Perhaps the worst time to sit down and type is when I have a belly full of steak dinner. The blood has deserted my brain capsule, revealing the paltry morsel trapped within, and favoured instead grabbing a taste of that sumptuous meal itself. It’s done that a lot this week, heading gutward to feast on home-made burgers, paella and a delicious Eton Mess to name but a few things.
What’s left is the noxious gas of the occasional brain fart; producing such fetid odours that I felt the need to immediately delete them from the screen. I did notice a distinct Jeeves & Wooster tone to what had come out though, having started a short diatribe about marriage, written ironically as a yearning for engagement. Next up was an even shorter piece of ballsed out tripe where I cleverly mistook the word manservant for penis. And I didn’t even bother starting the turgid cockfest that was a mock biography of the world’s most successful sportsman – the joke being we’d never heard of him.
There may sometimes be merit in scraping the bottom of the barrel – I mean, look at Marmite – but convincing the country that the shitted remnants of rotting crops divides the nation’s palette is a trick best done once.
Thus, like the best kind of bad academic writing, the less I have to say, the more I try and hide it in convoluted over-elaborate prose. There’s a game of bluff going on here, what with my brain trying to convince me that the act of typing something is better than not typing something. I tend to disagree when all that comes out is drivel that would make a driveller jealous.
If you must know, while I do have a lot on my mind, all I really want to talk about is the new brush head I bought for my toothbrush. It’s a corker and I can’t stop using it. Four times already today has it been ensconced in my gob. It has a little whitening device in the middle which polishes the gnashers up a treat; and as I type that I remember with a heavy heart the Mitchell & Webb sketch where the toothbrush designer declares, “I think we can get them to brush their tongues.”
That’s not a bad idea actually. I’m off to scour my lingua.
