Jimmy Carr, eh! Never looks at anything, does he?

Jimmy! London’s on fire, over there! Look at London, all on fire! Is he looking? Of course not. Jimmy Carr hasn’t voluntarily looked at anything since infancy, when he realised that seeing things filled him with a burning sense of scorn. “God, everything’s so feeble,” he thought. “I wish I could somehow inform the world of my endless disdain for it.”

Since that day, Jimmy Carr has become so good at not looking at things that he can not look at two things at once. Here, he’s ignoring a starving dog, and some scary ghosts having a bonfire night. Jimmy Carr can afford enough dog food to fill a catamaran; why is he letting the dog die? Because he despises the dog’s weakness.

Perhaps I’m trying the wrong approach - appealing to Jimmy Carr’s sense of humanity might be wanking a dead man. I know! Here, Jimmy! Jimmy! It’s some money, and a tit with your face on it, three times! Imagine that, Jimmy Carr - your face, on a tit!

Damn! And I even snuck them in on the other side to trick him. What’s wrong with my money, Jimmy? Why won’t you see my hot boob? Are you scared of what you might see? Hmm. I wonder what would happen if…

Good Lord. He can’t keep that up forever, surely?

Well, it’d seem he could keep it up until the world degenerates into a Heironymous Bosch vision of the last judgment, anyway. Well, I give up. I just can’t see to get Jimmy Carr to look at anything. I hope he can afford people to tell him if traffic’s coming.

More Attempts To Make Jimmy Carr Look >>

GANDHI

Mohandes : I’m learning a new language!
[pause]
Mohandes : I can say piss in Greek!
[pause]
Mohandes : ούρα!
[pause]
Mohandes : That’s piss, in Greek!

WHEN HARRY MET SALLY

Harry : Is it orgasm time yet?
Sally : Not yet.
Harry : Can I…
Sally : Orgasm time!
Harry : You’re… hurting… me…
Sally : orgasmorgasmorgasmorgasmorgasm

THE MATRIX

Neo : Where is everything?
Oracle : I ate it.
Neo : I have created it again. Please do not eat this one.
Oracle : Dessert!

THE BRIDGES OF MADISON COUNTY

Robert :(
Francesca :P
Robert :|
Francesca :P
Robert :)

GHOSTBUSTERS

Spengler : Look! A Ghost Lady!
Zeddemore : Look! A Ghost Dracula!
Venkman : Look! A Ghost Pony!
Stantz : cum on guyz itsa fancy dress party u bin doin this all nite

FRIED GREEN TOMATOES AT THE WHISTLESTOP CAFÉ

Evelyn : I will hobble you, like I hobbled all the others.
Igdie : Anti-hobble Igdie!
Evelyn : Why… can’t I… hobble you?
Igdie : Igdie Unhobbleable!
Evelyn : Hnnnnnngggggg!!!
Igdie : Here, hobble this instead.
Evelyn : Thanks.

THE TERMINAL

Tom : VruM! hahaha!
Zeta : Vorq. Ack ack ack.
Tom : !!! ??? Wa!?
Zeta : Mnuu. Eaaaarrrr. Fruf.
Tom : Chu?
Zeta : Fruf!
Tom : CHU!
Everyone in the Airport : Hahaha! Aw.

ICE COLD IN ALEX

Anson : Where are you going on holiday?
Crosbie : I’ve got a timeshare on Duncan.
Anson : Nice. I was thinking of something a little different this year.
Crosbie : Susan?
Anson : DIMENSION TERROR.

MEET JOE BLACK

Joe : HELLO
William : Stop shouting.
Joe : I CAN’T HELP IT, I’M DEATH
William : For God’s sake, I’m only just here.
Joe : HANG ON I’LL STAND OUTSIDE
William : Am I dead yet?
Joe : NOT YET HANG ON
[pause]
Joe : CAN I COME BACK IN, MY SCYTHE’S NOT LONG ENOUGH

Episodes : One : Two : Three

You’ll remember Firestarter and Waterboy, right? They were the incredible Superheroes with the classic Sitcom relationship! One’s an unintelligent braggart who relentlessly gets his comeuppance, the other’s the more practical one who treats him with long-suffering disdain! Hang on, it’s Delia Smith on the phone! She says I’ve stolen her recipe for laughter!

