read. I think that this might be my longest Dollop yet, but it’s certainly not the best. But that is kind of the beauty of doing these daily digital Dollops. There is no knowing what each day will bring. One day it will be a George Formby parody, and the next it will be a lengthy geeky ramble.

If you missed the George Formby parody then you can download it here.

Back tomorrow, hopefully whilst managing to still keep all my friends. Thanks for reading. You made it to the end, and that means I officially love you.

Today’s Dollop is not a blog post, but a parody of the George Formby song When I’m Cleaning Windows. This was inspired by the fact that there was some skiffle music playing in the pub we were in last night. The song was only written a couple of hours ago. I was going out in an hour, so had to quickly record and edit it together, but I think it still sort of works. I am writing this introduction on the bus on the way to the house of The Young’uns’ very own Sean Cooney for a curry. I have also uploaded the audio while on the bus. This is the madness of doing this daily. I am an hour late for an evening with friends and I’m writing and uploading things on a bus. Hopefully the effort will be worth it, as it would be a shame to lose all my friends for the sake of producing shit. Anyway, hopefully you’ll enjoy this,

Download it here

I’ll be back tomorrow.

Download today’s dollop in audio form here

I’m now into my third week. A 26th of the way into this project. The doubters are starting to quake in their boots. These are figurative boots incidentally, just In case you are a doubter who happens to be wearing boots and are now getting a bit freaked out that I have somehow got information on you. Nice dress by the way; unusual choice given the boots, but you manage to pull it off remarkably well.

My real-life kettle nightmare (as discussed in yesterday’s blog post) seems to have brought about a literal nightmare, and one which is far more dramatic and dark.

My dream began with a man sitting in a futuristic style house, where all the domestic appliances were controlled by computer, phone and tablet. He was sitting at the kitchen table waiting for the kettle to boil, when his TV switched itself on. The man was confused, as he hadn’t given the instruction for that to happen. Then the words, “you’re going to die”flashed up on the screen. The words were also proclaimed over his speakers.

At this point the kettle began to levitate and fly towards the man. Quickly, the man leapt up from the table and began to run, while the kettle pursued him. Now and again the kettle would get close enough to tip some of its boiling water on to him, but not close enough for the whole contents to scald him. He fled in the direction of the nearest door, but it wouldn’t open. He frantically repeatedly pressed the button on his phone that usually opened the door, but the words “you’re going to die”just kept flashing up at him.

The kettle had now gained on him, and began to tip boiling water over his head. He shrieked in pain, and ran in the opposite direction. The kettle did not follow. It had ran out of water and needed to be filled back up. Sadly for our friend from the future, kettle technology had moved on a lot from our day, and so the kettle was able to fill itself back up from the tap. He made it to the door at the opposite side of the room, leading to his office. He heard the kettle begin boiling again. It would be only a matter of seconds before the assault recommenced. Desperately, he tried to open the door, but the app wasn’t having any of it. “You’re going to die, you’re going to die” kept flashing up on the screen every time he pressed the open icon on his phone.

Then he had an idea. It was crazy but it might just work. He remembered that there was a manual way of opening the door, that didn’t rely on electricity or the use of his phone. He racked his brain, trying to remember how to do it. He recalled seeing his granddad doing it once, but that was years ago. It was during a fancy dress party, when they all pretended to be from the 21st century and did funny things like eat real food that wasn’t in pill form, and watched 2D videos. His granddad, always a bit of a joker, decided to use the door the old-fashioned way, and how everyone laughed. How did people live back then?

Then the memory came to him. That’s right, all he needed to do was push the handle down and pull the handle towards him, and the door should, in theory, open. Could this crazy system really work? He had no choice but to try, and quickly, as the kettle was getting up to full boil again. He pressed down on the handle. It was stiff but it capitulated under the force from his hand, then, with mounting trepidation, he pulled the door towards him, and it opened.

He stepped into his office. He assumed that shutting the door must work the same way as opening it. He gave it a go and it worked. But there was no time to bask in his glory, for the kettle had clearly boiled and was now coming for him again. He couldn’t override the electrics. He wasn’t in that part of the house, and there was no point trying to do it via the app. He’d have to keep going through the house, door by door, opening and closing them manually, and hope that he could eventually reach the front door, and escape his demented domestic assault.

The dream continued in this manner for quite awhile, with other appliances joining in. At one point there was a noise from a printer which started spitting bits of paper out. There was so much paper that he became hemmed into the corner where he was hiding from the rogue kettle. The pieces of paper all said “you’re going to die.” He began to go crazy, and started shouting “fax machine, please don’t do this! Fax machine! Turn off, turn off!” I think my brain started losing the plot a bit at this point, as I doubt that the fax machine would have made a triumphant return in this futuristic age, but perhaps I am wrong, maybe the fax machine is the one single piece of technology that our distant future descendants hold in high regard, much higher than we ever did in this age.

