world cup trout montage pic

World Cup Oath for Players

World Cup Oath

FIFA has drawn up an oath that the players must take at the next World Cup. The oath was trialled today with a typical international footballer.

world cup trout montage pic

“Do you promise to sing your national anthem with all the intensity of a toddler having a tantrum while off-his-tits on cocaine?”

“I do”.

“Do you promise to be scared of the magical powers of shaving-foam?”

“I do”.

“Do you promise to have a haircut that either (a) makes you look like an escaped lunatic or (b) requires the use of those different-shaped rulers that you had in your pencil-case for Maths class which you never thought you’d use in later life?”

“I do”.

“Do you promise to play on despite being concussed even though we strongly and fervently pretend to insist that we don’t want you to?”

“I do”.

“Do you promise to run yourself into the ground despite games being scheduled for mid-day near the equator or, possibly, on the lava-lake of an active volcano?”

“I do”.

“Do you promise to do whatever it takes to win: assaulting opponents, diving to win frees, laying your body on the line and suffering injury and exhaustion?”

“I do”.

“And, finally, – just a formality really I suppose, – do you promise (in addition to being willing to do whatever it takes at whatever personal cost for your team to achieve everlasting glory) that, at corners, you will pay attention to who you’re marking and, if it’s necessary, take a step or two to your right?”

“… I don’t understand. Can you repeat the question?”

“Well, basically, it’s just asking that you won’t – during the most important matches of your entire career – switch off and fall asleep when defending a corner.”

“Sorry, but I think that’s asking a bit too much of any footballer.”

 

FIFA say they are continuing to work on the oath and are hopeful of adding a clause which asks players not to feel squeamish about playing on pitches that have been laid over the bodies of dead construction-workers.

 


 

[Footballer-montage by Ripley Trout of images from morguefile.com: Trophy by vicky53, Ball by jeltovski, Pitch graphic by mzacha]

 

 

invisicig fingersmoke

See-No-Evil Cigarettes

Following on from previous policies to reduce the visibility and attractiveness of smoking – first moving cigarettes out of sight in shops, and then making all packaging plain and homogenous – the Government is now going one step further and has announced that, from now on, -

- ALL CIGARETTES MUST BE INVISIBLE.

invisicig hand lighter

This will have the advantage of making all smokers look like mime-artists which should discourage teenagers from thinking it’s cool and taking up the habit.

invisicig miley big

Also, the increased difficulty in lighting a cigarette in the first place may cause some people to just not bother any more.

invisicig bogart bacall“Sure, I know how to whistle … but how do we light this?”

No Smoke Without … Burning Flesh

The Government admitted that there will be an initial cost to be paid, both physically and financially, due to smokers burning themselves in their attempts to light cigarettes which they can’t see. However, it is hoped that the pain and frustration will cause many smokers to give up – especially when they discover they’ve lit the wrong end of a cigarette for the thousandth time.

invisicig vamp

A Government spokesman said, “We have always been in favour of transparency in our policies – and you can’t get more transparent than invisible. We are very keen to see smoking not-being-seen … because that’ll make it much easier for us to ignore the problem instead of having to really do something about it.”

invisicig bogey and wife

Original images (edited by Ripley trout): smoking fingers via ibtimes.co.uk; hand-lighter by My Huy Streetphotography via scopeblog.stanford.edu;  Miley Cyrus by Reuters/Remko De Waal via businessinsider.com; Bogart & Bacall from ‘To Have and Have Not'; glove-blonde from corkstopsmokingclinic.com; Bogart and Mayo Methot by Siver Screen Oasis via fanpop.com 

equality toiletswomen men split morguefile

Why Women Live Longer Than Men … and A Remedy

Why Women Live Longer Than Men … & A Remedy

(or “Equality is a Bucket of Piss”)

Women live longer than men. But men, be not downhearted, for the remedy to this inequality is in your own hands … literally, … several times a day actually. And the solution requires nothing more of you than to be even lazier than you already are!

A popular theory as to why women outlive men is that childbirth is what separates the sexes, as though that experience inures women to a level of pain that can kill a man.

But this fails to take into account the fact that most of us men will at some stage have suffered through similar levels of pain via (a) man-flu, (b) our favourite team losing a cup-final, or (c) having to stand in a shop and provide subtly varying opinions on many different pairs of shoes.

equality manflu on couch equality 2 boyfans morguefile equality flipflop stall morguefile

Males empathising with the pain of childbirth

And besides, modern advances in the use of epidural drugs and c-sections suggest that the lifespan-differential should have narrowed anyway, since fewer women now suffer the most extreme forms of this pain.