FIRESTARTER AND WATERBOY
The Professor Fate Quadrology #2
YOUR A SILLY MAN MISTER FATE LOL :’(

Since the last instalment, where Professor Fate was defeated by references to his weight, Firestarter and Waterboy have fought many impressive villains in lavish set-pieces that have pushed back the limits of technological innovation, and caused Donald Hollywood himself to say “Steady On!”

Colonel Murdertime, Grand Vizier Kidkisser, and Mrs Pol Pot have all yielded to the dazzling displays of our heroes’ awesome powers.

We rejoin them as they have a nice sit down in a restaurant, and don’t move too erratically, or in a way that would create undue work for the animator.

[Reader clicks picture for ACTION]

PS : I am Firestarter, Professor Fate, and the lovely lady you see above. Simon is Waterboy and the man who shouts “Surprise” too late. These credits are better than the first credits because I did even more and am brilliant.

The Adventures of Captain Scarlet, by Sam. Sam is three and three quarters of a year old, and has illustrated his work with two crayons.

“Hello Captain Scarlet” said Captain Blue “nice to meet you bleep bleep” but Captain Scarlet said “hang on a minute captain blue doesn’t go bleep it’s not allowed” and Captain Scarlet got out a big magnet and Captain Blue’s head fell off. “Just as I thought it’s got custard in and he is a robot” and he licked the custard off his finger and said “THIS IS FRENCH CUSTARD” so he got in a train and went to La Rochelle.

Captain Scarlet got out and there was a Samurai blocking his way. The Samurai said “HELLO MR SCARLET PREPARE TO DIE!” and Captain Scarlet said “that’s CAPTAIN scarlet actually, have a care” and the Samurai said “UH-OH RESPECT ISSUES!” and killed himself. Then Captain Scarlet found three wishes in his pocket and said “I wish my arms were so long that I could feed the children in Africa” and his arms grew to seven thousand miles long and he went to see a play and when he clapped at the end he accidentally slapped George Bush who said “who slapped my president face it had better not have been you Rumsfeld”.

After the play Captain Scarlet went back on his mission and found a trail of custard leading to the leaning tower of pisa. And he met a sad ghost who said “Booooo. I am a ghost because I needed to go to the toilet before I died and I didn’t and now I cannot rest.” Captain Scarlet backflipped and did the splits. “Can you go to the toilet for me please Captain Scarlet?”

“No probs! I needed to go anyway,” and Captain Scarlet wee-weed so hard that it went around the world and hit him on the back of the head with stickers from Peru on it. “Thank you so much” said the ghost and gave Captain Scarlet a mysterious statue. Captain Scarlet gave the ghost the thumbs up, and it went up George Bush’s nose and George Bush said “really this has gone beyond a joke”.

Captain Scarlet rubbed the statue and it went “FPPPFPPFPPFPFPPPP” and sucked Captain Scarlet through a wormhole and he said “oh look there is a big grandfather clock and a caveman” then suddenly he was in the underwater secret base of the robots.

“Oh no it is a custard eater, run away or he’ll eat our custard blood” said the robots and they all ran away except for one that had a headband on. “I am the king of the robots and I am indestructible too so let’s fight” and they fought for TWENTY MINUTES. “you are one tough cookie” said Captain Scarlet. “you are a difficult nut to crack” replied the king of the robots. “that’s nothing, you are a stubborn banana” replied Captain Scarlet. Then Captain Scarlet realised he had a wish left and said “I wish I could do roundhouse kicks” and the king of the robots said “uh-oh” but it was too late and he was dead.

Later on at Captain Scarlet’s house everyone was having tea and jam. “You know what the funny thing is?” said Captain Scarlet and everyone raised their eyebrows. “I don’t eat custard anyway it’s got eggs in” said Captain Scarlet and everyone laughed.

This is my fourth week in the University. I’ve been working with nurses and fake cervix dolls for so long now, that I’d forgotten some of my previous jobs. And those previous jobs, while I’ve enjoyed them with a slow frown and a dumb acceptance, have been occasionally shit. According to some friends, I’m capable of “so much more”, I’m just not certain what exactly I’m capable of, and when I ask people what it is I’m capable of, they utterly fail to write out my ten-year plan.

There’s something quite gratifying, however, about taking orders from someone who has no idea what they’re talking about, and seeing what facial expressions you can get away with.

Take your average post room. It’s undemanding work mentally, so as an employer you’ve got a wider scope of employable IQs. How diplomatic was that? I’m saying that I worked with some amazing, top rank retards. In the post room in which I worked in I did, there were two full-fledged mouth-breathers.