Perhaps this is a warning in dream form, a vision of the future. Maybe the app kettle is just the start of a slippery slope, and at the bottom of that slope waits billions of evil domestic appliances who have conquered the world and have set their former human owners to work for them as slaves! Or maybe it was just a dream.

Download the audio Dollop here

Yesterday was a great day for equality. A member of the Church Of The flying spaghetti Monster won a battle to be allowed to appear in his driving licence photo wearing a colander on his head. He claims that the colander is part of his religious dress and that denying him this right would be discrimination. Fortunately the powers that be saw sense and, after a bout of indecision, acquiesced. I did think about trying to conduct another interview with a member of the Church Of The flying Spaghetti Monster, but thought that two blog posts in a fortnight containing loads of pasta puns might test your tolerance levels a bit too much.

Last night I listened to some music on Tidal (which is a service similar to Spotify but with better audio quality, and it also pays double the money to artists).

I noticed how many versions there were of Ultravox’s Vienna. I don’t mean cover versions, but remastered versions of the exact same song. There was the original 1980 master, then a 2003 remaster, a 2008 remaster, and a 2009 remaster. I can understand why they might have wanted to remaster the original 1980 recording, after all, it was twenty-three years ago, and technology has moved on quite a bit since then. But surely technology hadn’t moved on so much to warrant yet another remaster five years later? And then another remaster a mere year in the future? Surely that’s just a step too far.

The good news is that Ultravox seem finally contented with the 2009 remaster, as there doesn’t seem to have been any more remasters since then, although surely it’s only a matter of time; the 2009 remaster is starting to sound a bit dated now.

When I say remaster, I don’t mean that these songs have been rerecorded. All that has happened is that a producer has fiddled around with the levels a bit, altered a few compression and equalisation settings, and maybe adjusted the stereo placement of some of the instruments.

“ah, yes, I notice that the tambourine is up half a decibel in the 2009 remaster; about time it got that extra level of prominence that it clearly deserves. The 2008 version took it down 2 decibels, which was, quite frankly, a travesty, but I’m glad they’ve seen sense finally.”

In other news, we have a new kettle. Normally I wouldn’t bother to tell you about the purchase of fairly standard domestic appliances, but this kettle is a special kettle. It is a kettle that you can control by your phone, tablet or Apple Watch. The app has a bland uninspiring name, so much so that I can’t actually remember it; however, I think they missed a trick by not calling the App Poly. It should also be voice activated, and when you want to use the kettle, you merely have to say, “poly, put the kettle on” and the app will oblige. I also had an idea for the Apple Watch version of the app. When the app loads up, it should show the words, “an Apple Watched kettle always boils.” Sadly this wouldn’t work for the phone or tablet versions. However, if the phone and tablet apps are anything to go by then that particular statement would be incorrect anyway, as in actuality, the kettle only seems to boil after the thirtieth attempt, by which point you might as well have just crossed the room and turned the bloody thing on. I think that this is a case of technology going one step too far, adding a needless level of complexity to the most straightforward of tasks.

My two housemates Ben and Elsa have spent about a day trying to work the thing. Firstly, you need to make sure that there is actually water in the kettle. This means that you have to remember to fill the kettle back up as soon as you’ve made your tea, otherwise you won’t be able to use the kettle app because we haven’t yet reached the technological age that means the kettle can turn on the tap and fill itself. I would argue that this, rather than simplifying the tea making process, complicates it, because you have to train yourself to remember to fill the kettle back up after you’ve made the tea, and who is honestly going to remember to do that? You know for a fact that you’re going to forget, so the next time you want tea you’ll need to go into the kitchen and fill the kettle up before you can use the app, which would be stupid because you’re literally standing at the kettle, so why not just press the button on the actual kettle?

Of course, you could, I suppose, fill the kettle to the brim so that you maximise the number of boils you can get before you need to fill it back up again. But this adds a whole new range of problems. Firstly, this is far from environmentally friendly, nor is it particularly energy efficient. This kettle has the potential to double your electricity bills, not to mention the extra power being used to keep the kettle’s in-built wifi receiver running 24 hours a day. I mean, you could turn the kettle’s wifi connectivity off, but then you’d have to keep going back to the kettle every time you wanted to use the app just so you could turn wifi back on, which again, would defeat the whole purpose of having an app, because you’re right by the kettle.

Also, having the kettle filled to the very top would mean that it would take much longer to boil than it ordinarily would. It would be a massive waste of time and energy, especially if you were just making one cup of tea. You’d have to boil an entire kettle’s worth of water.

So far, we have been able to boil the kettle from the dining room, which is about ten metres away from the kitchen where the kettle is housed. We did try boiling it from my bedroom, but we got an error message telling us that the kettle was not in range. Surely that’s the whole point: if the kettle was in range then I’d press the bloody button on the kettle and boil it the old fashioned way. But this is 2016, and apparently that way just isn’t cutting it any more.

