Monthly Archives: July 2017

You Cannot Be Siri!

I think I must be channelling the spirit of Ronnie Corbett: I keep wanting to make corny jokes.  Incidentally I was very touched by the image of four large candles standing solemnly on the altar at his funeral last year:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-36073888

RC was much loved, perhaps more so than Barker of that ilk who, though more talented, could be a tad pompous.  It was crystal clear to anyone watching Ronnie C in the BBC armchair in his trademark sweater and lacking only a cup of cocoa to resemble a parent going to bed (my parents drank Bournvita which I found disgusting, though I used it once mixed with water to paint my face) that he did not take himself remotely seriously.

But I digress – which, now that I think about it, is further proof that I am channelling the little Ron, since his whole routine was nothing more than a long digression followed by a short punchline.  Lots of foreplay, you might say.  Anyway, somebody on Facebook suggested that I should tap Siri on my i-phone and say ‘I see a little silhouetto of a man’.  I didn’t even know who or what Siri was (I guess it’s a sort of speaking Google) but I did so and it spoke the lyrics of Bo Rap, as Queen fans call it, in a gravelly electronic voice.  Which was amusing.  And which brings me to today’s joke:

What did John McEnroe say to Harry Potter’s grandfather?

You cannot be Sirius!

Kirk out

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Poo Sticks # 2

Devoted readers of these pages may remember a post, nine or so months ago, where I outlined the rules of Poosticks:

https://wordpress.com/post/lizardyoga.wordpress.com/13420

Like the better-known game invented by Pooh, it involves sticks: unlike that game, it involves poo.  Well, now a new version of Poosticks has been invented by none other than the good old NHS.  A while ago they wrote offering me a kit something like a home pregnancy test except that it was a home bowel cancer test (just routine, no cause for concern).  I thought I might as well, so I said yes, whereupon a mysterious brown envelope arrived in the post containing All You Need to test for bowel cancer.

*WARNING!  GROSSNESS ALERT: DO NOT READ IF EATING*

Well, I had to read the instructions a few times before I could understand them – but basically the test is an alternative to taking a stool sample to the doctor’s and having it tested.  However, it is not easy.  First you must peel back the cover to reveal two small windows.  Next you must catch your stool.  This is an unpleasant process involving folded toilet paper and much reaching: it can be quite alarming to feel just how much crap is emerging from the anus and trying to decide on a cut-off point which will not overspill the toilet paper (I did warn you it was gross.)  Then, having caught your turd (and still not able to wipe the bum) holding said steaming grossness in one hand, you must take a stick in the other hand (hence the name) and delicately scrape a little from the turd, transferring some of this in the form of a smear onto one of the windows.  This soiled stick must then be deposited somewhere whilst repeating the process with a clean stick.  The window can then be sealed and the cleanup can commence.  This ordeal needs to be repeated three times on consecutive days before the tiny package of disgustingness can be sealed and posted.

Oh my days!

And that’s my new game of poosticks.  I hope the results will be clear: no reason to think they won’t.

Kirk out

 

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Doctor, Doctor; Can’t You See I’m Fuming, Fuming?

Well!  They’ve been and gone and done it now!  The fat is out of the bag and the cat is in the fire – and yes, I did mean to Spoonerise my metaphors in that way because the Whole Order of Things has Been Upset.  It’s women priests all over again; it’s Political Correctness Gone Mad!  How many more male strongholds will be feminised!  How can the Doctor, an intrinsically masculine figure, a repository of – well, maleness – I’m not sure how but he just IS because – well!  I mean, every time he regenerates he’s a man!  Isn’t he?  I mean, that proves it!  The Doctor is male, all right!  He cannot be female!  It just won’t work!  He’ll – she’ll – be crying all over the place, she’ll be all warm and fuzzy and not dangerous or eccentric because everyone knows women can’t be dangerous or eccentric – and the TARDIS WILL BE COVERED IN DOYLEYS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Deep, calming breaths, deep calming breaths…

OK.

So, the news is, if you haven’t yet caught up with it, that the latest regeneration of Dr Who has been announced and it’s a woman; Jodie Whittaker, to be precise, of Broadchurch fame.  I have no idea if she’ll be any good , but in principle I think it’s great that they’ve gone this way.  I see no reason why the Doctor can’t be female: coming from Gallifrey there is no need for the character to confirm to any earthly genders (or colours, come to that) so it’s high time these boundaries were breached.  I look forward to seeing what she makes of it.

But never mind guys, there’s still one or two niches left for you.  After all, most MP’s, CEO’s, film directors, Head Teachers, rock musicians, Chief Constables, firefighters, surgeons, lorry-drivers, bus-drivers, train-drivers, bishops, scientists, engineers – are still men.  At least, last time I looked.  So you can’t be the Doctor for the next few years?  Never mind.  A man can still be Prime Minister.  In fact with any luck a man will be, very soon…

Kirk out

 

 

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July 12th 2014

I’m reblogging this as it’s the third anniversary of the death of Gaz Carnall who ran our home from home, the Fingerprints cafe on Queens Rd

Infertility and life

Gareth 4

The date July 12th 2014 is the date my life changed. The path I was on suddenly closed and I was moved to a different path, a path which for the rest of my life would not include my brother Gareth.

Lunchtime on July 12th would be the last time I would speak to him. Rhys and I had been to Ikea and I had checked us in on Facebook. Gareth was always teasing us about our fascination with Ikea! We were in the car on our way home and my phone rang, it was Gareth. His first words were “there can’t be anything left in Ikea for you two to buy!” and we howled with laughter. We chatted for about 20 minutes, he was telling me how busy he was, he had a party he was catering for that night and then a first birthday party he…

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July 12, 2017 · 9:38 am