Deathly Quiet

Some old codger died outside my flat this morning. It was fantastic. Normally the rush hour traffic is deafening, but the police cordoned off the high street for hours and it was so peaceful I could have meditated, had I been the kind of cunt who meditates.

Incidentally, if there are any rich American sports fans reading this, I live less than two miles from Wimbledon and I will happily sub-let my flat, roaches and all, for the very reasonable sum of £1000 a week. The only caveat is that you don't sit on the couch as it isn't reinforced.

Last Legs

There are cockroaches in my new flat. You only tend to see one at a time, and it's usually a dead one, but I know the invasion can't be far off. I'm hoping that my cats are bringing them in from outside, but let's face it - there's more likelihood of me keeping this blog updated regularly.

It's often said that cockroaches can survive a nuclear holocaust. Utter bollocks, although apparently they can live for two weeks with their heads cut off, which is quite impressive. I'd like to see Bono try and do that. I'd really, really like to see that.

Anyway, I conducted an experiment with one of the little fuckers. I captured a live one, sealed it in the smallest Tupperware container I could find, and shook it vigorously half a dozen times a day. I concluded that cockroaches can survive about a week of this treatment, although further experiments are needed to ascertain whether they die from lack of oxygen or from all their legs falling off.

No Excuses

I've had broadband for some time now, I just couldn't be arsed to post anything. Give me one good reason why I should, you cunts.