Eventually, we got it working again. The app advised us to go to the base of the kettle and reset the wifi receiver. We were then able to go back up the stairs and boil the kettle from my bedroom. But then we had to go down the stairs again to make the tea. This is the most ludicrous and pointless invention. It’s only a matter of time before it breaks again.

I don’t think I’ll be using the app part of the kettle. I am happy with the traditional way of operating kettles, plus, with all the stress that using the app causes, I have the feeling that if I used it, the only thing that’s going to be steaming is me, because the kettle certainly won’t be.

Download the audio version of today’s Dollop here

Yesterday’s stats indicated that another person clicked the link taking them to the erotic fiction novel mentioned in Sunday’s blog, bringing the total up to two people. Here’s the link again in case you missed it. Please click on it, because I’ve concocted a cunning plan whereby I boost the writer Sarah Morgan’s sales so much that she gets in touch to thank me in person. Let’s just say, if her books are anything to go by, she’ll know exactly what to do to make it worth my while. Yes, I am thirteen days into this consecutive blog posts exercise and I’ve reached the stage where I ask my readers to help me have sex. But, in fairness, I’m giving these blogs away for free, so it’s the least you can do really.

Last night I had a dream in which I was having an argument with an Ex-girlfriend. I can’t remember what we were arguing about, but I do know that I was definitely right and she was most certainly wrong. The argument was getting quite heated and seemed to have been going on for some time. Eventually our verbal exchange reached its peak and I think we might have been about to reach the angry make-up sex stage. Of course, this coincided with my alarm going off. I think my ex new what she was doing? The make-up sex idea was definitely engineered by her. In the dream I thought that she was being reconciliatory, but now I think about it in the light of day, I’m convinced that she knew exactly what she was doing, timing her amorousness deliberately to coincide with my alarm going off, giving her the last laugh, and hammering the final nail in the coffin. But you’d have to ask her that if you really wanted to know, although, trust me, she’d deny any of it ever happened and say that it was my own mind just making it up. But again, that’s just the kind of thing she would say, and sneaking into her ex-boyfriend’s dream to taunt him is precisely the kind of thing she’d do. I am not paranoid, I am not, who said that? Shut up, I am not paranoid!

However, the dream did give me a topic for this blog. I started thinking about how being blind influences the way I behave when it comes to potential areas of conflict, such as an argument.

Being blind can make it difficult to be charismatic or authoritative. If you can’t see then it seriously can impair your ability to make a dramatic exit. Let’s use the example of a heated argument between a blind man and his partner.

“You’ve gotten away with this for too long. Well let me tell you, I don’t need you any more, I’m out of here!” The blind man declares, his head held high in triumph. In truth, he was rather pleased with his passionate soliloquy. He’d made his point very well, very forcefully. Now all he had to do was storm out of the room. That’s what was needed now, a dramatic exit. So, with his head still held high, he walked in the direction of where the door was. Except, it wasn’t. He crashed into the wall, bruising his chin. Maybe holding his head up high wasn’t helping matters. He needed to focus his vision down, closer to the ground, because his eyes couldn’t focus properly at this height and angle. It was a shame to loose the head-held-high posture. He was pretty sure that it helped add extra indignation and charisma to the exit, but he was also aware that he was in serious danger of losing both of those things completely if he crashed into any more walls.

He needed to find the door, maybe make one final declaration. He’d quite liked “I don’t need you any more, I’m out of here!” He thought that that had worked quite effectively. That would tell her. That would ring in her ears. He could just imagine her now, sobbing on the phone to her friends, reciting that line to them, barely able to say the words through her tears. And it would serve her right.

But … The door. He must find the door. They put it here somewhere. He could see a jet of light in the corner of his left eye, coming from across the other side of the room. That must be where the door is, he surmised. The glass panels in the door must be amplifying the light. All he needed to do was walk towards the light.

“Shit!” he screamed. His nose was burning. The light was a candle. He brushed the hot wax off his nose. Ideally he’d take some cold water to the burn, but there wasn’t time for that. He realised he was really starting to lose face here. He must find the door.

Then he heard his girlfriend sigh wearily. She stood up, took his arm and gently escorted him to the door. Well, that didn’t go as well as he’d imagined it in his head, but still, he was at the door now. All he needed to do was cry his ardent farewell, and give the door a good slam behind him. Then he’d be out of the house and out of her life. And that would show her.

He was at the door now. He unlinked his arm from hers, turned to face her and yelled, “yes, as I said, I don’t need you any more, I’m out of here!” Yes, of course he was aware of the irony. But now that she’d guided him to the door, he didn’t need her any more. He grappled for the handle. Where was the sodding thing? After a few seconds of fumbling, his girlfriend gave another weary sigh, and opened the door for him. Again, he became acutely aware of the increasing irony. Maybe he should shout that he didn’t need her any more again. After all, now she’d taken him to the door and opened it for him, he didn’t need her any more.