There was a semi-autistic bloke called Dennis, and a real-life wowzer Downer called Josephine. Everyone called her Jo, but she’d look really grumpy when they did, so I made the effort and used her full name. Because despite the fact I’m writing this now, I’m not a monster.

Josephine. It took me until day seven in the post room before she introduced herself. She seemed shy, and unable to meet my friendly glances. After a week, the part of myself given to irritating fantasy was telling me she fancied me, and was asking me how I’d deal with it if she made a pass at me. They’re strong people, I assume from absolute ignorance. Would I be able to fight her off?

I took a photo of her on my phone. Here she is. I’m sorry, Josephine, but you’d be the first to admit that you do all look the bloody same.

Once we’d broken the ice, Josephine relaxed. The practical evidence of her relaxation was that she would belch in front of me. She’d belch about five times a day, and I got into the regular routine of saying “Josephine, I heard that!”, later developing it into “One more for good luck?”, and “It sounds like the ruddy docks in here!”

It became our routine. She’d smile at me, and I’d wink back at her. Then we’d get back to posting council tax reminders to our neighbours. There was comfort.

Things changed when, by pure and wonderful fortune, she let rip with a shocking belter. I was looking at her, and what I saw hypnotised me for ten minutes. Her top set of dentures slid out of her mouth. They didn’t fly out, or anything dramatic - they slid, slowly, over her bottom lip and came to rest. It was like watching a sleepy Alien’s little head come out, to see who’s come knocking at 3am. I failed to make my usual buddy-ha-ha comment. I couldn’t find the words. Josephine pushed her teeth back in, and gave me a cheeky, knowing smile.

I wanted to see it again. I’d stare at Josephine, to the point where I was worried that people would notice I was staring at her. So I had to turn it into a game. I would limit myself to five second stares, where I’d will her to belch so fruitily that it caused her dentures to drop onto the table. If she didn’t, I wasn’t allowed to stare at her again for ten minutes. This game was the only reason I didn’t stare at her solidly for eight hours.

By the time I’d finished that job, I’m certain that Josephine thought I had fallen in love with her. The symptoms were identical.

Onto Dennis, then. Dennis had a mental age of 11, and was spot-on. Friendly, he had the Asperger’s trait of being set in his routine, and panicky without it. Dennis loved music. He loved Coldplay, Travis, and Starsailor. He did, remember, have a mental age of 11.

One day he came in, clearly excited, with a new edition of the Guinness Book of Hit Singles. This was his obsession, his autistic party trick. He had memorized every entry of the old edition, and set about reading the new one in every spare minute. After two weeks, he challenged us all to ask him anything. Anything at all.

But… because he was only semi-autistic (he could engage on an emotional level - he was genuinely fond of people - and he loved jokes), he didn’t have the full-on idiot savant skills range. So he’d constantly get things wrong. And when he did get things right, it was generally stuff that I’d know, from a lifetime of non-autistic what I call “listening to music”.

Break times were, therefore, a squalid exercise in rolling your eyes and leafing through the Guinness Book of Hit Records, looking for fucking obvious records. Paint It Black, Dennis? IS IT NATALIE IMBRUGLIA?

When I said, earlier, that Dennis had a grasp of jokes, let me tell you his favourite joke;

Why did the world outside stop raining?
Because it had run out of water.

I laughed at this. It was brilliant that he’d specified that the world outside had stopped raining. Because it wouldn’t rain inside, even if the world hadn’t run out of water, you see. He may be spaffed upstairs, but he’s not stupid.

Dennis’ next favourite joke - My friend asked me if I took the train home - I said no, I can’t get it through the front door.

Every day at the post room, every day spent opening envelopes, came with a growing sense of belonging. And I’d like to be able to say that was the reason I left… but it wasn’t. I left because there was a couple of extra quid an hour on offer in a nearby nursing university. With cervical smear videos and everything.

Since putting up the Instant Arousal Collection, I’ve been swamped with emails, texts, and more. People have flung futuristic LED message frisbees at me, which have tonked me on the nose. Cheerleaders have arranged themselves to spell things with their T-shirts, and God himself stuck his dick through the clouds to piss a message into the Christmas morning snow. And lo, it was sizey.

Here’s some of the correspondance.

