Yeah, I'm calling you out on it, Coulrophobes. (Incidentally, use of psuedo-medical jargon is almost always a sign of hypochondria.)
As we head towards Halloween and English people start complaining that 'Trick or Treat'-ing is a recent American import, despite the fact I was guising aged five, the usual iconography of spookiness gets dragged out.
Next to the skeletons, vampires, ghosts and Frankensteins (yes, I know, but that's the term that gets used) and the slutty skeletons, slutty vampires, slutty ghosts and slutty Frankensteins*, we now find the 'scary clown'. And the nearly-unrecognisable tenth-generation mutation of the 'Scream' mask, but that's not relevant.
My point is this - if clowns were in and of themselves scary, you wouldn't need a scary version. You don't get a special 'scary zombie' classification.
You are of course, free to not like clowns, but don't go claiming that their presence trips your custard-pie-fight or flight mechanism. I find Ricky Gervais unfunny and annoying, but I'm not going to pretend he has any psychological hold over me.
Also not a proper fear - Rectopohbia. Before you start, the truth has beaten you to your lazy joke. It is indeed the fear of rectums (recta?). This featured on a list of phobias I was e-mailed, and I don't really see how it can be accurately diagnosed.
"Very good, Mr Smith, now I'm just going to test your reaction when I show you... THIS!" "Ach, geez!" "Another one? This is some sort of epidemic!"
So, I'm glad we've sorted that out.For the record, my fear of dianogas remains perfectly valid. I do try not to let it affect my day-to-day life, though.
Also made up - hayfever. You come up with a different excuse for not doing Sports every week like I had to, sniffles.
* I'm not entirely happy with the use of 'slutty' here, but it does seem to be the descriptor of choice for these costumes, and also conveys the rather seedy aura of desperation they generate. Feel free to substitute 'sexy' or even 'empowering' if you want.
Conclusion - This could be short for any number of things. It could be Faster Than Light, or Flash Transition Layer, or even the brilliant-sounding-workplace of the Fenestration Testing Laboratory. These are just a few examples I've come up with off the top of my blatant Wikipedia search.
It's certainly not 'For The Lose', oh no.
Coming next month, the all new 'Poor-Grasp-of-Probability-mungous Draw' and 'Statistically Not Worth The Expended Calories' Scratchcard.
“…Ow! I think your receiver’s a bit sensitive. You’re booming in my ear like nobody’s business. Yes, I’m still holding. If I hang on any longer my phone’ll be so old it’ll be an active trigger, which somewhat defeats the points of phoning you lot.”
“No, I’m sorry, but this is the number for the forces controlling this dimension, isn’t it? And I do have an irregularity here, don’t I? I believe you have an obligation to handle it. I don’t want to have to go to OFTIME here.”
“Yeeees. There are only two problems with that appointment. 1 – I don’t think this will wait until Friday. 2 – The fact I’m phoning you rather suggests that there might be life here, doesn’t it? I can’t have Plutonium tramping round the place, messing up my carpet and irradiating the soft furnishings. Who else do you have? I’d like a complete list, please.”
“Hang on. I only did chemistry at ‘O’ Level, but half of those aren’t even proper elements, are they? Tom Lehrer certainly never sang about them.”
“Well, yes, they are made of elements, but isn’t that a bit of a cheat? Based on that you could send round Concrete and Beef. All right, I’ll take any two of those. Except Radium, who I noticed you tried to mumble over.”
“Right. Fine. How many ‘p’s in ‘Sapphire’. Okay. And they’ll both be here by 8:42 tonight, yes?”
“BECAUSE THAT’S WHEN THE STUFF COMES THROUGH THE THING! Honestly, that’s the whole reason I phoned.”
“Good. I must say that if wasting time keeps it distracted, I’m sure you’ll be getting a bonus. Oh, one final thing, is there a guarantee on the work? I don’t want to go through all this hassle, just to end up with a horrible fate for all eternity.”
“Hmm. No, in that case I won’t bother paying the extra. I’m sure nothing all that bad will happen.”
All right, so I'm not sure which I'd more like to pay people to do for me, but come on. I'm alternating them, just to keep the 'excitement' 'up'.
Yes, a couple of weeks ago I did go to Leicestershire and drive a hovercraft and paintball tank, but that whole escapade was subject to the First Inverse Law of Anecdotes - the more uncomplicated fun something is, the fewer stories you get out of it. It was fun. I was the youngest there. One night, I managed to get the majority of attendees to stay up until 1am.
The four people still on LJ seem to posting about their work, but I'm very much of the opinion that, as I can't actually be bothered doing it, writing about it is out of the question. No secrets of the S18 returns for you folks, oh no.
