Just a brief observation

I am in the unfortunate position of having a birds eye view of the car park from my desk, it’s not even the interesting corner of the car park where the ladies running team warm down at lunchtimes and the work dogging club meets either, oh no I get a marvellous vista of the disabled parking spaces near the door (where not much warming down and only nominal amounts of dogging are done)
Anyway in my position of ‘Physically Impaired Monitoring Person’ or P.I.M.P I have been closely observing the ‘Handicapped or Equivalent staff’ or H.O.E.S as they like to be known. Now as most of you are aware companies like my employer love hiring people with defects not because it salves a guilty conscience or out of a sprit of togetherness and inclusivity, it’s because they get tax breaks for every Stephen Hawkins stunt double they employ and all they have to do to accommodate them is knock up a ply wood skate board ramp by the door and install a children’s toilet.
What I want to know is when being a massive fatty became a disability………….I mean these people are assigned parking spaces which are clearly designated for those with disabilities and yet all they have to do to qualify is have a big hole at one end that they shovel food into quicker than they jettison it out of the smaller hole at the other end, more laziness than disability in my opinion.
At least two of every three H.O.E.S are just basically whale sized cake eating machines and it must really piss off the quadriplegic switch board operator Richard, known to his freinds as clever dick who has to squeeze his postman Pat fliddy van in between their SUVs to park. That’s not to mention the danger to life and limb (ok not limb) that being that slow moving and made of meat represents around these Megalodon food Hoovers either.

What’s that’s noise I can hear? Is it a bird, is it a plane, is it a man on the plane setting his Y fronts on fire?

No!

It’s the chorus of the fatties, and what’s their cry?

‘We have thyroid problems, its not our fault, we have thyroid problems its not our fault’

If it were up to me, and it isn’t but if it were I would make our big boned brethren park as far away from the doors as possible. Disabled spaces by the door for those with genuine disabilities and fatty spaces at the far end of the car park for those who like their cakes, we could even set up a burger van there to furnish them with snacks for the waddle.
To conclude, if you dear reader are sat at home reading this with a coke in one hand and a subway in the other and if the last time you saw your genitals was the wrong way round in a mirror then spare us the tired thyroid line and get out there and do some exercise! As the Arabs would say I declare a FatWar on you!

Happy Smiley People

If there was ever a software tool that has revolutionised the way we arrange office affairs, organise our hectic social schedules, gossip about the bloke with the massive head we saw in the coffee shop that morning and occasionally do some work, it has to be instant messaging. You know the type of thing, its like real time text message conversation with little pictures that you can use to convey your emotions which generally, in the context of work, are pretty much exclusively sad, angry and depressed repeated ad nausem at least until someone comes up with ones representing futility, lethargy and a general loss of the will to live.
Still, it has its uses, no longer do I have to wrap a hankie around my phone receiver and furtively hide under my desk to tell the blonde from down the corridor she has a rack like two puppies fighting in a sack, I can just message her and tell her. Its somehow easier this way, more personal whilst being less personal – obviously in this case you have to frame your compliment in a easily misinterpreted way lest offence be taken and the thought police called, something maybe along the lines of:

‘LOL’ ‘winky smiley’ Has anyone ever told you that the top row of that spreadsheet you just send me looks like 2 puppies fighting in a sack?? ‘LOL’ ‘winky smiley’