“Yes, so, as I said, I don’t need you any more, I’m out of here!”

Hmm, the words didn’t sound quite as poweful and as sincere that time, he thought. Still, he could reclaim the moment by giving the door a good slam behind him. He stepped out of the house, and reached for the handle to give it one, big, dramatic final slam. But, again, the handle completely aluded him. Where the heck was it? He fumbled for awhile. He was losing the moment again. Then he found it. Aha! He grabbed the handle forcefully. He wanted to get a good angle on it to make the slam louder and more intense. But then he realised that the door was already shut. His girlfriend must have shut it gently behind him. Damn her. Well he’d show her. He’d have to open the door, then slam it closed. Not as powerful an exit as he’d have liked, but better than nothing. Perhaps he should shout “I don’t need you anymore, I’m out of here!” again, but maybe three times would be overkill.

He took hold of the handle, pulled the door back open, and then slammed it shut again. In fairness, it was a pretty forceful slam. He was quite proud of it. It was a shame that it was severely tempered by the debacle that had preceeded it, but at least he got the slam in. Now he just had to walk away.

Except … Oh no. He’d forgotten his cane. With all the drama he’d completely forgotten to get his cane. He couldn’t go anywhere without his cane. There was nothing for it but to open the door and get it back. He’d have to ask her for it. He opened the door again, and diffidently cleared his throat.

“I need my cane.”

She sighed that weary sigh again, and got to her feet. She handed him the cane.

“But I don’t need you anymore, I’m out of here!”

But he knew it was useless. He’d lost the moment completely. This wasn’t the charasmatic, noble exit that he’d imagined. He knew he’d lost.

“OK, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I do need you, I do, I’m sorry, please take me back, I was wrong, I shouldn’t have said those things, of course you have a right to sleep with my best friend and my brother and I was stupid to be upset about it, please don’t leave me, I’m sorry, I need you, I need you!!!” he blurted. She gave one final weary sigh and He slumped back into the house.

Obviously, this is an exagerated scenario, but you get my point. It’s difficult to adopt a position of power and authority when you know that you’re going to have to ask them to help you storm out.

Anyway, I’ll end this blog post here, otherwise I’m in danger of burning my fish, which is not some kind of strange euphamism, I am just cooking some fish for our tea, and I need to go and take it from the oven. Perhaps I’ll talk more about my fish-based meal in tomorrow’s blog, who knows? That is the delights of doing a daily blog. Anything can happen. But I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until tomorrow to find out what? “Oh I hope ihe writes about his fish meal!” Well, you’ll just have to wait until tomorrow my friends.

Download the audio version of today’s Dollop here

Monday mornings tend to be congenitally grim, but yesterday was especially grim, as we heard the tragic news. We discovered that David Cameron was still alive, despite a news reader accidentally announcing that David Cameron had died. How quickly we were catapulted through the emotions: from joy to disbelief when her mistake was instantly corrected and we discovered that the dead person was actually David Bowie.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GpnYDRi2rVM

The reason for her confusion was seemingly down to her reading the line below the one she was meant to be reading, which was a statement from David Cameron about Bowie.

Obviously when you think of Bowie you naturally think of Cameron. I suppose the two are just invariably linked together. Bowie Cameron, Cameron Bowie – they have been synonymous with each other for as long as I can remember. So it seemed only natural and right that David Cameron should offer up a few words about Bowie.

“He was a master of re-invention, who kept getting it right” said David Cameron whilst wiping the tears away from his red roar eyes. Then he realised that he’d never actually heard a Bowie song in his entire life.

Suddenly he began to panic. He knew it was only a matter of minutes before he started getting phone calls from journalists asking him Bowie related questions.

He shuddered at the memory of the last time he’d tried to appear normal, as if he was just like those ordinary members of the public he loathed so much. He didn’t want a repeat of the West Ham/Aston Villa debacle. But he knew he had just opened a potential can of worms with this pro-Bowie proclamation.

In a panic, he grabbed the phone, intending to call one of his advisors to prime him with as many Bowie facts as they could. But Cameron was getting smarter and better at this sincerity game. He knew that it wouldn’t be enough to simply have his head stuffed full of facts; he needed to assimilate emotion too. How did Bowie’s music make people feel? What might a normal David Cameron in a parallel universe have felt when he listened to Bowie growing up? which this David Cameron in this universe certainly had never done.

Then he had a vague memory of something he’d heard from someone somewhere once. When he’d thought the word “universe” it had sparked it off. Oh yes, he was starting to remember. Didn’t David Bowie sing something about space? Yes, brilliant. He’d remember that for later, in case a journalist cornered him, catching him unaware. But he’d need more information than that.