“Dear Another Little Disappointment,
I take approximately five minutes to masturbate, as I have a very weak grip. Your video clips last only 40 seconds. This means I had to watch the same clip eight times before I done gone off on the hands. However, by my fifth watch, erotic fatigue had set in, and the once-charged images had degraded into a bewilderingly unsexual nonsense. What do you suggest?
Yours, Pat (a boy)”

First off, Pat, shut the fuck up. These clips are infinitely sexy. Not only are they immune to porn fatigue, but because of their inifinitely sexy nature, time is irrelevant to the wanking process. Upon being exposed to these images, you will ejaculate in one divided by infinity seconds. See this graph here;

So, you can see that it is theoretically impossible for you not to have immediately slung soil. Perhaps you were watching a different clip, or perhaps you caught the reflection of yourself in the monitor glare. If you are infinitely hideous, and from the sound of your wrists you probably are, then try wanking with your monitor at an angle so you can’t see yourself grunting.

“hello i can’t watch video at work do you have any infinitely erotic jpegs for me to look at please”

Well, it’s not possible for a still image to be infinitely erotic. Think of any erotic image from any magazine, and then think how much sexier it’d be, if the tits and cocks were bouncing around. As bouncy is sexier than unbouncy, and still images cannot be bouncy, it stands to reason that still images cannot be infinitely sexy. That said, I do have some images that are (infinity - bouncy) sexy, that you can set to be your desktop wallpapers.

Drizzled With Ecstasy - I Can’t And Won’t Stop The Spunk
The Garden Of Flesh - Terror Is The Spice In The Curry Of Love
Paris Is For Lovers - I’m On A Semen Diet - I See Men, I Eat Their Semen

Looking at these images will, I promise, cause your busters to spin in their pods.

Converted Ambulance Combines Allure, Style, Mystique

As the residents of Ealing witnessed the arrival of a new kind of automobile, everyone agreed - one lucky gang of young Australian men was going to be enjoying some serious pussy this Summer. The converted ambulance that Jono, Horse and Bongo transformed into Titti Titti Bang Bang has already caused a leap of 21% in local females frothing at the gash.

“Damn, the bitches are going to love that,” commented one green-eyed neighbour. “Their knickers’ll be around their skanky knees before they get the chance to form a rational thought. And when they look inside and see that tatty mattress and those ethnic throws, they’ll be mashing their tits against the windows, trying to get in. I’ll certainly be circumcising my whore of a wife, just in case.”

“Titti used to be an ambulance,” said Jono. “She was full of healers. Now she’s full of Sheilas,” he quipped. “The only stretcher in Titti now is my fat cock,” he added, thirty seconds later. Horse confesses that their previous methods of getting around haven’t been as successful in bagging easy snatch. “First off, we sliced WHOREFUCKERS into the side of a horse, and rode it around the park. The chick’s didn’t dig that at all. Said three guys on a horse looked gay. We were living in a neon pussy wasteland. Then we went around in a helicopter. Horse’d do loop the loops, and Bongo’d shine a big light and shout FBI - SHOW US YER NELLY. That was a bit better, but since we got Titti Titti Bang Bang, we have literally been fighting for air in a vast heap of tits and wombs.”

To what do scientists attribute the attraction? We assembled a crack team of sexperts, sexamologians, and sexpots to crack the Titti code. After three months in his wild underground Labia-oratory, lead sex boffin Dougie Fresh presented his findings with tousled hair and his top button undone. “We’ve isolated the aphrodisiacal qualities of this automobile to two equally important areas,” concluded our bonkologist, before putting down his pen and looking over the rim of his glasses. “It seems to be 50% Titti and 50% Bang.”

But not everyone approves of the new arrival - a team of thirty vicars has joined forces and built a remote-controlled hammer to smash in the bonnet, and lesbians are damaging the wheel trims with violent protest humping.

Jono, Horse and Bongo are unrepentant - “Titti is like a family member,” says Horse. “The only way we’d scrap her is if a fat chick breached the security systems and dragged her Frank Langellas across the mattress.” Horse buries his face in his hands. “Nobody should have to deal with that.”

Episodes : One : Two : Three

Firestarter and Waterboy are Superheroes. Their adventures failed to grace the screens of third generation mobile phones over two years ago, and they died from the only disease that can kill Superheroes - public indifference and biceps cancer. They died in obscurity, although you may be aware of the Adam Sandler movie and Prodigy song named after them. (Note clever reversal there, reality is mine to play with.)

