June 29, 2003

Salt water makes you Chewie?

A long time ago, before I knew about beer and FHM and still thought girls were just like boys that couldn't play football (I'm gonna get in trouble for that...), I asked my Dad how you grow hair on your chest. He told me that you have to rub salt into your chest before you go to bed. This is supposed to dehydrate the hairs and when they come up for water, you quickly tie knots in them so they can't go back in.

And apparently I wasn't the only one who got told this. I never tried it: nine was my age, not my IQ.

That said, ever since I came back from Ibiza, the hair on may face seems to be growing faster than usual. Maybe it was the minerals in the water, maybe it was the bizarre waking hours (to coincide with bar opening times) or perhaps aftersun is like baby bio for beards? I don't know, and don't really care. All I want to know now is how do I stop it?!

Someone please help before I have to resort to waxing my face.

June 26, 2003

Mmm mmm mmm

There are a lot of noble things that a person can do, even after they die. At work they recently encouraged us all to fill out donor cards, presumably so we can be used for spare parts once we're no good to them anymore.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all in favour of helping someone after you're gone, but at the same time we should probably quite specific about what we're prepared to be put though post mortem. For example, you could wind up being sliced up into 1871 itty bitty strips and scanned into a computer for the visible human project, or be ruthlessly plastinated and put on display, all in the name of art.

But those of us who don't manage heroism or immortalisation might just wind up as a crash test dummy in a blue leotard, as the poor soul in this Guardian extract did. Reading the article the whole idea of testing the limits of the body on, well, bodies sounds terribly sensible, if not more than a little grisly. Somehow though I don't think that's exactly what he signed up for.

Related: Play dead, take pictures (via grayblog)

June 23, 2003


Lick a teaspoon of cream and your tastebuds grin, but lick a teaspoon of powdered coffee creamer and they'll try and eject your voicebox.

Remember that the next time you run out of milk.

Back in business

Fresh back from two weeks in Ibiza and looking very toasty indeed. Had such a good time. It's a magical Island where you can spend most of your waking hours in the dark and yet still come home looking bronzed. Apparently bathing in salty water and living off orange juice and cold pizza for a fortnight does wonders for your complexion.

Holiday snaps when I get them off the camera, and a (probably quite patchy) account as and when I work out what happened and when. But first things first: laundry. Spent the morning trying to unpack, but just seem to have wound up staring at my luggage for two hours though a sleep-deprived haze. I think a trip to Asda for milk and and aftersun is in order.

June 05, 2003

Rolling granny sheepshank and two half hitches

While I have no intention of becoming a Big Brother fanatic, I've caught the odd show here and there, including tonights. I can't believe they failed the Cub Scout challenge. We're talking about a set of tasks designed to be completed by eight year olds. Oh well never mind, they did their best.

Taking an interest in reality TV is not a good sign. I either need to get out more, or go into hiding like Stuart. Perhaps it's a good thing that I'm leaving the country for a while?

No news is good news

There hasn't been any news. It's all good. I've been doing very unremarkable things of late, and not really keeping up with current events. But it's OK, because I'm going abroad next week, so I'll have lots of stories of places far away. If someone could tape Six Feet Under for me while I'm away that'd definately be worth a pint when I get back.

Right, I'm going for a walk, I may be some time...