He grabbed the receiver, ready to dial one of his advisors, but before his finger pressed “the first button he realised that there was someone on the line. Shit! He knew it would be a journalist. Someone who didn’t like him on the switchboard must have putt them straight through without warning him. He wrestled with names in his head, trying to figure out who on the switchboard might hate him, but that just made his head hurt. Too much information! Brain overload!

“Hello?” Cameron offered tentatively.

“What’s your favourite Bowie song Mr Prime Minister” came the voice.

His brain began to fizz, his heart beat faster and faster, his breath grew shallower. Desperately, he reached for his computer. If he could just stall for time while he found Bowie’s Wikipedia page.

“Sorry, it’s a bad line, what did you say?”

“What’s your favourite Bowie song Prime Minister?”

His hands were shaking so much that he accidentally started typing boobies instead of Bowie. Instantly his Internet history tabs began lighting up. He thought he’d deleted all that stuff. His wife had been furious when she’d discovered all the filthy things he’d been looking at, and no amount of telling her to “calm down dear” had helped placate her.

His hands began to shake even more. The voice on the phone was speaking again.

“Mr Cameron? I said, what’s your favourite Bowie song? One of the ones you used to listen to growing up maybe?”

His hands were shaking so much that he accidentally clicked on one of his Internet history links. It was that blog from that folk singer he accidentally stumbled across when he’d spent that entire day looking at Mongolian lesbian sex scenes. (if you didn’t read yesterday’s Dollop then that’ll mean nothing to you, but trust me, it does make sense and was extremely funny).

The voice came again, more insistent. His hands were shaking too much to type in the words he needed in order to reach the Wikipedia page. In a mad panic he shouted down the phone, “that one about space, the one about space, you know the one. I loved it. Still do. I was listening to it only yesterday actually. Love the chorus. Very catchy.”

Shit! Why did he always have to overcomplicate things by adding extra bits of information. Did that song about space even have a chorus? He had no idea. The person on the other end of the phone laughed derisively. Instantly, relief flooded his whole body. It was Rebekah Brooks. It was only Rebekah, deer Rebekah, and he and her were best of friends. There’d been that weird period in their friendship when she’d been hanging out with Tony Blair quite a lot too, but that was all in the past. He knew he was safe. He let out an audible sigh of relief.

“Good luck David,” she giggled, and hung up.

Phew, that could have been a disaster. His hands, now steady, found the Wikipedia page, he then logged into his Spotify account. He pressed play on the David Bowie page, called his people to get them to postpone the morning’s appointments and prepared to assimilate information. He might get away with this yet.

Rest in peace David Bowie. Ashes to Ashes, funk to funky,.

Oh and just for the record, the best David Bowie song is clearly the laughing Gnome. But that one about space is pretty good too, you’re quite right Mr Cameron.

I haven’t been online all day, and it was only during the recording of the podcast when my housemate Ben came into my room that I found out that David Bowie died today. So, while the story has been proliferated throughout social media and sunderstandably seems to be the major topic of conversation today, this blog post was written entirely ignorant of the news. And now here’s today’s Dollop.

Download the audio version of today’s dollop here

Hello to Chloe who commented on yesterday’s blog post saying: “David, might there be a gap in the market for erotic fiction recited in a northern accent?”

I think it’s clear what Chloe is driving at here. She was obviously turned on by me reading the erotic fiction extract at the start of yesterday’s podcast version of the blog, which incidentally you can subscribe to with Itunes here, or go here for the Rss feed where you can subscribe with other subscribing platforms. Before Chloe gets too excited, when I say you can subscribe, I am merely referring to the podcast version of this blog, not a podcast of me reading out erotic fiction. I think that Chloe is, in a roundabout way, essentially putting in her request for me to release some kind of audio erotica series, but she’s a bit timid about asking in such a brazen way so disguised her desire in a sentence that sounded nonchalant and a little tongue in cheek (which reminds me of one of the scenes from that erotic novel; I believe A Little Tongue In Cheek was actually one of the chapter titles).

I’m glad you enjoyed yesterday’s blog post Chloe, and I’m sorry I hadf to ruin it for you by curtailing the fantasy before it properly got going. She started losing interest when I got to the made-up conversation bit, but when I started talking about gelatinous rice, she began to get turned on again. We all have our needs Chloe; don’t be shy about admitting yours, even if it is that you get turned on by North East males talking about gelatinous rice. If I can find another nine like-minded people, then I’ll be happy to do half an hour erotic fiction podcasts once a month, for a monthly fee of £5, although, I’m not sure whether we’ll be able to find anyone else who finds similar potency in me reading erotic fiction that includes mentions of gelatinous rice; I think you might be on your own there. However, I am willing to produce a special bespoke podcast just for you, but that will cost you £50 a month. Let me know if either of these things interest you Chloe. I promise though Chloe that you won’t be disappointed. I already have the perfect character to satiate your unique brand of fantasy: Gelatinous Geordie, who shares your trait of being turned on by gloop, and obviously also speaks in a strong North East accent. I know you’re a bit shy about all this Chloe, so feel free to message me privately.

