Hello. Welcome to What’s in my Drawer.
Those of you who previously frequented What’s in my Drawer (henceforth to be referred to as WimD) in one of its previous incarnations, will probably be querying the disarmingly polite and civil first sentence as being contrary to everything I hold sacred. ‘You are neither polite nor civil’ you will probably be thinking, ‘and everything that has the misfortune to fall within your field of view or experience will be judged as unworthy and subjected to ridicule and scorn not seen on western shores since George W. Bush appeared on America’s Got Talent with an act titled ‘Leader of the Free World’ which was based entirely around him dropping his trousers and trying to peel a banana with his buttocks’.
OK now, come on now, enough’s enough. You’ve had your bit of fun now toddle off and start taking things a little more seriously.
Seriously guys, what do you think you’re achieving? Hmm? What, precisely do you imagine that you look like?
I mean, come on! I get that you think you need to prove your masculinity; demonstrate to the world (and, no doubt, your constantly disapproving parents who just don’t ‘get you’) that you’re your own man and can wear what you want and can do what you want with your hair…..
So, I know that I haven’t been around much; life, work, crime fighting, these all just keep getting in the way. For those that have missed me, I promise to be around a lot more over the coming weeks. And for those that couldn’t give a shit and hadn’t realised that I’d been absent, well, I promise to be around a lot more over the coming weeks. You know, just to piss you off.
Anyway, I’ll let you into a little secret about something else I’ve been doing over the passed couple of weeks, something that I thought would be a good idea given my advancing years and ballooning waistline…..
Well, it’s the end of the world then.
Yes, I’m well aware that that Raptor thing never happened, (which is probably just as well. I mean, after Jurassic Park, what other dinosaur thing ever worked out?) but just because some crazy bloke with an Armageddon fixation failed to predict the apocalypse, doesn’t mean it isn’t happening.
The signs are everywhere.
Sorry I’ve not been around for a few weeks (I know how you all weep and find life that little bit harder when I’m not ranting about pointless bollocks), but I hooked up with this weird bunch of guys and we’ve spent the last fortnight or so driving around America in their kick-ass van solving crimes. It was a hell of a lot of fun; bad guys in rubber masks, huge talking dogs, sexy nerds, I was having a blast…right up to the point I was hit on by the head crime fighter. And believe you me, blokes in neckerchiefs do not take no for an answer.
So I came back to good ol’ England and decided that I could better serve the world by injecting a little more of my inane, shit filled yammering into it.
And what, you ask, will I be lambasting with my bile coated skewers of righteous, drivolity? (that’s my word. Leave it alone).
Well, this week it’s co-op gaming.
You know, I recently had a near death experience.
I know, sounds faintly ridiculous, right? I mean, life is a near death experience. Simply walking down to the shop to get the latest copy of Razzle usually means negotiating several roads, gangs of disreputable, hooded youths talking to each other in some form of sms flavoured code, bitter old ladies whose dreams never came true and who hold you personally responsible for the excitement that utterly failed to show up in their lives, and you continually have to invent rules for games you discover yourself playing – games such as Dodge the Dog Turd or Antagonise the Supermarket Security Guard. Each of these things pose different, but potentially catastrophic, dangers to your physical and mental well being.
Firstly, I’d like to congratulate Mr and Mrs Parker on their wonderful wedding that took place at the weekend. You are wonderful people and I wish you all the best on your honeymoon in that there France place. Also, I hope I didn’t upstage the bride too much with my utter rocking of the kilt. I’m usually a pretty humble guy, too modest and self-effacing to big myself up too much, but man I looked good in a skirt. Obviously everyone else looked good too, you just looked slightly less shiny than me.
Alyson Hannigan naked, save for a jar of chocolate spread and a spatula?
Every politician in the world getting set upon by rabid chipmunks, whilst scrabbling to escape from a deep, man-made ravine rapidly filling with ketchup?
Alyson Hannigan naked, save for a knowing smile and a jar of swarfega?
These are what I consider to be among the best and most heart-stoppingly fantastic images known to modern man (or old-fashioned man come to that).
I’m telling you this for two specific reasons:
1. I enjoy thinking up scenarios involving myself, Alyson Hannigan and an array of food items and kitchen utensils;
2. Many of the images my eyes are assailed by each and every day just get on my nipples.
Take signs for instance;
For anyone who hasn’t worked it out for themselves yet, or who may be coming to this blog afresh and untainted by my insipid, inane and all round dismal point of view: TV and I have a strained relationship.
It’s not that I hate TV. On the contrary, I love it to pieces and would do much to protect it (not least because being mean to it would result in me having to shell out hundreds of those quid things to replace it). It’s just that it doesn’t always love me back.
It’s often mean and selfish, thinking only of itself and rarely considering my wants or needs. It regularly sheds shows I like as though our relationship is nothing but an irritation, and often those shows hadn’t yet reached anything like a decent conclusion.
It also allows shows that I really enjoy to become stale, stagnant and unexciting. For that reason alone, I feel that I should undertake a little early intervention to prevent another televisual travesty from happening and talk, from the heart, to the writers of Chuck.
(For those of you who are not up to date with this show (or Dollhouse), be warned: Spoilers abound)
This morning I was sorting out my son’s hair. He’s reached that age when his hair is more important to him than, say, breathing and woe betide us should we send him to school without first clagging his head up with gel, mousse, wax or any other industrial waste-like product to spring forth from the laboratories of some French cosmetics company (pretty sure they’re ALL French) to make it appear to the outside world that he’s been in some near-fatal industrial cocktail stick accident.