Although perhaps that change has in turn been balanced out by a decrease in birth-related deaths which, obviously, were overwhelmingly female (barring the occasional incident of an expectant – though evidently unprepared – father passing-out at the sight of blood and banging his head on the floor of the delivery-room, resulting in instant death and an unusual camera-angle for the rest of the video of the birth).

Dead-father-pov birth-video
Dead-father-pov birth-video

And then there’s the fact that nuns seem to live almost forever despite not (usually) having given birth. Although perhaps that’s just down to Jesus’s opinion of nuns, rather than a measurable sociological factor, since it doesn’t say much for the ‘brides of Christ’ that their ‘husband’ keeps them alive on earth for so long before letting them come to join him in person (so-to-speak).

'Brides of Christ' whom Jesus has been avoiding for quite a while now
‘Brides of Christ’ whom Jesus has been avoiding for quite a while now

Anyway, basically no-one’s really come up with a satisfactory theory for why women live longer than men. But I have a theory, and it’s even got a little test that you can try out to prove to yourself its reasonableness. Admittedly it’s not the most enjoyable of experiences but then no-one said science was fun (at least not at my school).

equality scientist female muslim morguefile  equality scientist male titrate morguefile

Scientists being serious and not having fun

 

VERY SCIENTIFIC EXPERIMENT:

  • Get a bucket or basin.
  • Stand it on a low stool or something so it’s at about knee-height.
  • Stand in front of the bucket so as your face is directly over the bucket looking down into it.
  • Pour some urine in the bucket.
  • Stand with your face over the bucket and with nothing impeding your inhalation of the fumes as you breathe.
  • After 15 seconds, throw out that urine and then put some fresh urine in the bucket.
  • Repeat every 15 seconds.
  • … For 15 days.
  • Yes, I said 15 days.
  • (You are not allowed to move or sleep).

END OF EXPERIMENT.

 

No one said science was easy either. (Though I do remember a schoolmate once saying science was a bucket of piss and, surprisingly, it turns out he was right).

So, stand over a bucket of continually refreshed piss for fifteen days and keep breathing in the fumes.

At the end of this period, ask yourself the question: do you think directly inhaling urine-fumes this much is (a) good for your health?, or (b) likely to have a detrimental effect on your lifespan?

The experiment has just replicated (quite conservatively) the effects of fifty years of male peeing-behaviour. If your answer was (b), then you may just have accounted for why the male lifespan has been shorter than the female’s in almost every part of the planet where childbirth has become less deadly, regardless of cultural differences.

One more reason to feel anxious at the urinal
One more reason to feel anxious at the urinal

If you’re male, the solution would seem to be obvious:

- sit down when you pee.

How brilliant is that? How often have you wished your doctor would just say, “Be even lazier than you already are and you’ll live longer”? But that’s actually the case here. “Sit down and prosper”.

Life-and-death choice
Life-and-death choice

However, I’m well aware that many men won’t do anything that might increase the amount of time or effort involved in peeing, even if it’s beneficial to their health. Washing hands is too much for some (and, if it wasn’t for the novelty-factor of using those Dyson hand-dryers for the last couple of years, even fewer would). So, if that seems like too much effort, then feel free to pee standing up and just hold your breath … and hope it won’t be your last!

‘Cos it transpires that equality between the sexes – much like science – is a bucket of piss.

equality funky toilet door morguefile

All images from morguefile except for the operating-theatre which is from silikalamerica.com, the makers of top-class floors for operating-theatres

Nighthawk-moth. 
Should have gone home hours ago

Moths Are People Too

Moths Are People Too

You awake thinking,

“Today will be the day that I won’t end up repeating a pattern of self-destructive behaviour”.

And you successfully go about your business all day long without deliberately whacking yourself against any bright glass objects.

Another humdrum day being a common moth isn’t so bad.

An ordinary day at the office
An ordinary day at the office

It’s not as great as being a lion and not as bad as being a bluebottle but it’s okay…

… until your sibling turns up.

You know, the beautiful one that everyone admires and thinks is so wonderful. Your sibling’s not actually doing anything that you’re not doing but suddenly you seem dull and unimpressive beside their spectacular and charming beauty that draws admiring glances from everyone who sees them.