I am able to view various statistics for this website, including what pages people have viewed on my blog, but also what external links people click on. Only one person so far has clicked on the link I put in yesterday’s blog post linking to the erotic fiction novel I pilfered from. I think we all know who that was Chloe. It won’t be the same though without me reading it.

Also, I’ve noticed that everyday there is always at least one person who visits a particular blog that I wrote years ago. I can’t help feeling that nearly every single one of these people have been bitterly disappointed upon discovering what it is. The name of the blog post is Mongol Sex. It talks about the fact that a few years ago I noticed that one particular blog post was getting more visits than all the other pages on my site. The blog post was detailing why I have always been interested in radio, and tells the story of when I was seven-years-old, listening to an old shortwave radio late at night under the bed clothes.

The shortwave frequency boasted every type of radio station from every place on the earth. I remember tuning into a French radio station one night to hear the sound of two women groaning. At first (being about seven at the time) I assumed perhaps they were in pain, but as I listened longer I realised that they were very much enjoying themselves. I got my first sex education lesson about lesbianism at the ag of seven, thanks to French shortwave radio. I was also the only person in my class to be so fluent in French. Sadly, the teacher wasn’t impressed by me knowing the French for dildo. Still, you never know when such information might come in handy. In case you’re interested, it’s godemiché. So now you don’t need to google it Chloe, pretending that it’s merely innocent linguistic curiosity, because I’ve just told you what it is. So, if you want to google “French dildo” then that’s fine, but don’t try and pass it off as anything else other than your rampant sexual desire to see some French lesbian action Chloe. It’s perfectly acceptable Chloe; just be honest, and we’d respect you a lot more for it.

The slightest touch of the knob (by which I mean the radio knob, you dirty animals – Chloe, calm down) can tune you into a completely different station and into a completely different world. One moment you’re listening to an enraged American evangelist damning you to hell in a threatening deep gruff voice unless you send him money, then you touch the dial ever so slightly and you’re listening to a French radio drama with Lesbian sex scenes; then the sound of a Mongolian throat singer, belting out the popular Mongolian hits of the day.

So basically I wrote a blog about my formative radio experiences, and I ended up getting loads of hits for it, although when I did some digging into the stats, it soon became clear that people had come across my website because they had googled search terms such as: “mongol sex,” “Mongolian sex,” “Mongolian lesbians,” “Mongolian lesbian dildo deep throat,” all words that appeared in my blog post, only in a very different order and in a very different context to the one hoped for by the googlers.

I would imagine that you’d have to go quite a way into the search results before my blog post came up, but some people do find it by googling those words, which makes me wonder just how insatiable their appetite must be for this kind of thing. They must have already looked at tuns of porn sites, but still felt that they’d not seen quite enough Mongolian lesbian sex scenes yet, so just kept ploughing deeper and deeper through the internet. Feverishly, their hands shaking, they clicked onto my website, and instantly their hearts sank, as presumably did the bulge in their pants, when a photo of me popped up on the screen, and their eyes scanned the disappointing litany of words about some seven-year-old’s boring experience of shortwave radio.

“Oh well, at least I learnt the French for dildo, so it’s been a bit educational I suppose. And in fairness, I have wasted the entire day watching Mongolian lesbian sex scenes. And I’ve still got tomorrow’s sermon to write.”

Haha! See what I did. He’s a priest. My fictional character is a priest. Adding another unexpected layer of comedy. I’m unstoppable!

I wonder if anyone will find this blog post through googling, “mongol lesbian sex deep throat dildo priest.” Time will tell. I wonder if I have any regular readers of this blog who first stumbled across me when searching for porn, and got hooked. Apart from Chloe obviously, who’s never commented on any of my blog posts before, but suddenly comes out of the woodwork when I start writing erotic fiction. Coincidence? I think not.

So, what have we learnt today? That if you’re searching for porn on the internet, maybe stop by result 1000, or you might start stumbling across folk singer’s blogs. And I hope that Chloe has learnt that we all love you, and none of us are judging you, so don’t feel ashamed and embarrassed about being turned on by me talking about gelatinous rice.

Download the audio version of today’s dollop here

I slide my hand behind her head and bring my mouth down on hers in a hard, demanding kiss that stirs up a raw hunger. A kaleidoscope of emotions rip through me but the prime one is need. It spreads through me, not slowly, but like wildfire burning everything in sight. I feel the softness of her body pressing through the thin fabric of my shirt, the erotic slide of her tongue against mine, and desire escalates to a dangerous blaze. Her arms are flung around my neck and she purrs deep in her throat like a thoroughly contented kitten. Rock-hard, I feel her tug my shirt out of my trousers and slide her hands over my skin, clearly greedy to touch me. And I am equally greedy to touch her. My fingers now on her buttons, loosening them, giving me access to the smooth creamy skin revealed by the lace of her bra. My body craves hers. It is a visceral, physical need that drives all thought from my brain. But now … she stills, places her hands on my chest and draws her mouth away from mine. Sensing the change in her I stop myself from dragging her back.