Using Instant messaging in the office is somewhat different from how children and paedophiles use it on the internet and lets face it, they are the only people who do, after all, I can hardly pretend to be a twelve year old girl with an unhealthy obsession for Take That and cute puppies when this time yesterday we were sat opposite each other in a meeting room arguing over some imagined budget related slight. More to the point, everyone in the office is over 16 anyway therefore rendering the old ‘lure them into your van with offers of sweeties and then chloroform them’ tactic largely ineffective although not even I would wager with the woman who does things on the phone, I have no idea of her actual job title or responsibilities aside from eating constantly but by the look of her, she’d service the whole England rugby team for a chubba chubba lolly!
Whilst the instant message has had a profound positive influence on the so many facets of work life, it does also have to be treated with a little respect. Just like the family dog can one day, and for no discernable reason, turn round and bite you on the arse – so can this. Imagine the following scenario if you will…. I have had an IM from Gary(th) asking me a stupid, frankly borderline retarded question, at the same time I am having another conversation with a friend in another office, discussing the benefits of midget farming and how we could make serious cash from breeding small people. In a moment of lost concentration I type the following in the wrong window and send it to Gary(th), instead of my Umpa Lumpa farming compadre.

‘That oxygen thief Gary(th) has just asked me the most retarded question ever, he really is depriving a village somewhere of an idiot, in China they would have injected formaldehyde into his head at birth and saved us all this arse ache’

Luckily, in this case no offence was caused as Gary(th) just assumed I knew two people in this place called Gary(th), one of them in our Peking office – small world eh! but you can see the potential for disaster that this kind of situation can create!
Something else that has caused me to run the good ship Messenger firmly aground on more than one occasion is the fact that unlike a verbal conversation there is a record of anything that finds its way across the messaging ether. Imagine we have been having a conversation about what a total dimwit my esteemed leader is and how given half the chance and a total collapse of law and order I’d love to take his laptop and firmly stuff it where the sun does not and never will shine. Ten minutes later, and with the aforementioned dimwit at my desk, you type a reply to my last statement and up flashes in all its Technicolor glory for the whole world, especially those at my desk to see the whole angry rant… Oh how we laughed, all the way to the door marked ‘Human Resources – de lousing showers ahead’
I haven’t finished this subject yet, not by a long chalk so expect more on the virtual minefield that is instant messaging sometime soon. In the mean time you all just keep LOL’ing your way through 2010.

Merry Christmas Please

My boss has invited me to take up the challenge of arranging our department Christmas party, when I say invited I mean ordered, I don’t get a choice – those of you that know me will realise this is about as clever as asking Myra Hindley to baby-sit. This is a ridiculously bad idea for two key reasons, firstly I don’t really like Christmas and secondly I don’t really like the majority of the witless dribbling unwashed masses I am forced to interact with at work, a recipe for festive related disaster me thinks.
The princely sum of £20 per head is available for me to blow on this soirée so an evening at the Ritz is out, incidentally the term ‘per head’ is on the conversational ban list here as it is seen as being derogatory to minorities who were born without heads and also latterly victims of Al Qaeda like that scouse bloke Ken, anyway as usual I digress.
So, I have decided to come at this from a multi faith ethnically diverse and non exclusive approach which for those of you who do not work in directorate three of the thought police (ethnic festival management) means I am going to make it as un Christmassy as humanly possible. Not for the benefit of the PLO sleeper agent in our architecture team although he will be pleased but more because its my party and I don’t like Christmas.
In Bygone years Christmas in an office environment used to be a time of long pub lunches paid for by grateful management, time to bond as a team, to buy each other presents and if your luck is in or you have a spare fiver a ten minute knee trembler in the stationary cupboard with Janet the bike from accounts, all before going home to get ready for the big gratis evening dinner dance, partners welcome.
Christmas isn’t even called Christmas anymore, the ‘Festive period’ is no longer about peace and good will to all men (sexist statement) nor is it about management making that extra effort to make staff feel appreciated and included. It’s all about making sure your dates don’t slip, projects still march inexorably forward and people who know what they are doing are on call over the holidays to assist our offshore friends. As for the knee trembler with Janet well, the stationary cupboard has been rearrnaged into a windowless office with 8 desks crammed into it and even if it wasn’t Janet and her Yule tide duties are now being carried out by someone called Ranjeet in India, at least the post it note ordering part is anyway.
All in all celebrating Corporate Christmas is crap (alliteration mega streak!) its more about making sure work isn’t effected and minority groups aren’t in some way offended, not that any of the ‘minority’ individuals I work with care, the cynical amongst us might say its our paranoid directorate three friends keeping themselves in work and I would have to agree.
All that said at least my boss will be pleased that his year and probably slightly suspicious as I have for once decided to tow the company line, embrace our mission statement and ethos and pull in the same direction as management – in other words I have arranged for our department Christmas to be at our local curry house! Pint of Kingfisher anyone?

