My campaign to teach men how lucky they are to be able to wee standing up

Last week I gave a very impassioned presentation to the Gift, the subject of which was how he should never take his ability to wee standing up for granted. The claim that started this (which in fairness was perfectly understandable) was that as he rarely avails himself of the ability to wee outside, he doesn't feel he really benefits from his manly plumbing. This was my cue to expound on this topic, and explain how outdoor weeing is only a very minor benefit of the whole male-centric plumbing arrangement. Because the Gift and I have been to festivals together, I was able to draw on our mutual experience of skanky toilets (and a rather graphically elaborate mime which I suspect may have scared him a little bit!) to demonstrate the level of physical contact that one must endure when standing is not an option. I mentioned the enourmous pressure of trying to hover over a rancid hole whilst hitching up your trousers so that the bottoms don't dangle in anything revolting, the awkwardness of trying to detatch toilet roll (should there even be any!) with one hand whilst trying to trouser hitch and balance and the Sophie's Choice style decision between a toilet with a light, one with a seat and one with toilet roll. We touched briefly on the perils of weeing in a bush (everyone knows someone who's really good at it, but I have never managed it without weeing on my feet), and at that point I relented and ersted my case. I genuinely think that men's blase attitude towards their physical advantages is one of the things that annoys me most about the horrors of female toilet arrangements - I might be doing battle against an encroaching tide of effluent, but the thing that annoys me most is that I know the men next door aren't giving a second thought to whether they need to take emergency tissues into the loo with them. If we have sons, I will bring them up to be evangelical about their luck, which will probably make their weird names seem like a secondary source of bullying material eventually.

Office Shredder

It seems to be a truth universally recognised that an office shredder is like the opposite of a tardis - no matter how big it looks from the outside, its innards will barely have the capacity needed to contain a single sheet of shredded A4. There is also a ratio between frequency of shredder use and ability to unblock/empty the shredder which means that the poor unfortunate who shreds one sheet of paper a month will inevitably end up with the top half sticking out, a grinding whirring noise coming from within and the opportunity to do severe damage to their fingers trying to rectify the situation, whilst regular shredders will claim not to know how to empty it and will flee at the first sign of trouble to either abuse an alternative shredder or resort to scissors in an attempt to cover-up their hopelessness.

Why is UK country so lame?

Blues music in this country has traditionally failed to live up to the standards of the original black blues singers, which is understandable because we don't have that heritage over here. However, country music has always been the preserve of red neck white guys living in isolated rural areas, so why can't we replicate that in the UK? In particular, why is the festival featured on Ceol Country on BBC Alba so unfailingly poor? I know it's only a small Scottish festival, but even the members of the bands looked like they wouldn't pay to see their performance, and the liveliest thing we saw over the entire series was the octagenarian line dance troupe who stamped away with a graceless vigour that suggested the music was secondary to the fact that there was something to do in their remote part of Scotland which they would not miss come hell or high water. Good on them I say - the views of the audience make that show.

Hot shit

Why is hot shit better than cold shit? I can't think of any situation where the temperature of the shit would have a significant impact on my response to it. I suppose if I was buried up to my neck in shit, my preferences for the shit's temperature might vary depending on the weather, but it would be of minimal concern compared to how I might extricate myself from said shit itself. I suppose it's one of those phrases that has evolved without people giving it much thought, but now I have, I will be more careful about my useage in future.

How to create a fun vacuum

Simply take: 50 people that you spend time with only because you are paid to Your boss Free alcohol Ice skating mix vigorously and try to avoid getting either fired or so depressed that you throw yourself onto the ice in an attempt to commit chilly suicide at the feet of a colleague. I was quite happy to hear the anticipatory chatter as everyone got excited about the free drink (as though some acidic wine and weak beer were going to bestow magical properties upon an evening's entertainment) but the morning after is awash with tales of vomit on the bus, German sausage and the peculiar belief that I would be regretting my decision not to come. I have tried to keep to myself the fact that I would rather be rolled in squid and fed to carnivorous sea-beasts to preserve some element of conviviality with my colleagues, but it's only a matter of time before I make free with the shittily decorated chocolate logs and choke someone to death with plastic holly.

If I was starting a band...

I would use one, many or all of these band names and alter egos: Spatchcock Fuck Sticks and the Stinky Poles Widdershins and the Jazz Hands

The New Boy thinks the Boy Wonder's Weird

As a freelancer, the Boy Wonder has had occasion to return to the company he used to work for, and whilst they seem to be systematically making everyone who knows how to do anything redundant, they have taken on a new boy. The Boy Wonder has reported to me that the New Boy thinks he's weird, although he's not sure why. On a separate note, Dan confirmed Ben's theory that the TV looks weird when he's blowing a raspberry.