“What’s wrong?”

“why are you describing everything we’re doing in great detail?”

“Damn, you noticed. I thought my passionate antics were so intense that you wouldn’t realise that I was commentating everything that was happening into a hidden digital recorder, so that I could transcribe it later for the blog. I knew that after all this love making, I was bound to be tired for most of the following day, so I figured that I could save myself some time by writing the blog there and then. But my cover has been blown.

“Well that’s the only thing that’s going to be blown tonight.”

“I think that joke was a bit obvious, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Yes I bloody well do mind you saying, and stop trying to change the subject. How dare you! I can’t believe you were recording everything and commentating on it for your bloody blog.”

“Look, you don’t understand. It’s not easy writing a blog post everyday you know. I’m finding it hard to keep it up.”

“Well, it’s probably for the best we stopped then, isn’t it? You should maybe go to the doctors about that. They could give you some pills or something.”

“Oh come on, that was another really obvious joke.”

“I bet you’ll use them in your blog anyway though, won’t you? You’ll be so desperate for material that you’ll include it.”

“I won’t. I’ll have loads of jokes of my own. I won’t need to use your predictable erectile dysfunction gag.”

“Well, we’ll see. But if you do use my jokes then you better credit me. If you claim them as your own then I’ll leave a comment on your website, telling everyone about that weird fetish you have with the …”

“All right, all right, fine, if I’m really short of material and I resort to using your tacky penis joke then I promise to credit you.”

“Thank you. Oh, and just for the record: I did not purr like a thoroughly contented kitten. I had a bit of mucus lodged at the back of my throat I was trying to shift. Purrs like a thoroughly contented kitten indeed. You are weird.”

“That’s the kind of thing they write in these romantic novels.”

“Well, when you write up your blog post, I want you to tell them the truth, that I was merely clearing some mucus from the back of my throat.”

“I can’t write that. That would sound completely ridiculous. It would ruin the narrative. It would spoil the sexy vibe I had going”

“I’m not having people thinking that I was purring like a thoroughly contented kitten David. It’s embarrassing. If you don’t tell them that I was clearing mucus from my throat then I’ll leave a comment on your blog telling everyone about that weird thing you did with the …”

“OK, OK! Fine. Let’s compromise. How about I just play the recording into some speech recognition software, and just upload the transcript of this conversation as tomorrow’s blog post? Plus, that will save me having to actually write anything. Obviously I’ll take out all that stuff where you nearly started talking about those weird things I did and asked you to do.”

“That’s fine by me. To be honest, I think that I’ll come out a lot better from this event than you will. But knowing you, you’ll do something stupid like forget to edit it, and just upload the entire thing, including all the times that I nearly mentioned those sordid little ideas of yours.”

“I’m not stupid. I won’t forget. Am I allowed to use the actual recording from tonight for the podcast. That will save me even more time.”

“What? No. Seriously, you’re taking the piss now! Get out of my house David. I’ve had enough of you and your weirdness!”

“OK, OK, look, I’m sorry. Oo, talking of taking the piss: I’m just going to pop to the toilet before I leave. I’ve been dying for a poo all day.”

“Sorry, no, my toilet is broken.”

“What?! But that was the main reason I came home with you. Oh well, at least I got a blog out of it, so I suppose it hasn’t been a completely wasted night.”

“Oh you know just what to say to make a girl feel special. Piss off, before I claw your eyes out like a dementedly enraged wild cat. Purred like a thoroughly contented kitten indeed. I ask you.”

Except, none of that actually happened. But then you knew that already. I pilfered the opening of this blog post (including the purring kitten line) from a romantic novel called Suddenly Last Summer, by Sarah Morgan, which I found by Googling “ridiculous romantic fiction extract.”

Last night was far from salacious. I didn’t go out, but I did have a nice evening with my housemates. We made a delicious curry with proper fresh ingredients like proper sophisticated adults. Although the night was not salacious, it did offer up a tale of a gelatinous nature. We were all too tired and bloated after the curry to tackle the dishes, so we left them until the morning. When we came down the stairs the next morning, the remainder of the uneaten rice was still lying there on the plates, and it had indeed gone a bit gelatinous. So there you go, both a salacious and a gelatinous tale in the same blog post. What a treat.

If you were enjoying the erotic story at the start of the blog post, before I cut it short, then you can purchase a copy of the actual novel here. Sadly, I don’t make an appearance in the original. I’m sorry to say that there isn’t yet a novel available of my gelatinous rice story, and I am pretty confident in stating that there never will be.

