When I see this in front of me, playing in goal in our weekly five a side game, I get very annoyed. I can’t help it. There’s two of my team marking the bloke with the ball, and so of course one of his team-mates is scot free at the edge of the D. Once the ball gets to him (and it usually does) he’s through on goal. And I shout even more. So please don’t play like a schoolboy and get drawn to the ball all the time, otherwise there will be more expletives and arm-waving.

Thank you.

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How can I put this? You’re not the sharpest tool in the shed, are you? Please, please, when I’m out and you try to deliver something, do not tape the card saying “sorry we missed you” to my front bloody door at eye level! You see, it might not cross your mind that there’s anything wrong with that, but as I say, you’re not exactly Richard Feynman. The card says “sorry we missed you” but it might as well say “The occupiers of this house are out. Burglars, help yourselves!” Just put it through the letter box, would you please?

On top of that, while I’m at it, please fix your systems. Both your website and your automated phone system, after a lot of faffing about entering consignment details, can’t connect to your SQL server and so fail. It ought to be pretty simple just to get a few printer cartridges into my sweaty mitts, but it appears not.

Parceline may have changed their name to DPD, but they’re still buffoons.

By the way, what made your phone system think I wanted to hear about a new comedy club in Plymouth while I was on hold? Huh?

[later..]

A new error!

Cobblers.

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“You Don’t Know What You’ve Got ’till It’s Gone”. In my case, this has never been truer. Why? I am bereft of saliva. No spit. Gob like a buzzard’s crutch.

Bloody mumps. Probably. I don’t feel too ill, as such, and my nuts are OK (thanks for asking), but as E points out, I look like Penfold out of Danger Mouse, and I’m feeling pretty dosy. My head is full of cotton wool. And we should have been on a Greek island by now. Cobblers.

I mean, I hate his work. Don’t know the bloke. The reason? Look no further than the line from “Check the Meaning”:

“Paranoia – The Destroyer”

If you’re an Ad agency and you want a voiceover in an American accent, HIRE A BLOODY AMERICAN. There are nearly 298 million of them to choose from.

I still haven’t got my replacement battery for the D70. Like I said before, it’s a good job that I bought after-market batteries as my spares. Otherwise I would have been without my camera for six weeks and counting.

Madonna really, really winds me up. Really. A lot. “I like to think of my show as an art installation”. Please.

“Like a virgin, touched for the very first time”. Whatever, love.

Nikon recently recalled the EN-EL3 batteries that were shipped with many Nikon D70s, including mine. Apparently they can get overheated during recharging.

These things happen. Nikon were let down by their contractor making the batteries, and now they’re fixing the problem. Fine so far as it goes. Some time last week I did what they asked to start the procedure to get a replacement: I registered my battery on the Nikon support website. Over a week later, and the Kraken wakes:

All I can say is, it’s a good job that I chose to buy after-market batteries off eBay rather than extra official EN-EL3s as my spares. Without them, my D70 would be entirely useless for a month or more. Not good enough, not good enough at all. What do Nikon think they are achieving by waiting for a duff battery before deigning to replace it? If I don’t own a D70, what use to me is a battery that only fits that camera? What possible kind of scam could I be running? They are succeeding in alienating customers who’ve spent hundreds of pounds on their products for the sake of twenty quid’s worth of replacement parts.

… the proper mode for a Chinese take-away to package their sesame prawn toast. Just like the ones that we just had this evening. For the record, it should be one of those nice rectangular plastic containers (the ones that make a handy receptacle for your Nitro-Mors next time you’re stripping a wardrobe) but no lid. There is nothing worse than a sweaty, saggy portion of prawn toast. Well, OK, there is. Head in a vice, for instance. Um.

How the mighty have fallen. Having to play in the F.A. Cup first round is bad enough, but being taken to a reply by bloody non-league Weymouth is just toe-curling. I remember talking to my bro in law, the shame when I realised that because of our lowly position in League One that we don’t even get a break when it’s an international game weekend – the assumption is we don’t have any internationals, and it’s almost true.

I do wish Forest wouldn’t play in a Brazil looky-likey away strip. It’s just taking the piss.