Archive for August, 2007

Good morning the Internet

This morning is really exciting because, basically, I say it is. It could go one of two ways: either it could be the best day I’ve ever had in my whole life, or it could just be an ordinary day where things happen as they always do.

Or it could be really dreadful and people could die and stuff, but I only said “two ways”, so since this is a third option, it is mathematically impossible for my day to day to be catastrophic. It’s this kind of unshakeable logic that holds my life together.

(Not really, folks, it’s the grace of God. That last paragraph is there entirely for comic effect.)

I don’t know when you’ll read this, but let’s try to start a new phenomenon. Let’s make today Amazing Day, when we all have amazing days. Come on, I think this could work. We could even turn it into an email petition, those things always work. “Send this email to sixty million people in less than ten seconds, and you will meet your true love and win twenty billion pounds and all your problems will be solved and you will finally understand what life is really all about.”

Something like that, anyhoo. So today, I really have to be careful that I don’t start hyperventilating or anything. Let’s get excited, people, but not too excited. Or excited in the wrong way, maybe that’s more accurate.

Find out at the end of the day just how amazing my day has been. Or, more likely, whether or not I have remembered to update this post. (If you’re reading this on Facebook, check out my site at beingmrkenny.co.uk, since Facebook doesn’t update my posts when I change them.)

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Eeflings

I have just made a discovery. It happened when I was typing, and some would call it a typo but I really don’t buy into all that. When I make a mistake in typing, I like to think it happened for a reason. Otherwise I just wouldn’t be able to cope.

Anyway, I have discovered … eeflings. Eeflings are like feelings only they’re more ambiguous. Eeflings are what you get when, for example, you’re supposed to be doing invoices and such, but really just want to jump around and go a little bit mad. They can be quite dangerous. I remember when I got my A Level results at the tender age of 17…

I was a miserable teenager, and part of that misery expressed itself in never bothering to do any work. Consequently, when I got my results they were quite significantly below what they ought to have been. This wasn’t a surprise, but it did mean that while all my friends were being accepted into their first choices, I was left with the prospect of ‘clearing’, which for some reason sounded to me like a euphemism for a sort of academic ethnic cleansing.

Anyway, I had quite considerably strong eeflings that night, and they pushed me to break a lot of glasses without having even touched a drop of alcohol.

So there it is. My discovery. Eeflings. A mix of enthusiasm, frustration and despair resulting in a turmoil-esque surge of emotion buried beneath social constraint. Freud, eat your heart out.

(But of course he can’t. Cos he’s dead. And anyway, he probably wouldn’t have called it a ‘heart’, he would have called it the id — but that’s really another story for another day.)

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Dynasty

When I was little, we bought a guinea pig for my sister’s birthday. This guinea pig had rosettas in its fur, and my sister called these “Bonks”, and thus her name became Sally Bonkers. Sally lived with us for many years, longer than most of her peers. She died at the age of 9, and was much missed and mourned by us all.

Before that sad day, however, she met a male guinea pig, whom we were looking after for the weekend. Inevitably, nature took its course, and soon we had a litter of tiny guinea pigs. Piglets, if you will. Tiny, hairy, squeaking piglets.

But alas they died. They always died. It is the curse of life, and yet its greatest blessing, that all creatures meets their ineluctable ends, only to begin again immediately.

As is often the way with nature, incest abounded, and the babies just kept coming as siblings became parents faster than we could identify which were male and which were female. This horrible mass of inbreeding lasted several years, and we must have had 25 guinea pigs in total. I even made a family tree.

And so it went until we grew up and moved house, and the unfettered reproductive reign finally faultered and ended. The last surviving pig was a brown guinea pig that was the daughter, or grand-daughter, or niece (or, most likely, a combination of all three) of Sally Bonkers, the grand matriarch who began the entire story. We kept her in the garage until one day she escaped and was never found again. Never found, that is, until the day my father decided to consign the junk that surrounded the hutch to the city dump. There, beneath the cupboards, a deflated and mouldering body was discovered. There, the unmistakable shape of our last guinea pig was found. She had made her final resting place beneath the cupboards, and had died.

By then we were so used to the cycle of life and death that no-one was sad at her passing. We just popped her onto the bonfire. I don’t even remember her name.

