To Mars And Beyond

My good friend Wetsoks sent a link to me today. I clicked with some caution, because previous experience has taught me that links my friends send are often not safe for work, not safe for lunch, not safe for otters, and occasionally all of the above. It was to my delight and slight bafflement that I discovered it was a link to the Mars One astronaut application process - see here http://news.yahoo.com/wanted-mars-colonists-explore-red-planet-204754693.html

Me: I actually kind of want to check this out.

Wetsoks: I know, right? The future is now.


Me: "No plans to return the pioneers to Earth" though. No more McDonald's for you, brah. No more Mass Effect. Limited coffee. I'm just saying.

Wetsoks: Yes but we will be beaming people there in 20 years anyway.


Me: No. No, we won't. Sciencefact: no one is getting beamed except your mum.

Wetsoks: I wanna beam YOUR mum.


Me: Sounds like a Blink 182 song.

Wetsoks: I'm going to Mars! All I need is a can do attitude.


Me: I think they're looking for a little more than that. Plus, you know, 8 years of astronaut training.

Wetsoks: I looked at the requirements. I can do them all. Wait, let me do my John Locke impression. DON'T TELL ME WHAT I CAN'T DO!


Me: You don't even like people! Or change! Moving to a different planet with three strangers encapsulates two of the things you hate most in the world!

Wetsoks: Yes but I'd have the whole planet to get away from them.


Me: (pinching nose) I... I don't think that's how it works. Anyway, this is like me announcing I'm going to join the army. I technically COULD but I don't like running or mud or obeying authority. And you'd all laugh at me. Do you see where I'm going with this?

Wetsoks: Do you see where I'm going? TO MARS.

Me: (*sigh*) Very well.

There was a brief pause.

Wetsoks: What do you reckon the wifi is like up there? Like... three bars? Two?

Me:....Goddamn it.

In Case Of Bear Attacks

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you, otterlings! I apologise for my long absence. The tail end of 2012 was a busy time in many ways, and required my full attention. I will endeavour to make this up to you with a brand new post, partly courtesy of my temporary new flatmates (one of whom in Canadian, because I miss the Fleetch and if I close my eyes it almost sounds like she's back).

Canada: In our physical education classes in Canadian schools, we get taught how to ward off bears. You know, like for school trips and stuff.

Me: (intrigued) Really? How?

Canada: (demonstrating) You're supposed to hold your canoe paddle above your head and shout WOAH BEAR.

Me: (mimicking) WOAH BEAR! And does that work?

Canada: Well... it makes you look bigger, I guess.

Me: I'm actually disappointed that Scotland has no indigenous large predators on which I could test this.

Canada: That's a... shame?

Me: (thoughtfully) I could always use it to fend off sexual predators! In fact, I demand that we immediately introduce this into our group of friends as a helpful alternative to the current code, which mostly involves making panicked eye contact with someone and hoping that they telepathically hear your SOS call.

Canada: Um?

Me: WOAH BEAR!


When I was cleaning the flat in preparation for said new flatmates, I realised I'd lost one of my awesome Harry Potter coasters. In truth I'd vaguely acknowledged that it was missing some time ago, but hadn't yet done anything about it. One friend questioned me on this.

Alana: So where is it?

Me: (vaguely) I think the cat took it.

Alana: (pinching her nose) The cat took.... Okay. And did you search for it?

Me: Yes.

Alana: Did you really?

Me: It depends what you mean by 'search'. If you mean, did I gaze upon all the visible surfaces including those parts of the carpet I can see without bending then yes, I 'searched' for it.

Alana: I see. It's probably under the couch, you know.

Me: That seems like a lot of effort. WOAH BEAR!

Alana: What?!

Me: Nothing. I'll send out a memo.

An Ode To Yo Momma

Since I started hanging out with a new group of friends earlier in the year, it has opened up many more creative outlets for Yo Momma jokes (which as we all know, I adore beyond rhyme or reason). The below started as a perfectly normal conversation between me and a friend and then, as most of our conversations tend to do, escalated quickly into a spiral of increasingly inventive insults.

The results are as follows, and do get progressively not safe for work. You have been warned...


Cricket: I've been watching Lord of the Rings. I tried your mum's ring of power but it was more like a bangle.

Me: Yeah? Well I heard your mum's ring was forged by eleven kings, not elven. And when I say 'forged'...

Cricket: Your mum blows the horn of Gondor, if you know what I'm saying. Dirty stewards.

Me: Your mum's vagina is so deep, they call her the Mine of Moria.

Cricket: Your mum's so loose not even an Ent has enough wood for her.

Me: Your mum's so ugly, Gandalf let her pass! Bazinga. Also, your mum's such a whore, they call her the Gap of Rohan. The internet is responsible for that last joke, I admit, but it was too good to resist.

Cricket: Okay. Your mum's such a slut not even ten thousand orcs could fill her Helms Deep.

Me: Oh it's like that, is it? Well they don't call them the 'Riders' of Rohan for nothing. We should totally play my drinking Harry Potter Cluedo game sometime.

Cricket: Awesome! Count me in. By the way, I heard there was a big dead snake in your mum's chamber of secrets.

Me: Your mum may not be called Luna but she certainly knows how to Lovegood.

Cricket: Your mum lets schoolchildren enter her Goblet of Fire.

Me: HA! Okay, but the Triwizard Tournament happens every weekend... in your mum's bedroom.

Cricket: Your mum's so dirty, anyone who puts his wand in her catches the Dark Mark.

Me: Your mum's so ugly, they call her She Who Must Not Be Naked.

Organ Donors

I came into work yesterday morning, and had only just logged into my computer when a message from Wetsoks flashed up on instant messenger.

Wetsoks: (brightly) Morning buddy!