The Adventures of Firestarter and Waterboy are rendered lovingly in wmv video files. “What?” you are screaming! “But this kind of thick-lined, simply-drawn and garishly-coloured low frame rate animation would be ideally suited to the earliest versions of Flash!” And you’re right. It just didn’t work out that way and I’m sorry.

FIRESTARTER AND WATERBOY
The Professor Fate Quadrology #1 : Oh Noes Were Tide To Wall

In this first exciting instalment, we join our heroes in the sparsely decorated laboratory of Professor Fate. They have been captured in a really high-budget fight scene where everyone used their powers. Sadly, they remain pretty much motionless for the duration of this scene, apart from to talk a bit and look at each other. But the badly-timed dialogue is quite well lip-synched, so it’s not all bad.

[Reader clicks pic for ACTION]

PS : I am Firestarter and Professor Fate, Simon is Waterboy, And I Forgot Who Did The Animation. These are good credits ‘cos I did most.

Apparently there’s a code of mutual respect amongst tattooed people; you don’t look at another man’s tattoos, wince in disbelief and say “what the fuck were you thinking, man? That’s not gonna come off, you know! You do know that, right? Everyone knows that. For fuck’s sake! Why didn’t you just cut your dick off and ram it up your ass if you wanted to fuck yourself so bad? Sheeeeet! Ah tell ya, boy, you some fucked up sumbitch. Get the fuck outta my eyes with that monster bad shit! [improvises for ten minutes]”

I don’t have a tattoo, so I say that sort of thing nearly every day. It’s still probably a bit rude, but really - it’s your own fault. It’s not like your parents had a latent genetic defect which caused you to be born with a naked woman riding a pony into a skull’s mouth on your arm. Although if there was a gene that did that, I would instantly believe in god, and sing his praises from my tiny bedroom window.

I like most tattoos. I prefer bad ones, though. Until last week, the tattoo below had been my personal favourite in the “most bafflingly ill-advised skinstain” competition. This tattoo was the one, more than any other, that left me gobsmacked with incredulous horror.

And I can’t explain why, properly. Whenever I try to explain why this is a terrible, befuddling choice of body decoration, words genuinely do fail me. Luckily, when I show it to other people, they generally say “no way is that a real tattoo, fuck off” in such an appalled gasp that I don’t need to explain. Here it is, I’ll let you react.

Does your body ache with sadness? What bothers you more - is it the tube map (for which he had to get permission from London Underground), or is it the domain name, complete with doubleyoudoubleyoudoubleyoudot?A domain name bellowed in a gothic font that would unite the Bloods, Cripps and Beckhams in a tooth-sucking free-for-all?

Well, forget that. Because last week, I walked past the worst tattoo I have ever seen on a human being.

No. Fuck you. Fuck off and fuck you. Also, fuck that. Fuck off, you, and that. Piss off. Piss and fuck off, and fuck you and that. Mathematically, if that’s me, what are you?

fuck off + fuck that + fuck you = me
divide both sides by fuck
off + that + you = me / fuck
you = me / fuck - that - off

I’m sorry. I’m burying myself in comfortable maths so I don’t have to deal with the image of the unhappy folds of melting flesh rolling down his back, and the big spot by the man’s right knee. The picture, as hideous as it is, isn’t the thing that makes me want to cry so sad Doctor. It’s the fact that it seems to be the clumsiest, most ham-fistedly in-your-face way of saying “I LIKE TRUNCHEONS UP MY ARSE”. Power to you, sir. Here is a medal the size of a dinner plate. Why not celebrate your love of truncheon-ups with a fucking huge, ugly mess on your back? Oh! You already have! My silly!

I know of one guy who’s got a really badly drawn picture of Mark Lamarr on his leg. What I wouldn’t give to waggle its chin and say “Hi, I’m Mark Lamarr! Who wants a jelly baby?”

Sigh.

This is a challenge to myself to write as much as possible about putting on a sock. If I can make 1,000 words, I win a weekly column in the Daily Mail about life’s little trials, and how men and women are different sometimes.

I had a little panic this morning. I put on a sock that was too small for me.

I’d taken the sock out of my drawer dozens of times before. And usually, I squint at it and put it back, so I can do exactly the same thing the next day. This means that I have developed a little relationship with this sock - it’s the never-say-die sock with the can-do spirit. Today, through recklessness, wild optimism, or a begrudging acknowledgement of the sock’s tenacity, I thought I’d try to put it on.

