Acoustic catarrh, so low

I’m sorry I haven’t posted this week. Although the manflu has started to get better I think I’ve now reached Grade 8 on the acoustic catarrh. Maybe somebody will send me a certificate. It managed to ruin yet another Serious Meeting earlier in the week. Everyone was talking about product development workstacks and roadmaps and I was sitting in the corner getting through more Kleenex than I ever have in my life (I never thought I'd see the day that I shattered that personal best from the compulsive masturbating summer of 1987 - I thought it would stand forever, like Bob Beamon's long jump record) and sounding like the bastard son of Darth Vader and Marge Simpson making a dirty phone call.

Anyone who has met my parents will know that I am in fact the legitimate son of Darth Vader and Marge Simpson.

I think my loss of hearing has already started to take effect. Either that or my colleague Abi is just plain confusing. She stopped by my desk earlier in the week.

“I got stoned. I need to have Di in me.”

I was nonplussed.

“You got stoned? Excuse me? And how does Di feel about this?”. It was conjuring up images of spliffs and strap-ons. Don’t get me wrong, I like those images as much as the next man but it was 11 in the morning.

“Not Di. Dye. I’ve got kidney stones. They need to inject me with dye.”

I was brought back to earth with a crashing and disappointing thud. Why do people like to tell other people this sort of thing? So much for all that experimentation with Di. Any fond thoughts that I might get sent video footage evaporated in a hiss of disillusionment.

“Kind of beats your GI doesn’t it?”

“What’s GI got to do with it? I didn’t realise you read my blog.”

“Oh sorry, I mean cholesterol.”

As selective hearing goes the only person that can top that is Darren. Last time he was in the office he was desperately hoping to finally clap eyes on the office tranny. He was gutted to find that he wasn’t in that day. But then I had a thought. Our phone list has little passport photos on it. Admittedly mine makes me look like a Turkish drug dealer but it would be better than nothing. I brought up the picture of the office tranny. I felt faintly let down when I saw it, because it was clearly taken before he discovered decent makeup. He was barely trying. The overall effect wasn’t so much “man in drag” as “ill advised prank at a stag party”.

“Darren, I’ve found it. But I think you’ll be disappointed, he looks kind of androgynous.”

“He looks erogenous?”

With hindsight, for all I know Darren may well have found the picture erogenous. He’s like that.

Anyway, the main reason I haven’t posted is that my RSI has been really bad so typing is very far from fun. It’s a mark of my desperation that I’ve agreed to a number of people sending me “distant healing” or, as I like to call it, “saying nice things in your head from miles away”. So if you feel like doing that please do. Think of the comments section as an online book of condolence. I might even try acupuncture. Things are desperate.

There are some exciting things coming up on the blog once I’m better, so stick with it. I haven’t told the legendary “Muncle” story yet. Plus I’m hoping my anonymous friend will take pity on me and finally release rights to the Vaseline story. Also, there’s a blog exchange programme in the offing. Which is especially exciting because I never went on the French exchange or the German exchange at school. For many years I viewed France as a mythical land where kids were allowed wine with dinner and the girls were so desperate one of them was even prepared to cop off with Stephen O’Hanlon in a locked toilet. Though apparently she did have B.O. Swings and roundabouts.

I’ll be back as soon as I can. In the meantime, I’m off to drink an awful lot of cider. If nothing else it’s a superb muscle relaxant and I could do with one of those.