Oh my me, I've only gone and done it again

They're strange things, these blogs. I suspect the reason a lot of people write them is due to the ungraspable, ethereal nature of the internet. Millions of computers, hundreds of thousands of microPCs and erm, other technical terms that don't sit well in my head.

"Man, there are 6 billion people on the planet and half of my mates have got broadband. That means there are 3 billion people who are going to read it!!!! I'm going to be famous!!!"

In reality, I reckon a lot of people's habits are pretty similar. In my case, I'll check the usual few things, my two e-mail accounts, has the uksf archive been updated (ffs, someone's got to be an optimist), any world-shaking catastrophes happened, how are Everton doing, and any decent pictures of the foxy Estella Warren.

It would take an ardent, perhaps even obsessive compulsive kind of blogfan to sift through the reams and reams of "One-post specials", the internet equivalents of such flash-in-the-pan trendsetters as Musical Youth, Glenn Madeiros and Madonna, only to find what they were seeking.

Some kind of life-affirming, inspirational missive festival. Like mine, only better.

To be perfectly and accurately, possibly even precisely frank with you, these tales of blogs being so arse-tearingly good are a bit too much like the old Soviet stories of the uberminer, Stakhanov, who single-handedly mined an entire mountain range that no longer exists using only his big toe and a pair of canvas underpants to excavate the said range.

"Jendary Hooblestein, a 28 year old lawyer from Kranzville, ND, won a publishing deal thanks to her weblog, or blog, detailing her daily struggle against the No. 31 bus and it's stone-faced driver." Okey Dokey.

Actually, cancer's all the rage these days. Something of a cancer race in the blog world has developed. Across the world, bloggers are seeking rarer and rarer forms of cancer so that they can detail their struggle against it. If I wasn't such an honest 12-inch cocked man, I'd tell you all about my own struggle against cancer of the area immediately below the bit where my forearm muscles taper into the crook of my elbow.

Signing off,

Blogger Chief Macca

THIRD

I like me when I'm drunk

Heh, normally my desktop picture is some kind of elvishy, dwarvey, fantasy-y, spooky-y forest scene. I was pissed some nights ago and haven't been home for a couple of days.

In my inebriated state, I've put a beautiful picture of the penis-hardening Estella Warren instead...I may just keep it. Here's a link...

http://3littlepigs.free.fr/images/warren02.JPG

Oh yeah, it might be an idea to have a look at Nathan Barley, this coming Friday on C4 at 10pm. If you watch it, you'll be well trendy.

Second

Did I ever tell you about all my wasted nights on a game called "Striker" on the Speccy? No?

Wow.

Anyway, there I was, watching a dial oscillate between two positions, judging the ideal angle to press a key at for my frozen-in-time striker to hit the ball at, when I heard Father jump up out of bed.

Immediately, I assessed the situation.

"He doesn't know about the power lights on the top right of the Spectrum 128k +2. If I can find a suitable item to block off the light, jump back in bed and pretend to be *really* asleep, he'll never suspect that I'll be playing for my country as soon as he's emptied his bladder and toddled off back to bed."

Evolution, that's what it's all about.

Initial

It's a grand old team to play for,
It's a grand old team to support
And if you know, your chemistry,
It's enough to make your sodium react violently with water.

That's my first post, deal with it. I've got a third of a bottle of cider left. I won't be deflected.