Blanding into the background beside the glamorous sibling
Blanding into the background beside the glamorous sibling

And now you’re not even just ordinary any more, you’re positively ugly in comparison. People physically recoil from you, even though they try to entice your glorious sibling to land in their hands. They don’t seem to realise that there is virtually no difference between you apart from some colouring. In essence, this is racism on a primal sense-level.

People begin to accuse you of vile and evil (though not necessarily anagrammatical) acts. You try to tell them that you don’t actually eat their clothes but they won’t believe you. They want to believe bad things about you to justify their bigoted aversion to your looks.

And so you don’t go straight home like you know you should. You stop off for a drink to numb the pain*. And then another few drinks to make you feel better. And another few to avoid letting go of feeling better. And then another few ‘cos of some other reason that seemed like a good one at the time.

Nighthawk-moth.  Should have gone home hours ago
Nighthawk-moth.
Should have gone home hours ago

And then you’re hammered and you have to try and make it home.

And just like hammered people, hammered moths have difficulty telling the difference between an open door and a pane of glass.

And just like hammered people, your thinking can be a bit askew when you’re drunk. And you just want to get home to your cosy warm bed. And you see something that looks cosy and warm and you think that must be the place. And you rush towards it but you bang your head on something and can’t get in, but you can’t figure out what’s happened so you try again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And, yes, it hurts – it even burns a bit – but the alcohol numbs the pain somewhat and, besides, you’re so close now to being in that wonderful-looking warm and bright and cosy place that it seems like madness to you to stop trying … even though it seems like madness to humans that you are continually banging yourself against a lightbulb.

D'oh! D'oh! D'oh!
D’oh! D’oh! D’oh!

And, just like people, you’ll wake up the next day with a sore head and the desperate hope that “Today will be the day that I won’t end up repeating a pattern of self-destructive behaviour”.

‘Cos a moth is just a plain-looking butterfly with a drink-problem.

 

* Technically the moth sups on fermented fruit, rather than knocking back bottles of beer and whiskey-chasers or alcopops, but you get the idea.

Montages by Ripley Trout from images by Ripley Trout except: Moth by dancesincreek from morguefile.com, Nighthawks by Edward Hopper (Art Institute of Chicago), Office by koushik from morguefile.com, Screenshot by mantasmagorical from morguefile.com, Beer by Alvimann from morguefile.com, Butterfly by Uwe H. Friese via Wikimedia file: Schmetterling_1a_neucc.jpg

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

moths and rockers on Brighton Beach

Moths and Rockers

Moths and Rockers

Me and my sis were fightin like normal. Dad separated us and exasperatedly declared, “Ye’re as bad as the mods and rockers on Brighton Beach”.

I was young but I knew what rockers were. My Granny had one. Lots of old people did, which seemed odd ‘cos it was us kids who got most fun out of rocking-chairs. But it seemed unlikely, even to my young mind, that anyone would want to fight rocking-chairs on a beach.

I had never heard of ‘mods’, so I didn’t know that it was a word I didn’t know. I presumed the word was what it sounded like … ‘moths’. I knew what moths were alright. Every kid did. Moths were ugly stupid butterflies who ate clothes. They also had a habit of headbutting lightbulbs but, though that hinted at latent aggression, it didn’t explain why they’d be attacking grannies in rocking-chairs on beaches.

And how exactly would they go about it anyway? I envisaged a swarm of moths eating the clothes off of a granny while the granny knits furiously in order to create new clothes with which to cover herself faster than the moths can denude her. It was an odd image.

moths attack rocker
Moths attack a Rocker

Even odder if, as it seemed, this was happening to multiple grannies all across a beach. So I asked my Dad, “Why are they fighting rocking chairs?”. My Dad and my sister both burst out laughing (my sister was two years older than me).

I flushed red with embarrassment and started to run out of the room. My father caught me and managed to stop laughing long enough to explain that these ‘rockers’ were the ones we had seen on ‘Top of the Pops’ playing loud music, with long hair and wearing denim.

I wanted to ask why they were fighting moths but my sister was still laughing mockingly at me and I didn’t want to look stupid again so I wriggled out of my Dad’s grip and ran off to my bedroom.