Alles in Ordnung

The atmosphere in the office this week has been one of electric anticipation although unfortunately not because someone has connected up my esteemed leaders swivel chair to the mains and is running a book on how long it will be till his ears burst into flame.
We have someone from the mothership visiting to give us a shot of morale in the arm and a good kick up the arse to boot (pun intended) just in case we thought someone has started caring. This is the smiling, teeth whitened, Grecian 2000 velvet glove which encases the iron fist of day to day stalag luft management of summary executions, public beatings and forlorn, forgotten hope.
This guy looks like an extra from the Sopranos and has a name to match, Jimmy ‘The Spreadsheet’ Ravioli or something equally New Yorky and minority without being too minority. The easy manner and predatory smile of a second hand car salesman or loan shark are offset by the sort of ‘trust me’ ‘man of the people’ mannerisms that defined Tony Blair or at least would be offset if it wasn’t for the fact that Blair is about as trust worthy as a randy Necrophiliac in a Morgue and about as much of a man of the people as PolPot was the 1988 face of spec savers or Nick Griffin is going to be the next poster boy for United Colours of Benetton.
As we are all corralled like reticent sheep towards two hours of total atrophy there is a very unseemly rush and tangle of the usual arsekissers trying to secure front row seats – it reminds me of the herd of thirty something lonely fatties at my wedding clambering over each other to catch my wife’s bouquet – note: I have been married for 5 years, the sad spinster who elbowed and bit her way to bouquet triumph is still single and will remain so, forever.
Jimmy the Spreadsheet greats us all with a cheery wave and a beaming smile – he reminds me slightly of an Italian Kim Jong Ill. Any minute this guy is going to start making a pistol mime with his hands and start picking off people in the audience – pow pow pow! I have decided that if he does I am going to mime running up on stage and setting off a suicide vest – boom boom boom! – I reckon he’ll see the funny side.
The next two hours pass in a blurred mixture of management bullshit, false bonhomie, thinly veiled threats and dictat- rather like Hitler’s Reichstag speech of December 1941 but marginally warmer and cuddlier, if I wasn’t such a cynic I might even have been drawn in.
Now comes my favourite part of these events, its question time! I love this. Its rather like feeding time at a zoo for retarded animals but being compared by a convicted child molester (that might not be true) with a hand held microphone and a comb over. Some of the dribble that these people come out with, have even practised the delivery of in front of a mirror beggars belief, its like car crash T.V.!

‘Hi Jimmy, I have a question, I notice that quarter 3 earnings are up 1.2 percent on quarter 2 earnings, does this mean that soft tip fineline pens will be back in stock in our stationery cupboards?’

‘Hi Jimmy, Welcome to England, I noticed whilst stalking you online that your facebook page lists you as being interested in water sports, for a small rise in grade I will let you wee on me as much as you like….. please Jimmy, pleeeeeeease, I love you!’

Well Jimmy, I have a question to which you won’t have a down pat twee politicians answer, put this in your management pipe and smoke it!

‘Mr Ravioli, I won’t presume to address you in the familiar, I don’t know you from Adam (alarm bells have started ringing and the smile is sliding off his smug fat Wop face) Answer me this…. How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if you hadn’t made him redundant and outsourced his role to India??’

Queue red faced head explosion……..

