I was interviewed by The Guardian about business hotels the other day, and they kindly printed a large chunk of my rant.
I’ve been listening to BBC 5 Live today and I’ve heard about ten contributors at different points saying: “I’m not going to beat myself up about it.”
Have you ever tried to beat yourself up? It’s very difficult.
Why is this ludicrous metaphor so popular? I guess I shouldn’t beat myself up about it, but I’d take great pleasure in beating up the halfwit who thought it up in the first place.
I had fishfingers for dinner the other night. They’d been bought for a child who preferred Spinach and Ricotta Tortellini (that’s Hertfordshire for you) so they were in the freezer, beckoning me, as were some oven chips and frozen peas.
On reading the box, I was shocked at how camp Captain Birdseye has become.
I was also interested to read that they weren’t cod or haddock, but were made from Alaskan Pollocks.
Intrigued, I rushed straight to Google and discovered that an Alaskan Pollock is a small cod-like fish which lives in Arctic waters. I also found, listed under ‘Alaskan Pollock’, a bespectacled lady. Perhaps she’s Mrs Pollock from Alaska. I don’t know. But I felt that she deserved to be included too.
I’ve just been reading a paper about the correlation between country music and suicide. It claims:
‘Country music is hypothesized to nurture a suicidal mood through its concerns with problems common in the suicidal population, such as marital discord, alcohol abuse, and alienation from work.’
To test this out, I tuned into a country music station on iTunes.
The song they were playing was called, if I’m not mistaken: “I Lost My Baby In The Portaloo Line.”
I’m now treating myself with an extra Prozac.
Dr Aric Sigman did in fact read my baseball cap admission, having been tipped off by a grass. His emailed reply to my crie de t
Four things never come back:
The spent arrow
The spoken word
The past and
The neglected opportunity
Omar Idn Al Halif