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Archive for the ‘George Clooney’ Category

Things Can Only Get Better (D:Ream)
D:Ream on, you Irish snake-oil merchants. Tell that to the victims of the credit crunch. I think you’ll find that the value of stocks and shares can go down as well as up.

I’m Like A Bird (Nelly Furtado)
No, Nelly, you are a bird. The clue’s in your name, which is traditionally associated with women. Although there is that rapper.

For Your Eyes Only
Well, I can only speak from experience, but when I saw this James Bond film at the Classic cinema on Allerton Road in Liverpool in 1981, there were loads of people there. And I don’t recall hearing anybody saying afterwards, “What was all that about? Couldn’t see a thing. What do you think about the new Adam And The Ants single/upcoming Royal Wedding, by the way?”

I Believe I Can Fly (R Kelly)
I’m going to call you out on this, R Kelly. I don’t think you really believe that. If you do, you’ve had your brain addled by all that under-age sex. Either way, you can’t.

Ain’t Talkin’ About Love (Van Halen)
Actually, Mr Van Halen’s singer, you go on about not talkin’ about love at great length. Now, as far as I’m concerned, if you say constantly you’re not talkin’ about something, that’s the same as talkin’ about it.

Batman Forever
No, Val Kilmer. Like George Clooney, your replacement, you only played Batman once.

Boys Don’t Cry (The Cure)
When I was eight, I was cycling down my road, which was on a hill. I fell off, skidding down the road on my arm. I still have the scar. Let me tell you, I cried. I’m not ashamed to admit it. And I know I’m not alone in this. Anthony McMahon cried all the time and he was one of the toughest boys in my class.

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Rat

When I was a young Bandage, I lived in a lovely Victorian end-terrace house. There was a park at the end of the road and that, which I frequently visited. This was, of course, in the days before paedophiles were invented.

In the early days, although we had an inside toilet (it being the mid-1970s), we also had an outside toilet, which was rank but occasionally handy. All good things must come to an end, as, indeed, must all bad things, and my parents had the toilet removed.
Unfortunately, we did not use a qualified toilet remover, we employed some bloke with a lump hammer who knocked it down and naffed off, crucially neglecting to stop up the pipe properly.

Flash forward a few years, and the chickens came home to roost. The flagstones in the adjoining alley collapsed into the mulchy horribleness caused by the unblocked pipe. The water board repaired the path, but the damage underground was already done.
Flash forward a couple more years and teenage Bandage went into the utility room just off the kitchen. They say that in the city you’re no more than 10 feet away from a rat. On this occasion, I was no more than two feet away from one. It looked me in the eye, I looked back. Then we both ran away squeaking like mice. Girly mice. The rat’s underground pad had been washed away by the toilet demolition, and since then he and his extended family had been living under our floorboards.
We called the exterminator, who dropped little red bowls of poison here and there about the house. “Don’t let the dog eat it,” he warned us. We’d guessed that. “What happens now,” we asked. “The poison makes them drowsy, so you can kill them,” he replied. We hadn’t guessed that. We thought he was the exterminator.
For the next week, the men of the house, aided by our trusty Jack Russell ratter, Patch, went on a killing spree. Slightly drunk rats would stagger out, to be clubbed by the end of a walking stick, or their necks would be broken by the jaws of our runty dog.
Finally there were no more rats left. I felt like George Clooney at the end of From Dusk Till Dawn (which hadn’t yet been made, just going to show that Jung was right). Rats are horrible, by the way. Not one redeeming feature.
It was two weeks later that the smell started. A sickly sweet smell whose origin could not be determined. Eventually we traced it to behind the television. We looked, our hearts in our mouths.
There was nothing there. Then I suggested that we check under the floorboards. We lifted the boards and there it was. A rat. A dead rat. A dead rat decomposing with its stomach cavity fizzing with a white substance.
“I’m not picking THAT up,” I said.
“I’m not picking THAT up,” said my uncle.
“Woof!” said the dog.
Then I remembered THIS. The robot hand toy I had been given years before. At last, a proper use for it. I gripped it and slowly manoeuvered it into position. I squeezed the trigger and CONGRATULATION! I SUCCESS! I lifted the rat by its head. I gently lifted it, ready to drop it into the Kwik Save bag being held open by my uncle, when . . .

SPLUP! The rat broke in two around the stomach and its hind quarters fell back into the hole. I was a bit sick in my mouth, but concentrated on the matter at robot hand. I dropped the head end into the bag, quickly went back for the other end, then emptied a bottle of bleach over the rat’s next-to-last resting place. Then I ran upstairs to be sick like a big vomity sicko.

I learned a valuable lesson that day. It was this: never attempt to pick up a decomposing rat with a robot hand toy without the assistance and/or advice of a qualified structural engineer.

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I have had a number of comments about what I billed as the funniest cartoon in the world (which appears below, unless you’re reading this a week or two from now, in which case you’ll have to click on “Older Posts”).

A few, but by all means not all, of you said they disagreed with my assertion vis a vis the fact they didn’t get the joke.

So today’s blog entry will explain the joke in such a way that everybody will be able to enjoy the cartoon.

Right, the first thing you have to take into account is that, to human eyes, all sheep look the same. White sheep, that is. Obviously even humans can tell the difference between a white sheep and a black sheep.

So the joke rests on the fact that, to us, the idea that a sheep could tell the difference between two identical other sheep to the extent of fancying one for mating purposes and not fancying the other is ludicrous.

In a way, though, the joke’s on us. Of course, real sheep can tell each other apart, just as we can tell each other apart. Yet if an alien landed on earth, they would find it just as difficult to distinguish between, say, George Clooney and my colleague Fat Brian as we find it to distinguish between two white sheep.

There are other funny elements as well, chiefly the suggestion that sheep can talk, let alone speak colloquial English, and the name Roderick, which is inherently amusing, but these are very much the joke icing on the cartoon cake.

Now, have another look at the cartoon. I think you’ll now agree it IS the funniest cartoon ever.

On an entirely different subject, there’s an amusing amount of comment about the Indians taking over Jaguar, most of it based on A) their funny names, and B) fear of cars smelling a bit of curry. I don’t remember similar jokes when the Americans took it over, but I’m 100% confident that there’s no racism involved as it is now 2008.

That said, Ratan Tata is quite a funny name, though possibly not as funny as Roderick. Perhaps I’ll republish the cartoon, substituting the name Ratan Tata for Roderick, and see if it is any funnier.

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