Pax(wo)man presents……

A black armband has been donned today and my alarm clock is broadcasting sombre martial dirges as yet another great British institution crumbles to dust in front of my disbelieving eyes, I am sure you’ll agree it’s a dark day for mankind and an even darker one for Gods favourite children, the English. I am of course referring to the appearance this week, and reader I type this with tearful eyes and angrily clenches buttocks of no less than a trannie on that international recognised pillar of Englishness, University Challenge.
Don’t get me wrong I have nothing against transsexuals, cross dressing midget vicars or gender benders of any shape and size, apart from short fat hairy ones that look like a rouged Ronnie Corbett of course. For one to appear on UC though, to cross the hallowed ground and sit at the quiz desk of dreams is akin to a tramp taking a huge steamy dump at the alter of St Pauls Cathedral smack bang in the middle of Christmas Mass, to coin an old adage ‘its just not cricket old man!’
I mean seriously, whatever next – are they going to have the black and brown (white is so 1920’s) minstrels pod cast the Queen Speech via the medium of rap? Will Cheryl Cole open the Houses of Parliament next year with a live rendition of her latest puerile gibberish dressed up as a gaudy and provocative beef eater? Enough is enough.
Before this moral decline began we wouldn’t have become embroiled in unwinnable conflicts in Afghanistan and Iraq, for starters we OWNED both these provincial back waters and more importantly at the first size of uppity locals we’d have sent in a couple of her Majesty’s gunboats to shell the crap out of the offending Fuzzy Wuzzies and nip any trouble in the bud. Before one of my more pedantic followers points out that Afghanistan is landlocked and doesn’t lend itself to the aforementioned gun boats they can be substituted by the 41st Regiment of Foot resplendent in mutton chops (the hirsute kind not stringy lamb) and scarlet tunics ready to take the bayonet to the enemy, they don’t like it up um they don’t!

I think it boils down to this.

Bring back:
Facial hair, not for the lady obviously, this isn’t Albania.
Devilled kidneys for breakfast, gentleman’s relish and steamed suet puddings.
Sword sticks, top hats and hansom carriages (without horses, I HATE horses!)
Servile working classes who know their place, doffing of caps and curtseying.
Capital punishment, corporal punishment and anal punishment (ask your Mum)

Get rid of:
Baseball caps, velour of any kind and training shoes not actually designed for sports but for fat unemployed people.
Mens moisturiser, low fat yoghurt, butter substitutes and Alco pops designed to be consumed by fat unemployed people.
Health and Safety of any kind – that’s what Darwinism is for.
Blackberries, not the fruit, they are fine but the stupid star trek style management style communicator. Gary(th) muttered something about keeping iPhones as he read over my shoulder, I think that’s what he said anyway, its difficult to tell what with his prolapsing cleft palate and all.
Reality T.V. or even better go the whole hog and turn them into running man style gladiatorial death fests for societies bottom feeders, Davina can still present……
The poor, the annoying, the poor and annoying, the habitually unemployed and anyone from North of the River Cam.

God Bless the Queen.

Its a Jungle out there…..

Say hello to my new management team, they couldn’t do a worse job than the present incumbents.
Left to Right – Bernard Feathernose, 2 Dogs Copulating, Bonaparte Nostril and Trigger.

To coin an old adage ‘It’s a jungle out there’ which to be honest is less daunting that you might first think.…..jungles are easy places to live and even thrive compared to an office environment, think about it, Mega Mears, God botherer Bear and the legions of bark smoking loonies from the Amazon basin whom Bruce Parry insists on pestering all seem perfectly happy wearing grass skirts and chasing their dinner round with a spear, lets face it, its as easy as falling out of a hollowed out log canoe!
Take me out of the concrete jungle and parachute me screaming like a girl into the leafy one and I’d be fine for at least a few days if not longer- I can eat frogs and other stupid things attracted using the standard Nokia ring tone on my mobile (I have been reliably informed it sounds very similar to the mating call of the lesser spotted Bolivian flying squirrel) I could fashion a still from a shoe and my Y fronts and make vodka from banana leaves and believe you me if you have never had frog ala banana leaf vodka then you have not lived my friends.
Anyway my point really is this, put me into a frog eat frog real world survival situation and I’d be moderately ok for a while but put the Umbutu people from the arse end of Papua New Guinea into my office and they would be dead within the hour, either from gross boredom, stress induced by gross boredom, being ambushed by our change control idiot or similar gruesome end.
I hate to see our Change Control idiot happy, it irks me nearly as surely as double joggers nipple on a cold morning so I have compiled the following handy survival kit list for all my Umbutu followers out there just in case they ever take a wrong turning down by the river and find themselves in my florescent hell.