Right, I'm absolutely definitely going to come up with a comic conceit for a post. This week. The only things I've made up recently are both alternate time lines for Doctor Who. Not for the fictional universe, for the actual TV production. That's the base level we're looking at here.
Ooh! Ooh! I did come up with the following response to why I'm drinking less and less - "I'm barely using this state of conciousness. Why would I want to spend money on another?"
Fact - the First Doctor's last words are 'Keep warm'. Epic.
To avoid any such let-downs when I regenerate, I've arranged my final epigrams in advance.
(They're all based on the assumption that I'll be having a big-old New Series regeneration, because they're much more impressive. If I have a Classic lying-on-the-floor job, then I'll probably go with "When did anyone last vacuum under that cupboard?")
Excuse me while I change into somebody a bit more comfortable.
What’s awesome, has two hearts, and goes ‘FWOOOOOOSH’?
Aw, man. This is going to melt all the chocolate in my pocket.
I swear, if one more person corrects my word usage, I’ll literally explode.
Ooh, that is a nasty paper cut.
My only regret is that I bothered shaving this morning.
Good news – despite being shot, I’ve stopped this bomb destroying the Museum of Stained Glass. Bad news – well…
Last one to turn into a flaming column of energy is a complete and utter…
All right, I’ll admit it. That kebab was a mistake.
Oh my patronising saints, thinking of stuff to write is hard when you haven't done it for ages.
I can picture the folds of my brain grinding against each other in stuttering motion, gritted up with bits of cartoons and podcasts. This bit is basically the run-up, the perambulatory pre-amble to try and get things moving.
The only idea I've had so far is 'Why do I think that the folds of the brain move about when one thinks?' but that sort of self-referential tosh will just get the Old Grey Girl feeding on herself, until you're left with a handy storage compartment behind your eyes, filled only with the homoeopathic memory of the names of every Doctor Who story.
Right - I'm going to go upstairs, get some laundry, bring it down, put it in the machine and then come back. If the pixies who used to leave me ideas could come back off their year of extended sick leave, that'd be grand. Just stick them on top of that uncashed Premium Bonds prize.
Pack of miniature malingerers. I know they've been granting wishes for cash in hand.
Can I get a whole post out of 'staring slack-jawed at the internet'? It is the answer to 'What have you been doing recently?' and 'What are you doing at the moment?' after all. Rocking back and forth inside the giant time amoeba.
So, after what must be up to a mighty three years, the headphone jack on my first generation iPod touch has packed in. This is not my layman’s opinion, oh no. This is from a certified Apple Genius. Now, obviously they can’t fix it, because… hey look over there at that new thing we’re launching!
They came up with two options:
A like-for like exchange. Cost £170.
10% off a new iPod. Cost of new model with same storage would therefore be £224.
I managed three options, which must make me a Wile E Coyote-style Super-genius:
Buy a replacement headphone jack, a mini-soldering iron and whatever non-Euclidean screwdrivers you need to open the darn thing, and fix it myself. Downside – this would not work.
See about getting one of the previous Generation models cheaply, then either keep the old one to play through speakers, or eBay it to recoup some of the money. Down side – hassle.
All right, so that lasts one’s not an official bit of kit, but you would think that the guy in the store could have hinted at the existence of such a thing. This is why the British distrust hyperbole. Call your helpdesk the Genius Bar, it better back that nomenclature up. It’s like the program we use at work called FAST. It makes you such a hostage to fortune that you’re going to get Stockholm Syndrome and start practicing your signature as Mrs Providence.
Right - note to self. When you get to heaven, make sure to say Hi to everybody there that you recognise.
It's getting bad enough at the train station of a morning, which now seems to be entirely occupied by vague acquaintances who I failed to greet the first time I noticed them there, and now we all have to stand in a type of studious oblivion formation. All right, so maybe I'm the only one plotting the vectors, but it still seems awkward.
Of course, the alternative is to have to do the daily slight upward nod that says "I have recalled your face. This is both the theoretical and practical limit of our interaction."
It'd only be worse in Heaven which, as I understand it, lasts even longer than the wait from the 8:41 being cancelled to the 08:53 arriving, Attack of the Clones and school combined.
My other though while standing at the station was - wouldn't it be a nightmare if you went out with the woman who did the automated station announcements, and then she dumped you? Every day the voice that used to whisper in your ear, coldly announcing the next train at Platform 2 in the same tone she used when pointing out that she bought Seasons 3 & 4 of The Wire, so you couldn't take them.
You'd either have to kill yourself. Or get the bus, if you were really desperate.
Yes, my iPod is broken. They better fix it soon before I start thinking all the time.