Quality Street

I’m partial, it has to be said, to the odd choccy. So much so I have developed an internal radar system (biological as opposed to implanted cyborg technology) that can locate a concealed soft centre through irradiated lead lined walls. So uncannily accurate is my cocoa-bean-product detection that had Osama Bin Laden been encouraged to take up a Mars Bar addiction I could have located his whereabouts in Pakistan within a matter of days rather than months and the American intelligence service (ahem) could have spent their days happily playing Call Of Duty on their Xboxes without ever having to countenance leaving their beloved homeland for the backwards, insurgent filled wasteland that comprises the rest of the world.

So when I go into a shop and there is an open tub of Quality Street on the counter you can bet your granny’s eye-teeth that I’m going to “lock on target”.

But to engage or not to engage? That is the question.

At home or the work office, an open tin of sweets is, in my opinion, fair game. It’s like a gazelle slathering its rump in barbecue sauce and draping itself Page 3 style over some hot coals. It’s there for the taking. Full consummation of the relationship is the normal expectation and inevitable.

But in a shop situation a curious short-circuiting etiquette kicks in. A conflict of finer feelings and good manners. Am I allowed to just (to quote Billy Idol) “…make a dip / Into someone else's pocket then make a slip / Steal a car and go to Las Vegas oh, the gigolo pool”? Or do I need moral consent from a higher authority?

Because if I’m honest I feel like I need the shop keeper’s permission before I can make a grab for her green triangle. It seems very forward to just finger her coffee cream without a by-your-leave or thank you and then head on my way with a sticky mouth. But I can’t quite bring myself to ask either. It feels a bit… I don’t know… desperate and pathetic to say, “can I have a chocolate please?” Even though I’m 99% sure they are there for the customer’s enjoyment. I don’t want to make the assumption that they are free, gratis and without charge nor have her assume that I’m so hard-up and desperate I’ve taken to raiding the chocolate charity tins of the local high street just to get a sugar fix.

So I do nothing. I just stare at the tin like the drug smuggler in Midnight Express staring at his girlfriend through the security screen (though without the lipstick smudges on the glass) and the moment passes. The opportunity slips by. I make my legitimate purchase, pay, leave and try and kid myself that I didn’t really want a chocolate anyway.

But I did.

Goddamit, I really did.

When You Have A Pussy You Never Pee Alone

A sure-fire way to overcome shy bladder syndrome is to have a very young boy in the household who needs to be taught correct man pee etiquette.

But there is only so much that can be taught via words alone, especially when your shared vocabulary reference points centre around Raa-Raa The Noisy Lion or The Cat In The Hat.

You have to give practical demonstrations which cover stance, distance from the bowl, water pressure and the inevitable final shake-off.

These are life skills that take a number of months for any pre-schooler to master sufficiently well enough that they can choreograph the perfect pee without getting their water on the floor, on their feet or, indeed, the gusset of their pants.

By the end of it though you should have a boy who can shoot the bum hairs off a gnat and a dad who finds he can now relax so well that he could pee live on stage at the London Palladium in front of Her Majesty the Queen and (unlike Prince Philip) manage a constant and smooth flow with no kangaroo-hopping at all.

And indeed that was the case with me.

Until the introduction of a couple of inquisitive kittens into the family dynamic a few months ago.

Curiosity might not always kill the cat but it is guaranteed to get its head wet...

Our kittens are much taken with our toilet.

They run from the sound of the flush but then return immediately to have a good nose around the bowl. At first, this was restricted to the lowering of tentative whiskers into the opening. It soon progressed, however, to walking on all fours around the rim.

Our attempts to discourage this behaviour have singularly failed.

And it has led to a disturbing new development.

I now find I cannot “water the trouser snake” without having a pair of pointy kitten ears and the back of a kitten head protruding from between my legs at about knee height.

Even more disconcerting though, on occasion, I now find a pair of glowing kitten eyes looking straight up at me and making insistent and hungry eye contact from somewhere deep beneath my trigger finger.

I’m finding that my flow is not as strong as it once was...

You Talkin' To Me?! You Talkin' To Me?!

Blog etiquette.

It's a funny thing.

Most of the time we're polite and respectful of each other's blog's and opinions but sometimes, you know, you just lose it with someone. You suddenly want to punch the face of a blogger you have never met and are not likely to meet. So what do you do about it?

You write a blog post slagging them off. You let off a bit of steam and lace your hyperbole with acid and visceral toilet humour. You sprinkle it with the burning chili seeds of your displeasure. You do, in fact, do everything but name names or give too many details because there is this rather stupid idea that that would be bad form.

And you don't want to come over as a sour-faced, shit-stirring, misery guts who likes to cause trouble, do you? So you come out with the ol' "I'm not naming any names but..." line because somehow that makes you a decent person and the one who is in the right.

Right?

Wrong. Heather at Note From Lapland has written a superb post about it here and I suggest you go check it out. Certainly do so if you're planning on producing a diamond sharp piece of character assassination anytime soon.

Heather's rules are simple. Details, details, details. If you're going to attack someone on a public forum (which our blogs, unless private, are) then give names, give details so we, the reader, can make informed opinions. Link back to the person you are drubbing - we're all mediawhores after all. And best of all - let them know - give them a chance to respond. Make it a debate not a cowardly attack.

So in that spirit there is a blogger here who I've long wanted to take to task. His blog constantly zips about all over the place. One week it's personal stuff. The next it's TV reviews. Then he'll throw in a bit of music. Oh and the women. Constantly, constantly he composes the most dire odes of adoration to whatever flimsy bit of eye candy is infecting his TV screen at any one time. The man plainly cannot be constant even if it were to save his life. And his frequent recourse to gratuitous "glamour" photos just to drive up his site traffic is transparent and pathetic in the extreme.

And don't get me started on the "humour". I say "humour" in inverted commas 'cos this person thinks they're funny. This person obviously thinks he should be writing comedy for Mock The Week of Have I Got News For You. Weekly we get the most lame, uneventful, unexciting life stories from this bozo's working week jacked up with the type of jokes and gags that even Keith Harris and Orville would sneer at.

You're not funny OK?

So if you're reading this, Steve from Bloggertropolis, please, please stop. I'm just sick of it. I wasn't going to name you; I was going to spare your blushes, but Heather is right. If I'm going to do this then let's do it properly. Face to face. Just you and me. And you know I'm right. Who the hell do you think you are? You're not a blogging god. Your opinion doesn't count. You don't sway the masses. Get down off your high horse and try eating some humble pie for a change you big poetry writing, non-published ex-emo!

God, I feel better already.

Aaaargh!