Wintertime yeahyeahyeahyeah winter!

It's only gone and bloody snowed!

Admittedly it's likely to all be gone by lunchtime but for a minute there I thought we'd never see the white little fucker again.

But we have and that is good. All the local kids are building snowballs that are far too big for them to actually throw with any force (tip: make em small and pack em with grit. If you gash someone's eye, just say you thought it was 'brown snow'). All the posher local mums are taking pictures of their kids just so they can remind them later on that there was a time when you couldn't sunbathe in January.

Finally, and obviously, the fat middle-aged executives are out in their 4x4s fighting off winter like the real men they are (even the female drivers have five o'clock shadows). I fucking hate those cunts at the best of times, but on the first and possible sole sparkly morning of the entire winter I hate them all the more. So when some rust orange Range Rover tried to overtake me on my bike, I pulled right into the middle of the road and rode in a straight line all the way with his big manly engine growling impotently behind me.

And Boy Did That Make Me Happy


PS Got my first comment - and it's from a nutter! (see below)

How can I be a racist when I love curry?

Jade Goody, her mum, a failed pop star who's gone from 19 to 40 without stopping in between and a woman who cheated in a beauty contest (yeah, she said she was interested in working for world peace, but she didn't mean it!) turn out to be a bunch of flaming racists.

In this year's otherwise eye-witheringly tedious Celebrity Big Brother they've added a bit of interest by taking the piss out of a Bollywood star, Shilpa Shetty, using techniques familiar to anyone who's ever watched Are You Being Served.

And that's the shocking thing: not that these people are bigots - celebrity having excused from actually having to think about the consequences of their actions - but rather that they've stuck to just mimicking Shetty's accent and calling her 'the Indian'. To be honest I'm surprised they haven't beaten her to death and and blamed it an ancient requirement of her 'culture'.

A picture by your kettle

Wikidus has a picture of a dead man near his kettle so that every time he makes a cup of tea he can contemplate his passing and have a right good laugh.

I'm not sure which dead person would make me laugh most while I was waiting for a hot drink. If I was really thirsty it's quite feasible that no-one would. Obviously, if it was a picture of Saddam Hussein, particularly that naughty one on the camera phone, I would raise a patriotic cheer.

But that might be about it.

Who the frock is Matthew Gamba?

Is it him (you'll need to scroll down a bit)? Or him? Or her?

I haven't a clue, but whoever it is has persuaded some machine to keep phoning me everyday and leave the same two messages both in varied degrees of garbled explaining that Matthew Gamba must phone the Royal Bank of Scotland immediately and can do so by pushing any button. Which in itself is a lie because I tried that and all I got was, "I'm sorry, I do not understand that command".

Anyway, I've decided that Gamba must be the son of a central African dictator, currently on the lam and looking for somewhere to stash pater's ill-earned krugerands but that first he just needs to set up a money transfer from my account to check that the international banking system works. Which it does. Because THAT'S CAPITALISM.

So fuck you, Matthew Gamba, and your pig-eyed larcenic (word?) schemes. Unless you actually are the Italian firearm manufacturer - "Finest Italian gun and rifle manufacturer - my passion" - in which case, send me a hand-crafted uzi and we'll forget all about it.