1) Ipod or not fruity less cool substitute

If it wasn’t for my headphones and the soothing calming melodies of ‘people equal shit’ by Slipknot the monotonous drone of Gary(th) my neighbour would have driven me to suicide. At least I would have made it look like suicide, or maybe a freak accident – people trip and bludgeon themselves to death with a monitor all the time, its practically a daily occurrence isn’t it?

2) Pocket full of loose change

Without the means to use the new utterly shite drinks vending machines you will either die of dehydration or be forced to drink from a toilet bowl like an Albanian peasant and die of diphtheria, AIDS or Ebola. Personally though the jury is still out as to if death is not preferable to ingesting the sludgy chemical waste that passes for beverages here.

3) Blow pipe and Curare tipped darts

Just because I am imagining shooting my boss with one and then watching him fall over forward like that bloke from Indiana Jones with a back full of quills, do you think it is possible to make that look like an accident or maybe some bizarre sexual fetish game gone wrong?

4) A Management bullshit into Umbutu phrase book

Available from all good publishers and Asda. Without it you will be a stranger in a strange land with no knowledge of the language and practices of the natives, if you can’t put it on the backburner and deep dive with the best of them you will be cast asunder and end up in the post room never to escape.

5) Jaguar skin cloak complete with claws and teeth

Because nothing gets to the front of the queue in the coffee shop quicker than impersonating a jaguar, honest…… apart from possibly a two person full grown polar bear costume but lets not get carried away.

6) A Chilled bottle of Vintage Krug Champagne

For no other reason than even this mired cess pit of despair could be transformed into a veritable Eden by the liberal application of vintage Krug, not to mention the fact that the Umbutu people are not known for their alcohol tolerance and the though of a pissed stig of the dump gambolling round the office with a bone through his nose amuses me.

Du Pain, Du Vin, Du Piano Wire

Its rare for the French to be leading the rest of the world when it comes to cutting edge business practices but they seem to have managed it this week and with the usual panache, flair and style you’d expect from the nation that gave us haute cuisine, haute couture and haute white flags.
Faced with the tricky prospect of having to deal with a mutinous communist workforce who go on strike at the drop of a beret and where the labour unions have the sort of power and influence that Gordon Brown gets misty eye (use of singular is deliberate) dreaming about our Gaelic cousins have arrived at an ingenious and cost free solution.
Instead of going through the slow, costly and frankly inefficient process of making all their competent garlic breathed staff redundant, paying them off and replacing them with cheap garlic breathed less competent Indians they have instead arrived at a new and innovative approach.

They just hound them to death…..

Not ones to miss a trick and take glory for someone else’s good ideas I await with trepidation as the penny (not a guillotine unfortunately) drops for management here, I can see it now. A large tower will be erected at the end of the car park with a quicklime lined pit dug alongside, meetings will be hosted on top of the aforementioned tower to go though something so mind numbingly eye bleedingly pointless, futile and dull (project delivery framework presentation anyone?) that the only options available to many will be to either attempt to open a major vein with the edge of sheet of torn notepad or to leap athletically to their deaths.
For management it’s a no brainer, not only do you make sure that everyone attends the new project framework delivery presentation but you also manage to cull half your work force in the process, and the best bit…..no pesky death in service or life insurance for you to fork out for, self inflicted injury isn’t covered.

