Exciting life continues apace, more drama planned

Yes indeed folks, my days off are continuing at breakneck pace. It's quite interesting sitting here alone with my brain and observing myself. I'm not bad company I have to say, I belched there a few minutes ago and had myself in stitches with an impression of Billy Connolly, but am otherwise holding my own attention in the following fashion:

I read a story on the wild wide internuts about a village in England called Lunt where vandals have the locals driven to distraction because they keep scrubbing out the first letter and replacing it with another. I'll give you a clue, the offending letter is not P but it rhymes with it.
All this reminds me of a friend of a friend who once had the drunken idea of vandalising the name sign of a Dublin train station, Grand Canal Dock, by dint of similar letter scrubbingoutedness/addition and so forth. I'll leave it to your imaginations. He never got around to it I don't think.

Televisually speaking, I've weaned myself off the history and discovery channels for the time being, at least until the schedules kick into a new loop. The repetitiveness numbs the brain you know.

The repetitiveness numbs the brain you know.

Instead, I've started flirting with the music channels. I think they're music channels anyway, there's lots of people are on them talking about music and singers and stuff, and hey, every half hour or so they actually play a song. Amy Winehouse is on there now on TMF honking in her fog horn voice about the Rehab she won't go to, as part of a series hosted by jowly astrologer Russell Grant who is tenuously linking song titles to some rather camp, namby-pamby life lessons he's dishing out.
I've also noticed a propensity for the stars of music videos to spend alot of time writhing. Yer wan Leona Lewis who won one of the Pop X Idol Factors for instance, I've just watched one of her videos. She spends the entire duration trying to look sultry while she rubs her flanks and slides her back up and down the wall behind her, hands massaging her slightly agape thighs. She looks like a cross between a cow scratching itself on a gate post and Vic Reeves doing that pervy trouser-rub thing he used to do on Shooting Stars.
The fellas are at it as well. None of the poor divils are allowed wear a shirt to work it seems and have to spend their days singing plaintively to a camera with one hand on their baby-oiled chests while trying to imply that they're on the verge of orgasm, or at the very least, wistfully in love with each and every girl watching. Sure I could do that! And yes, it would be shit. But I could do that!
I've also being musing how dramatically reduced the canon of popular music would be if the words baby, yeah, together, pain and heart had never entered the English language. And indeed, if the words maybe and baby, fight and night, hour and power didn't happen to rhyme. Oh well.

I got a haircut this morning too. It worked out fairly well and I made the cute girl cutting it laugh three times, at least one instance of which was at one of the 679 jokes I chanced. I'll get back to you all when I figure out what the other two were. Maybe however, it was my reply when she asked me did I want much off. "Er not too much no but I want it fairly short I suppose although leave a little bit there to work with like, if you get me, and be careful round the back because if you cut it too short it'll all stick up like Sonic the Hedgehog and all the gel in Gavin Henson won't flatten it. A bit off the fringe too but not too much thanks. Sure a bit of a tidy-up really. Ahem, cough."

The best of the whole lot is that I've still got three and a half days of this left, with a trip to sunny Cavan thrown in where I'm probably wearing out my welcome given that it's not three months or greater since I was there last.

I've also stopped tagging my posts because I can't be arsed any more.

And guess what, work just called and told me they want me to take more time off next month. How would you interpret that?