Besides, now that I realised my mistake about the ‘rockers’, I felt that the rest of it made sense. The rockers on telly wore denim clothes that were covered in patches. Some of my clothes had patches from where holes had torn in them while playing football or climbing over fences. Initially I had assumed that the rockers were just very rough and careless in the way they played, or maybe that they were poor so their clothes were very old. But now I realised that they were obviously being constantly attacked by moths who must favour the taste of denim above all other materials. The rockers had evidently done their best to make-do and carry on, just covering the holes with patches rather than switching to clothes of some less tasty material like cordrouy or polyester.

However, one day, while on holidays at this Brighton place (why else would you be at the seaside?), the rockers were horrified to discover that these annoying moths had followed them all the way from home and were now attacking them even there on the beach. (I did wonder whether the rockers would still be in their jackets and jeans or would have changed into denim swimming-togs and denim bikinis).

moths and rockers on Brighton Beach
Moths and Rockers fight on Brighton Beach

The rockers had had enough and quite understandably decided to fight back. And so came to pass the sight of hundreds of rockers in patch-covered denim standing their ground on the golden sands and throwing vicious punches at the swarms of moths that enveloped them.

The fighting was every bit as savage as it was surreal. Locals ran for cover and barricaded themselves in their houses. The next day, they discovered that the moths and the rockers were all gone, -

… but the beach was littered with tiny wings and little bits of nibbled denim.

 

Source images in montages: beach by jari, chair by jdurham, and moth by dancesincreek, all from morguefile.com . Woman from National Library of New Zealand via knitsfacto.blogspot.co.uk/ . Brighton Beach pic via http://www.orvs.co.uk

 

image

Killing to-die-for Food

Killing To-Die-For Food

I’d like to eat a butterfly.

image

Let’s be honest, if I wanted to have open and truthful conversations about myself, then I wouldn’t be sitting here writing a blog. So being nominated by *slurps (go there for tea with Odin the octopus, you’ll enjoy it) for a Liebster Award brought some difficulties for me.

image

As part of the nomination process, *slurps allowed me two options: answer a list of personal questions (what’s your favourite meal?, etc) or answer just one big question (If you had only one day left to live, where would you go and what would you do?). But my answers bored even me so much that I couldn’t see the value in inflicting them on others. However, the questions did get me thinking of another bastardised mutant mash-up of a question.

image

What would you eat if there were no consequences to it?

image

I don’t just mean eating loads of chocolate or chips if you weren’t going to get fat or sick from it. What I mean is, is there something that you’ve always wondered about how it tastes but that you can’t eat, like … music, or light, or a cloud, or the colour blue, or stripes, or sadness, or a memory? Or is there something more material that you would eat if it wasn’t going to hurt or do damage, like a lightbulb or a dvd or a ship?

image

Or is there a thing that can be eaten but that you’re never going to eat in real life?

Everyone’s got different cut-off points about eating things. Most of us discount the potential pain of plants when considering food but then have very vague rationales behind what animals we will and won’t eat. (I have blogged before here  about the moral awkwardness of eating a chicken sandwich while watching birds eat). I’m generally against the idea of eating horse but I once had a casserole that was gorgeous and only found out afterwards that it was horsemeat. So I know that there are things that I don’t want to eat out of confused principles which are, nonetheless, possibly gorgeous to taste.

But if I could eat something and not have to worry about the consequences, eat it as if it was only happening in a dream and would not result in harm to either the creature or myself, then I would eat … a butterfly.

image

Not SO strange, you may think. After all, insects are eaten across the world in many forms, it’s really only cultural traditions and financial considerations that prevent some western societies from snacking down on deep-fried little-things. (For some odd reason, prawns have fallen through the crack of those sensitivities despite looking like slugs that have been skinned by a particularly depraved serial-killer).

image

And you might even accept that the majesty of a butterfly does indeed create an enticing prospect, were colour and pattern in some way to be transposed into taste.

image

And then there’s the fact that I am a butter-fiend. As a kid, I would take a pound of butter from the fridge, grab a knife from the drawer, and wander round lopping off chunks of butter and popping them into my gob and letting them melt there. (I could eat half-a-pound in one go). So the implied notion of the buttery-ness of butterflies has always had an appeal*.

So far, a lot of you might be thinking why not do it, if only the once? It’s only one small butterfly and I squash flies and eat meat anyway so, what the hell, it’s not that much of a moral leap and it probably won’t kill me.

