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Peeps who interviewed me
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Regular updates of sarcastic and irreverent nonsense.
Greetings! My name is Norman McNorman and, although I don’t consider myself to be a religious man, I find it hard to deny that there’s something very very special about the Sabbath. Whether I’m sitting indoors in a comfy chair with my favourite slippers or settling into an outside hammock with my favourite slippers, I’ll be completely at peace for the entire day. And if either of my young nephews start up with their shouty Facebook games, or ask if they can watch something on the Xbox, I’ll peer disapprovingly over the top of my spectacles as I tell them “Not on a Sunday, boys.”
During the January sales I purchased several DVD boxsets of my favourite TV shows and since then I’ve indulged in several marathon sessions of Police, Camera, Action! and Stop, Thief! Could you give me some advice on how to make my weekends more relaxing?
Good heavens, man, what vulgar and inappropriate language you’ve chosen to address me with! Firstly, you need to get out of this ‘marathon’ mindset: it’s simply not possible for one to relax whilst partaking in such an exhausting activity. I suggest you step into a pair of slippers and watch some kind of highlights package instead, preferably played back at half-speed so as to maintain an emotional uniformity that will be sustained throughout the entire day; anything else is likely to leave you drained and exhausted for the busy week ahead.
I’m thinking of buying a new pair of walking shoes as my current ones are worn out. However, I’m not sure whether to go for the traditional fur-lined type or the more modern air bubble support ones. What would you recommend to make my walks across the South Downs more relaxing?
Walking shoes? The South Downs…? You’re giving me a hernia! My good man, I do believe that you’re talking about going on a hike, which is a word and an activity that really isn’t welcome here in my boudoir of relaxation. However, if you really must insist on attempting such a thing on the Sabbath then my advice is simple: pop along to your nearest airport with a pair of slippers and ‘hike’ your way along the travelator at a steady pace. Make good use of any advertisements depicting sunbathers relaxing on a beach as they will assist you into getting into the right mindset. Just be sure that you don’t fall asleep or stumble into anyone else, as jet lagged returning holiday goers are the anathema of the Sabbath.
Last week mummy bought me a pet rabbit as a surprise for being such a good boy and because she said rabbits are really cute. The rabbit is really funny and likes to run around in circles and I have named him Playboy after seeing a picture of a lady in a bunny costume on a magazine that daddy sometimes takes with him into the toilet. For some reason he always spends a long time in there and comes out all red faced and has to go for a sleep-sleep afterwards.
I put the rabbit on my bed and he started doing lots of poos that look like raisins and then he started eating them probably because raisins are really nice. I decided to copy him and did a poo on the bed and tried to eat it but it tasted like peanuts and got stuck in the roof of my mouth. When mummy came in and saw me she started shouting and said a word that began with ‘c’ but definitely wasn’t ‘cute’ which is what she says to the rabbit and I did a cry.
Yesterday I let the rabbit out and he was running around and did a big wee on the carpet that smelled like Sugar Puffs but he didn’t try to eat it which was weird because Sugar Puffs are the best ever cereal. I wanted to give him some of my favourite juice but mummy told me not to and then I tried to see if he wanted to play on my Xbox but he started biting the controller and now the joysticks don’t work properly which means all the angry people do swears at me when I play online which makes me do a cry.
Seeing as its winter I thought he might be cold so I gave him some of my clothes but I accidentally dropped my belt on his head and he stopped moving and now mummy says we have to take him to the vets for a special injection. I remember when I had a special injection at school and they gave me a sticker to wear afterwards so I hope Playboy doesn’t mind if his fur gets all sticky.
Hi, gang! My name is Jeremy Jez and I’m a member of the 23rd Alrdridge Scout Group.
Now, if there’s one thing that Akela is always telling me it’s that I should be going out and doing things for myself, and it’s for that reason that I’ve decided to become more independent. And what better way to do that than to take a close look at a tape measure? All the important people use them, like plumbers and electricians, and I once saw a car park attendant using one to see if someone had double-parked or not. Cool, eh?
After asking my mum to turn the light on for me, I went into the garage and found dad’s measuring tape on the shelf. It’s one of those special ones where the tape rolls back into the holster thing when you let go, so I’ve got to make sure I don’t cut myself on the sharp edges. Someone should invent a sellotape that can do that as well, ‘cos it always seems to get stuck to my fingers.
First of all I decided to try and measure the hallway, but it turns out that the tape wasn’t long enough which is a bit rubbish. Does that mean you have to buy two of them if you want to measure a room in your house? That must cost LOADS.
I then measured my Xbox, which was quite big, but not as big as my TV. I got out my sleeping bag that I took to summer camp and measured the wee stain from when I wet the bed because I thought I heard a bear outside the tent – turned out it was just the patrol leader coming back from the toilet.
Actually, that reminds me: my patrol leader is always boasting about how big his willy is, so this is a great chance to see if it’s true. Hmmm, the tape says mine is three inches long – that’s really good, right?
No way will anyone else be able to beat that!
Hi, my name is Larry. I won’t to tell you my surname as I’m trying to keep it a secret from something that, under normal circumstances, I would trust implicitly: my radiator. My suspicions about this heating element first started last month when I hung my socks over it to dry. Almost immediately, I heard a meowing sound. At first I thought it might be my cat until I remembered that I don’t have a cat. Therefore the only logical thing to assume is that my radiator is alive and watching me, waiting for my guard to slip so it can pounce and exact some kind revenge on me. One of the precautions I’ve undertaken is to never read any of my mail directly within its sight – I usually get a torch and open the letters whilst sitting underneath by duvet. If I get any junk mail I just leave it lying on the floor in the hope that it fools him into thinking my name is Dominos or something.
I have tried to find out more information about radiators because, let’s face it, no-one really knows where they come from. When was the last time you saw one for sale in a shop? They are always always preinstalled in a house somehow and I’ve never had a radiator salesman come up to me and say “Hello, I am a radiator salesman, would you like to buy a radiator?” When people used to talk about bleeding their radiators I assumed it was a technical maintenance term, but now I realise it’s a codeword for hiring a radiator hit man. I wonder how much an assassination like that would cost and whether it would leave much of a mess…?
Last night, when I was making a cup of tea for myself, I shouted out “Oh, I really fancy a glass of lemonade,” to fool the radiator into thinking that someone else might be in the house with me. I don’t usually drink lemonade either, so this would have been a kind of double bluff tactic; if you think something is watching you then it’s a good idea to keep it second-guessing all the time. I sometimes paint eyes on my eyelids so that when I’m asleep it looks like my eyes are still open.
Hmmm, I wonder what happens when I leave the house; does it try to delete all my Xbox game saves…?