A little more information about the sock might be appropriate here. This sock has long since lost its partner, and it is an angry looking, gnarled thing. Hewn from a coarse, “sporting” fabric, with unforgiving elastic ribbing snarling around the ankle. A thinness at the toes implies that it has been worn, but I swear to you now, on a big pile of holy books, unicorn blood and my mum - I have never worn this sock.

If the sock’s lost its partner, I hear you cry in unison in a shriek that blots out the sun, why the hell are you wearing it? I’m ashamed to say that I wear odd socks. This has led, on occasion, to accusations of self-conscious kookiness. “Haha, odd socks. How edgy! What’s next? Gonna shit in a pram?” No, It’s not that. I’m simply not patient enough to pair my socks off. The idea of standing over a pile of socks, and tucking them into little socky balls just seems so repulsively anal. I’ve taken steps to find a viable workaround - I’ve bought 20 pairs of identical socks. But this doesn’t seem to work. Probably because I didn’t throw away my old socks. Fuck. I’ve only just worked that out.

I’m not even certain the sock’s mine. I’ve inherited, from somewhere, a pair of boxer shorts so baggy and vast that when I’ve felt adventurous enough to wear them, my balls began to ache from a sense of desolation. So this aggressive sock could belong to anyone who’s been in my room and taken their socks off. And if you’ve been in my room and taken your socks off, hello. How’s it going? We must go for drinks sometime. I could bring the sock.

Incidentally, I’d be very interested to know if anyone else’s balls ache when they need a big shit - it’s something that’s bothered me for a while, now, and everytime I ask someone do your balls ache when you need a big shit? they look at me in such a cock-headed way that I have to laugh and say “haha, me either! That’d be fucking strangeness!“.

I’ve got the sock over the width of my foot, and already I’m feeling a shade claustrophobic. But I’d feel daft just taking it off again - like I wasn’t doing myself or the sock any justice. So I keep worming my fingers around the elasticated ribbing to work it over my heel. The tightness of the elastication starts to feel suffocating, and I let out a little whimper.

If you take a coat off sloppily, the sleeve can fold inside itself. And when you try to put the coat back on, you meet an impenetrable foreskin of cloth. The more pressure you put on the inverted sleeve, the more it locks around your fist. And no amount of spinning in a circle, trying to look what’s gone wrong will loosen it. And that’s the first experience I’ve ever had with Dressing Yourself Panic. But in the Coat Scenario, there are a hundred things you can do; you can run, waving your arm above your head, into a Budgen’s store, where the cashiers will be glad to help you. You can phone someone with your free hand and ask them to sing lullabies. You could be brazen and walk into town, like you meant to do it. The one thing you mustn’t do, and the one thing that it is not within me to do, is calmly take off the coat, and unfold the sleeve before putting it on properly.

I am in a very different situation, however. And as the sock reluctantly stutters and stalls over my heel, with one finger of each hand held captive in the clamp of the ribbing, I can’t do anything. Three of my limbs are occupied with this fucking sock, and I’m stuck with this stubborn sense of not-moving-backwards that is making me behave like a quietly demented obsessive. I can’t phone anyone, I can’t move anywhere, and I’m naked except for this one sock, so Budgen’s is out. I don’t even want to wear the sock any more - I hate this sock.

And that’s when time momentarily loses meaning, and I’m convinced I’ll be like this forever. It’ll just be seconds - probably even a fraction of a second - until rationality lands on me, and I take the sock off. But until then, my entire body is in my throat, and I’m absolutely certain that everyone I know is watching me, and I am going to fall off the chair and crack my head on the corner of something.

When sanity descends, I take the sock off and find one of the smooth, slip-slidy Lycra-lined luxury socks that cost me more than a pound a pair. The sun rises, a cartoon sparrow sings, and life transforms back into a catalogue of possibilities. Did I throw the sock away? No. The bin was in a different room, and I was still too flustered from my ordeal to navigate to the kitchen. So I put it back in the drawer.

I’m at work now, but the sock’s still there. Presuming I don’t come home to find myself wearing it, in a shock Tales of the Unexpected twist, I’m going to burn it. I’m going to take it into the back garden and burn it. I understand that there’s still its missing partner to be accounted for, and I’m quite prepared for sock-puppet revenge attacks should someone stitch buttons and a tongue onto it. Until the dramatic sequel, however, I will have won.

1,016 words about putting on a sock. I must surely win the coveted “I Can’t Rate Myself And My Experiences Highly Enough” Award for 2005. Give me crowns.