You gotta hand it to these frogs, unlike the Maginot line its a plan with ne pas de flaws.

Love thy Neighbours Goat

I have a new neighbour at work.
This might not seem a big deal to those of you who work out in the big old wide world and can get to see daylight and stuff but to us battery farm types its big news and critical to our continued well being and happiness. We are forced to spent at least 8 hours a day together in close proximity so any niggling issues soon fester into massive ebola ridden running sores and can turn the most mild mannered janitor type into Ian Huntley.
Imagine if you will the impact of getting a new cell mate in prison, you have a very small personal space that you are forced to spend most of your waking hours in and for better or for worse you are inextricably linked to them….. its like being married I suppose but with more sex!
Their farts and morning breath impact on your senses, their dandruff and flaky eczema drift across your field of vision to settle like the first snows of winter on your lunch, their annoying nasal whine is the mosquito in the darkened bedroom that you can never locate, conversations with their wife about their senile parents latest toilet disaster invades your dreams like a thief in the night. In short and without any effort on their part they can metamorphose swiftly and irrevocably into your nemesis!
Of course it could go either way, you might get that rarest of rare beast, someone you click with on every level, who laughs at your crap jokes, fetches you coffee when you are stuck on the phone to India and starting to sob and doesn’t snitch on you to the thought police for spending all day planning your next holiday that the non existent bonus you’ll never get is supposed to pay for.That sort of person though is rarer that rocking horse shit and the chance of having them move in next door is about as likely as Heather Mills winning the sports day parents sack race.
Enter stage left my new ‘cellie’ Gary (not his real name, its really Gareth but for anonymities sake I can’t tell you that) I suppose the acid test for any new relationship of this kind is would I feel comfortable letting Gary(th) meet my mother? the answer to that is an unequivocal and resounding yes, assuming this meeting was held over the bonnet of my mothers car doing fifty miles an hour that is.
Gary(th) is the kind of guy that would give an aspirin a headache. He is in his forties, lives with his parents has an unhealthy interest in train sets and crab sticks and is banned from every pets r us store in the country – in fact why go to the effort of having to decipher my shaky prose to describe him when I could just introduce you with this.
I could forgive him the odd sexual proclivity, I mean what goes on between closed doors toilet or otherwise is none of my business but that thing with the crab sticks is starting to get to me! I don’t know where he secretes them upon his person but he does. I can close my eyes and I don’t have to imagine Billingsgate fish market on a sweltering summers day I just have to inhale and I’m there. In fact its getting so bad I have cats and seagulls following me home and I am definitely not imagining Rick Stein (sans Chalky, ha ha) hidden in my hedge sharpening a knife!
Worse than using his bum as a makeshift train tunnel and his need to don fishnets and stuff processed seafood into every available orifice is, and prepare yourself for this, is that he is a proper Christian.
I don’t mean one of those meek and mild turn the other cheek and tut when you swear types this guy has actually been a missionary in Africa and converted quite happy harmless nomadic smiling goat herders into pious annoying twats who are in fear of their moral souls whatever that means. Given half the chance I’d be hoisted up by my thumbs and filled with olive oil whilst this guy and his friends danced round shouting ‘repent’ ‘repent’ and waving fluffy cushions.
In summary Gary(th) is on an annoyance par with syphilis aside from the cheery thought that syphilis is curable with penicillin whereas he is not, I do suppose though that a sharp HB pencil if jabbed in the correct place and with the correct pressure might do the trick.

Gary(th) if by any chance you read this, mine’s a coffee, 2 sugars there’s a good chap, amen eh!