Me: Morning, brah.

There was a pause of several seconds.

Wetsoks: Is it too early to show you pictures of a dead guy?

Me: I.... can you wait til 10am?

Wetsoks: Okay!

Me: I just need a coffee first. And then you can show me all the dead guys you want. Wait. I didn't mean that.

Wetsoks: It's not gory.

Me: Thank god. It's from Reddit, I assume?

Wetsoks: Yep.

Me: Are we normal?

Wetsoks: Yep.

After examining the photo, which was some poor guy who'd smashed headfirst into a lorry while on his motorobike, I had some questions.

Me: It's a pity the helmet didn't save him. How come he's barefoot?

Wetsoks: Shoes flew off. Apparently they were found a bit further away.

Me: Huh. Buddy, if that happens to me, could you do me a favour and put my shoes back on?

Wetsoks: Crocs?

Me: NO.

There was a brief pause.

Wetsoks: Dude ...I kind of want a motorbike.

Me: So do I. The internet has taught us nothing today. In fact, I believe it has actually somehow decreased the common sense I previously possessed.

Wetsoks: (sagely) The internet is a cruel and unyielding mistress.

Parents Of The Navigator

I visited my parents last weekend. As usual, they were in top form, and freshly tanned from their recent holiday.

Mum: It was lovely. We went paragliding - you know, with waterskis.

Me: Isn't Dad afraid of heights?

Mum: Weeeeell. It was on my bucket list.

Me: Uh huh.

Mum: He got over it.

Me: I see.

Dad: (giggling in the other room) Did she tell you about what happened in the airport?

Mum: Shh, you!

It turns out that my parents got off the plane and wandered around for a while trying to find the bus depot. The conversation apparently went along the these lines:

Dad: Right, so we're looking for bus number 10.

Mum: (brightly) Okay!

Dad: Um. These buses end at number 9, but there's another couple over there, so let's have a look to see if it's one of those.

Mum: What's the number 10 in Spanish?

Dad: What?

Mum: The number 10. What is it? We could ask someone where it is.

Dad: We're... we're in Rhodes, honey.

Mum: Oh. So we are.

Dad: I... I don't even... just let me handle this, okay?

Mum: (totally unabashed) Sure, whatever you think!


The worst part is, this is a totally normal conversation for them. My parents, ladies and gentleman! They're here all week! Tip your waitress, try the veal.

An Apple A Day

When I sat down at one of the tables in my work canteen at lunchtime on this dreary Thursday morning in a pointlessly rain-soaked country, Wetsoks eyed me suspiciously over her box of fruit for a few minutes without saying anything. Eventually, she made a tentative enquiry.

Wetsoks: Um. Did you do something to your hair?

Me: Yes.

Wetsoks: Did you.... dye it?

Me: Yes. Last Thursday.

Wetsoks: (poking at the fruit box) Eww, apple. I don't like apple.

Me: Also, I had it cut. Last Tuesday.

Wetsoks: It looks different. 

Me: That's because it is.

Wetsoks: At least I noticed. Eventually. I don't like apple.

Me: You're such a dude. And for goodness sake, don't eat the apples if you don't like them.

Wetsoks: (stil eyeing my hair and putting a piece of apple into her mouth slowly) I don't like change.

Me: Technically you've been getting used to it for a week, you just didn't know it.

Wetsoks: (chewing the apple) I don't like change or apples.

Me: (pinching my nose and sighing) You know, sometimes I feel like we inhabit entirely different universes and then every day around 12:30, they collide for a few minutes resulting in total mental chaos.

Wetsoks: .... What?

Me: I'm glad we're friends.

The Wedding Dance

Sorry for the delay in blog posts, otterlovers, but my aunt got married last Friday. It was an all-day wedding and both I and everyone else had a thoroughly wonderful time. (Note to readers: if you read that and mentally chalked "the otter was drinking for 10 hours" then well done and a small fishy prize will be sent to you shortly). I even had a particularly nice time during the first dance, during which I had been instructed to waltz with my 16 year old male cousin. We behaved well for about 3 minutes and then broke into mutual robot, to the amusement of the watching crowds. It would have brought a tear to your eye, let me tell you.

After dinner but before the second lot of food (we like to be extreme in my family) the main area was cleared away by the hotel staff and turned into a dancefloor. I spent a while eyeing this with caution - mostly because the shoes I was wearing were both thoroughly unsuitable for dancing and totally unprepared to meet a polished wooden surface while the owner was inebriated - but eventually tottered over to it and spent the next few hours in rapturous delight. The live band played a number of excellent tunes, including The Jam, Billy Ocean and Barry White. The following conversation occurred slightly later in the evening (which I am afraid to say does not excuse it from taking place at all) between myself, my mother and father.

We had somehow all found each on the busy dancefloor, when the guitar riff started up and was instantly recognisable as a classic.

Me: Oh, I love this song! *crooning* Once I was a boogie singer...

Dad: Play that funky music, white boy! Now there's a real song. They don't make songs like that now.

Mum: Who did this one again?

Dad: Wild Cherry. The lead singer was... do you know?

Me: (dancing frantically) Not a clue.

Mum: Er...

Dad: George Clinton! Write that in your blog.

Me: I don't actually think that's right.

Dad: It is.

Me: (staring around at all the damns I don't give) Sure. Why not.

Mum: (puzzled) George Clinton? Wasn't he the President?

My father, who after 30-odd years of marriage no longer picks up on all the crazy things my mother comes out with, simply danced off happily by himself into the crowd without paying attention.

Me: That was Bill Clinton.

Mum: Are you sure?

Me: Am I sure? How can you possibly-

My mother's face was a picture of sincerity as she looked up at me.

Me: (pinching my nose) Yes, I'm sure. Shall we get another drink?