Back tomorrow. We’re in double digits now. Another milestone reached. Oh yes, I can tell your impressed.’;

You Say Gelatinous, I say Salacious, Let’s Call The Whole Thing A Badly Written Blog. Dollop 9 https://www.davideagle.co.uk/dollop-9-you-say-gelatinous-i-say-salacious-lets-call-the-whole-thing-a-badly-written-blog/

Download the audio version of today’s dollop here

It seems as if yesterday’s spy story went down quite well with readers and listeners. If you read the blog then you might want to listen to the audio version as I ended up spontaneously adding a bit extra onto the story, in which we met our heroes’ assailants. Given how well it was received, it seems a shame that I’ve killed the two good guys off in scene one, which seems to scupper any chance of a sequel, unless it transpires that our heroes aren’t dead after all, just resting. Perhaps they have survived by some amazing Douglas Adams style infinitely improbable miracle. Either that or I could just go down the prequel route.

Nothing at all happened yesterday. I got up, wrote a blog, recorded the podcast version of the blog, edited it and added a few sound effects. I was originally going to add all sorts of elements, including music and more sound effects. I also spent quite a bit of time experimenting with different reverb and eQ settings to get the effect of sitting under floorboards. But then I realised how late it was getting and so decided to go for a more minimal approach. I even considered setting up two microphones so as to record the dialogue parts in stereo, creating spacial realism like they do on proper radio 4 dramas, but this would have taken even longer, and it was already seven in the evening. That is more or less all I did yesterday.

The toilet broke again today. I sort of didn’t mind when it broke a couple of days ago because it gave me something to blog about, but I feel as if talking about a broken toilet twice in one week might be a bit overkill. I felt as if maybe I was being helped along with this blog by a higher force, perhaps the gods of the blogosphere (which is a real word). Perhaps they broke the toilet so as to give me inspiration for a blog. Similarly they may have tampered with my mac in order to inspire yesterday’s blog post. But they are deluding themselves if they think that repeating the old broken toilet gambit is going to work again. In fairness to the Blogosphere gods, it’s not like they’ve really got a lot to work with, given that all I’ve really done this week is write blogs and go to the toilet. I didn’t even really eat anything yesterday, apart from a handful of nuts (oh, come on, really?), a handful of olives (I used my own hand both times, I think using someone else’s hand would have introduced a needless level of complexity for such a simple task) and a bowl of Muesley with grapes, blueberries and almond milk. I am barely living. All I do is blog and subsist on morsels of food.

Incidentally, when I went to the shop to get the Meusley, the member of staff who was assisting me replied to my request for Muesley by saying, “we’ve got loads of types of Muesley mate. I assume you’ll be wanting the cheapest one, yes?” Instantly my haunches went up (that reminds me, I must go to the doctors about that). I made him read out all the different options, and then went for what sounded like the most expensive one, even though I doubt caviar will go particularly well in muesley. “That’ll show him,” I thought, although now I think about it, that was probably his clever ploy to get me to spend more money.

I don’t know why he assumed I’d want the cheapest Muesley. Was it something to do with how I looked, the fact that I was in the shop during the day, suggesting that I didn’t have a job? Was it because I am blind and he assumed that I’d be living hand to mouth on the money I receive from the government? Well, he wouldn’t have been completely incorrect about the hand to mouth element, given that I’ve mainly been subsisting on handfuls of food, but that is through choice, rather than out of financial necessity.

I think I am going to go out tonight, so maybe the Blogosphere gods can engineer something of interest. You never know, perhaps tomorrow’s blog will be that blog I promised you earlier in the week about the next time I have sex, although I think we all know that that is unlikely. Even the blogosphere gods couldn’t pull that off. Don’t worry, I am not lonely and depressed, I am merely being endearingly self-deprecating; I know I am amazingly hot really. Actually, it would be quite useful to go back to someone else’s house tonight so that at least I can have a shit without worrying about not being able to flush the evidence away. Sexy! Maybe that could be my chatup line. What woman could refuse such a proposition.

There’s just no knowing what tomorrow will bring, and this is what is so exciting about doing a daily blog. Today I feel slovenly, drained and uncreative, writing about Muesley. Tomorrow I may be regaling you with salacious tales of the night before. Or perhaps it’ll be more Muesley chat and an update on my broken toilet. My spell checker just tried to change my misspelling of the word salacious to gelatinous. I am very doubtful that any of my blogs will ever contain gelatinous tales of the night before, but to be honest there’s probably just as much chance as a gelatinous tale as there is a salacious one. If anyone has any gelatinous or salacious tales that they’d like to share, feel free to leave a comment underneath. Or maybe you’ve got a witty story about muesley or broken toilets, or even both. Who knows what magical places this blog will take us to. Back tomorrow Z\friends.