Cake or Death

I am in a quandary, do I allow a frenzied pack of rabid corpse rats to ravage my genitalia or do I go shopping at Ikea with the wife…… choices choices and drawing on recent experiences I think I’d lean toward gritting my teeth and smearing Mr Happy with Winalot chum!
I now have something in common with Vietnam vets and I don’t mean Mr Han that gives your gerbil its flu jab I mean the wild eyed men of the woods types who keep waking up having strangled their wives (I did warn you not to wear pyjamas to bed!) I am part of the small intrepid band of men who have been posted to Ikea and survived….you had to be there man, you had to be there….yes that’s right, I have seen the metaphorical Ikea elephant and lived to tell the tale, not many men can say that!
If you are lucky enough to have never heard of or visited Ikea (from now on referred to correctly as Pikea) then imagine your most graphic and horrifying visitation of hell and add pale ash chipboard furniture, bric a brac and hordes of lurching retards pushing, pulling or humping shopping trolleys and that’s just the staff!
Pikea is hell on earth for the male form, I imagine the first thing that Eve did after tucking into that apple was think ‘ah, yes Sweden, lets give them Ulrika Jonsson to deflect the ‘whore’ devil’ stuff away from me and what about a massive furniture store so malevolent and destructive to carriers of the Y Chromosome that to experience it is akin to flaying your eyeballs with a rusty potato peeler whilst being buggered by a bull elephant with a Prince Albert’
The perceptive amongst you might have gleaned that I am not the biggest fan of either amorous Elephants with a penchant for piercings or ‘that place’ Its not the products, they are good quality and good value apparently. Its not the staff, they are as helpful as you would expect, the majority are toilet trained and they seem to communicate in some semblance of English. Its not the self service Argos style warehouse of dreams at the end where you can be sure to find that the vital component to the kitchen you have just spend 3 hours designing is out of stock. Its not even the subsidised low quality hotdogs that seem to draw fat wastrels to them like flies to a fresh steaming turd, I don’t know why I hate it so much……

But I do……

A lot….

Who wants to live forever…….Diiiiive!!!!!!!!

Here are two cool things, Monkeys and Midgets…..

On nature documentaries monkeys, chimps, gorillas (not in the mist) and other primitive primates i.e. scousers are always pretty cool, the kind of creature you could use in a tea bag advert (you heard it here first!) or have as a really trendy pet that your bohemian magazine editor friends would be insanely jealous of and that you could dress in tiny trendy children’s outfits – fun for all the family.
Now on to midgets, umpa lumpas, dwarfs and the weird girl that works in the coffee shop here, they are also cool, can also be used in adverts and dressed up in trendy children’s clothes and make great pets once toilet trained.
Now imagine combining the two and maybe throwing into the mix in a jet pack and some kitchen implements, spatulas, spoons, sieves , whatever and what you have is a flying monkey riding midget making pancakes – imagine the kudos you would have amongst your peers when on Shrove Tuesday (and other pancake applicable festivals and Saints days) you can have perfectly formed crepes delivered to the table, via the ceiling and the roof by an umpa lumpa perched side saddle on Cheetah from Tarzan – now THAT would be a celebration of the resurrection of the son of Bod or whatever it is…
Imagine the gasps of wonder and awe if you turned up to play tennis, paint the house, invade Moldavia or go Zorbing with a midget on a monkey in tow (or for the really adventurous you could make your entrance towed across the sky on a chariot pulled by teams of them) it sure as hell beats turning up in a Volvo and I think its fair to say you would stand out from the crowd.
By the way, if you are wondering if I have had a total mental breakdown or received a blow to the head (not in a good way) I can allay your fears -
I have been asked by the lovely Kim aka Jesus to create a bespoke post containing Midgets, Monkeys, Kitchen utensils starting with the letter ‘S’ and Zorbing.
I’d like to think I’ve managed to meet the brief with aplomb so now its my turn to provide my wish list…… be afraid…..be very afraid……

Keep smiling young lady.

P.S. I was unable to procure an image of a midget on a monkey so went for the next best thing a midget dressed as a monkey……is it wrong to be aroused?