I don’t want to seem morbid, but it’s always worth thinking about the worst-case scenario in life - death. Okay, so that does seem quite morbid. But one has to be prepared. Therefore, I am advance-publishing my obituary. I’m predicting that I’ll last until next year, however optimistic this may seem. Please delete as applicable.

Minnie Bygott, 1983-2009: The (tragic / fortunate) death of a much-(loved / despised) public figure
It is with deep (regret / ecstasy) that we at (The Times / Daily Mail / Toadstools Monthly) are forced to (admit to the murder / announce the late passing) of the well-known (astrologer / philanthropist / critic / nudist) Miss. Minnie Bygott.

Having lived a relatively dull life until the age of 25, she lived the last year of her life to the absolute fullest. The beginning of the end was her marriage to (Mayor of London Boris Johnson / Comedian Alan Davies / her pet weasel) the day before her 25th birthday. The marriage lasted all of (four / five / ten) (months / weeks / seconds) before breaking down spectacularly: Minnie was forced to watch as her beloved husband was crushed to death in a tragic accident involving a hedgehog, a pair of pliers and some silly putty.

After that, she was utterly inconsolable, barely stopping in her quest for justice until a full four days after the event. After that, she toured the world with brand new hit sensation The (Dancing Badgers / Sliding Wool / Unravelling Napkins), eating her favourite dish of crème brûlée in every country and principality of the world, even including Grimsby.

The highlight of her career came in an unexpected moment: one day, walking through Leicester Square (an area she was generally wont to avoid) she happened upon the person we now recognise as being the biggest wanker in the history of the universe: Russell Brand. Of course, at that time Brand was a national hero - but Minnie’s natural hatred of him overcame her, and she set about poking his eyes out with the 16″ ceramic knitting needles she liked to keep down her knickers. After disembowelling him with a plastic spoon she found in the gutter, Minnie pulled out his entrails by hand, deep-frying them in batter and feeding them to a crowd of waiting albino pigeons.

Of course, Minnie was forced to flee, but the mysterious note she left regarding curtains and the colour turquoise soon convinced the nation that her wanton murder of Brand could only be a good thing. Minnie Bygott was now a hero - not just in Britain, but also Grimsby. Even when she was caught on several CCTV cameras in the act of pushing her most hated colleague over a fifth floor balcony to his gruesome death, the jury failed to convict.

To her friends, Minnie will be remembered as being the (dirtiest prostitute / greatest nose-flautist / slimiest biscuit) ever to live. To her enemies? Simply execrable.

So Gordy has been randomly ringing people up for idle chit chat. Weird. Robert Maxwell used to do the same, in fact - a distant relative of mine once got called in the wee hours to talk about nothing at all - so I wonder if this is a sign of impending financial ruin?

Astonishingly, a significant proportion of seemingly-bizarre government documents are beginning to make sense in the light of this revelation, however ominous. For example, one policy document quotes the following voter survey results…

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When asked whether they subscribed to the theory that abstract political dissonance subjugates the central intelligence criteria of implied consent, participants most used the following phrases:

• 42% - “What?”
• 21% - “Fuck off.”
• 18% - “Sorry, I’ve already got one.”
• 9% - “Can I get back to you? We’re just having dinner.”
• 6% - “It’s not about our Kevin again, is it?”
• 3% - “Mmm. What are you wearing?”
• 1% - “Mr - Mr Maxwell? Oh god…” [dial tone]

———————————————————————————–

Hmm, perhaps that data might go some way towards explaining why Auntie Sheila just fled the country with a big heavy Northern Rock-branded suitcase, leaving a trail of mixed coinage and traces of cocaine. Who knows?

Now then now then. Thinking about painting part of your house/flat/bungalow/hovel? Yes? Thinking of magnolia? WRONG.

People are far, far too boring in their choice of colours. It’s probably because paint colours are called such dreadful names. Barley. Moss green. Peach dream. Hardly inspiring.

So, some new colours inspired by our national champions: the beautiful people. See if you can guess which colours belong to which bits before you click (sorry, no rollovers. WordPress is too shit - but hey, Perez uses it!).

Paris Pink                                                     Doherty Dire

Britney Brown                                              Boris Blue

I’m still being crap at posting - sorry - but until I get back into it, here’s a link to one of my favourite places on the net: The Best of Craiglist.

In case you don’t know, Craiglist is a free listings site that gets over ten billion page views per month. Since it’s so popular, it does tend to attract quite a few crazies - and the best and weirdest listings tend to end up here [clicky]:

So here’s a picture straight out of my camera that I didn’t even have to bother to photoshop.