But here’s the kicker. …

When I imagine this delectable combination of colour and beauty, there’s one more detail …

… the butterfly is still alive.

You see I want to imagine the buttery beauty fluttering around inside my mouth, as if delivering the colourfully creamy sensations to different spots in a random and tickly manner.

And, bad and all as I am to be an insect-squashing carnivore, eating some beautiful defenceless thing ALIVE is just a step too far for me.

But I can still dream of tasting the beauty.

image

And this is why you shouldn’t ask bloggers questions about themselves. But apparently the tradition of the Liebster Award is to take the opportunity of your nomination to in turn nominate some other bloggers whose work you enjoy, particularly bloggers who are relatively new to the blogosphere.

So I’m not sure if these good people would like to be associated with someone who wants to eat live butterflies, but you should check them out anyway and, if they don’t object, I am nominating:

 Honest to blog

She didn’t have any of her brilliant cartoon-drawings in her last post but we’ll presume that was a one-off aberration and forgive her for now. From ‘sub vaginas’ to ‘old-woman cats’ in one week, she’s not new to the blogosphere or in need of awards but this is one of the best things on the internet so have a look.

dora random

“I am here”, she says, in small letters. And, sure enough, there she is. A wonderfully mordant wit with a taste for the ghoulish and a vocabulary to die for. As dora puts it: “and i digress. extremely.”

word constellations

The Griff makes a wonderful, if ultimately doomed, attempt to keep me abreast of what happens in young people’s lives – gaming, graphic novels, music, drugs and orgies (I may have made up the last two but it’s still good). More big words here too.

barbarasfoodandfinds

Barbara makes a wonderful, if also ultimately doomed, attempt to keep me fed on more than just crisps and butter.

Vodka, Unicorns, and Lincoln Logs

Short quirky snapshots of kinda famous people in history through a curious lens. For example, here’s Camel-girl and Bettie Page:

 

And in the tradition of the nominating process – but as adapted by *slurps and further mangled by me – perhaps the nominees would answer one or both of our two questions:

If you had only one day left to live, where would you go and what would you do?

Or

What would you eat if it was possible and there were no consequences?

Or make up an even better question that forces you, like me, to reveal things about yourself that will probably lose you followers, gain you haters, and possibly get you arrested.

 

*Apparently, butterflies – or at least one kind of them – taste like dried toast. See here for the scientific research by Esther Inglis-Arkell in io9.

Image thanks: Blue butterfly by Gregory Phillips,  red by Richard Bartz, others by charlesjsharp.  Award backdrop from Club Penguin

 

Another picture goes unhung in the Pio household

Selling to the Serial-Killer Demographic

Selling to the Serial-Killer Demographic

I’m very like a serial-killer insofar as that if you let me loose around the house with a drill then there’ll be blood and body-parts all over the place. In my case it’d be unintentional and badly-executed whereas serial-killers seem, by and large, to be dab-hands at the old D.I.Y. (and much better at execution). Not for them any of the embarrassing accidents and scars that Padre Pio went to such extravagant lengths to explain away.

 

Another picture goes unhung in the Pio household
Another picture goes unhung in the Pio household

Perhaps it’s just that necessity is the mother of invention (and psychos are, classically, obsessed with mother-figures) but serial-killers do seem handy – whether it’s digging up a garden, laying a patio, cutting up a corpse, or just making lampshades out of skin (and teachers wonder how to get boys interested in arts & crafts at school!!!).

If you watch enough thrillers on television these days, you’d be convinced that those huge D.I.Y./gardening superstores must be making most of their money from serial-killers stocking up on baling-twine, shovels, and saws. In these recessionary times I can understand that it gets increasingly harder for businesses to take an ethical stance, but still there’s something decidedly disturbing about blatantly and overtly catering to the serial-killer demographic. And yet that’s what I saw evidence of on my last trip to one of these places.

pic killer wife grand    pic killer sis gran bro

As far as I’m concerned, if you’ve buried so many members of your family in the back-garden that you can’t remember who is where, then you don’t deserve to have your life made any easier for you by these decorative stones that you can buy from any garden-centre.

pic killer hus wife sis

The less specific stones may be of use to the police in locating bodies but there’s still something ghoulish about the notion of the serial-killers directing the search via these even after they’ve been imprisoned or killed.

pic killer discover

And as for the ones that invite you to think about who you might have buried down there if you yourself were a serial-killer …

pic killer wonder pic killer imagine