So let this be a message to you all, you who keep rodents as pets. You shall all know the joy of new life, and the sting of death. Unless of course you can tell one sex from the other, in which case you are better owners than we. And here is the end of the message.

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I’m Polish!

Someone just pointed at me (to laugh at someone who couldn’t read something) and said, “He’s Polish and he can read better than you!”

I thought this was some sort of private joke, like a Family Guy reference or something, but no, someone has apparently been spreading rumours that I am Polish.

It was fun while it lasted. For a moment, I almost believed it myself. It was like I caught a glimpse of what life would have been like if I was Polish, and gentlemen — it was sweet. Just think of all the things that would have been different had it been true:

  1. I would have been Polish
  2. I wouldn’t have been English

I think that’s all I need to say.

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Felicity Kendal Mint Cake

Felicity Kendal, widely known from popular British sitcom The Good Life, is possibly one of the busiest women in the world. She is certainly an excellent multi-tasker, if nothing else.

As her name suggests, Felicity Kendal is the inventor of Kendal Mint Cake. She is also the sole manufacturer of the product. Between rehearsing for her various stage productions, and filming new episodes of Rosemary and Thyme, she can be seen furiously scraping white crystals from her skin into boxes.

Felicity Kendal has a rare medical condition that causes her sweat to contain high proportions of sugar and menthol, instead of salt and urea. She quite literally manufactures the mint cake herself.

Kendal’s incredible ability was discovered shortly after filming a particularly energetic episode of The Good Life, at the end of which she was required to kiss Richard Briers. The increased activity caused a trace of perspiration to remain on Kendal’s face, which Briers tasted during the kiss.

After investigation by Penelope Keith, a trained medic, Kendal’s status as a medical miracle was confirmed. At first, only a handful of people who worked in TV were aware of Kendal’s incredible secret. After a few months, however, the public began to notice the fact that kisses between Tom and Barbara we getting longer and longer. Questions began to be asked.

Producers at ITV were put under increasing pressure to provide answers. This was more than a little strange, since The Good Life was a BBC production, but sensing an opportunity to bring their competitors down, ITV’s bosses began answering those questions — often providing outlandish answers. For example, it was once claimed that every night Kenneth Williams would visit the home of Kendal and paint her all over with sugar water mixed with essence of mint. Another story had Kendal rolling naked through fields of mint each morning, while yet another held that Kendal was in fact an automaton made entirely out of sugar.

The libel suits brought by the BBC nearly bankrupted ITV, but the lies persisted for nearly 20 years until Professor Robert Winston, acting under the Queen’s instruction, forcibly obtained some of Kendal’s DNA in the late 80s at a garden party. Disguised as a tree, he was able to pick up a few stray hairs and secrete them about his person.

The DNA was taken away and sent to the Royal Society where it was studied intensively. The discoveries were astounding. Not only was Kendal’s condition hereditary, but it turned out that nearly all of Felicity Kendal’s biochemistry was based around sugar and menthol.

Despite enormous public interest, nothing was made of Kendal’s abilities until the summer of 1992, when on a country walk Kendal was able to sustain herself, her husband and two of their friends for three days after the party became lost on the Yorkshire moors.

The search and rescue team were astonished to find all four people alive and well. One of them was actually in a better condition than before they had set out, such was the quality of of Kendal’s amazing mint product.

It was one of the rescuers who suggested the name, Kendal Mint Cake. He also mentioned that the confection bore a resemblance to the sanitary products used in gentlemen’s toilets, but nobody listened to that part. Despite initial resistance from Kendal, the name stuck, and Kendal Mint Cake has been a firm favourite amongst ramblers ever since. Each year, on the 5th of July, walkers collect on the Yorkshire moors and eat Kendal Mint Cake in celebration of Kendal’s rescue, and the subsequent success of Kendal Mint Cake.

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Prepare for total incontinence…

Because Kenny’s back!

I’ve been away due to lack of internet and being bothered to write anything, but now I have returned! Yes, internet, you can take your not being in my house and fall into a hedge, drunk. No longer shall I keep silent. Kenny is back! With a vengeance!

So then. What to write about to celebrate my illustrious return? Well I’m drinking tea, so that’s good. Umm… that’s it for now. I’m sure inspiration will strike, so watch out. It’s good to be back!

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Ha ha ha ha ha

I love the news:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/bristol/6925622.stm

“Ms Banfield is currently on holiday.”

Ha ha ha

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