Archive for June, 2008

I got this from Ben at Planet-flipside.

So you’re a band or a singer – you’ve got a heap of songs but no name or album title or even cover art…

Here’s what you do for your debut album…

Your Debut Album

1 – Go to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random
The first random Wikipedia article you get is the name of your band.

2 – Go to Random quotations: http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3
The last four words of the very last quote of the page is the title of your first album.

If you want to do this again, you’ll need to hit refresh to generate new quotes, because clicking the quotes link again will just give you the same quotes over and over again.

3 – Go to flickr’s “explore the last seven days” http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days/
Third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

Put it all together, that’s your debut album.

Here’s mine:

Band name: Fractal City

Album name: While you’re down there

And the cover:

This post is worth it’s weight in gold.  Hang on to it because it is so fleeting and rare that it could end up being a priceless artefact in years to come.  Why?  Because it is my fourth attempt at posting a blog article with this friggin’ new Firefox 3, and each time I’ve accidently lost my post.  The backspace on the new Firefox 3 doesn’t seem to delete my mistakes – instead it takes me out of the page I’ve been typing on and acts as a browser back button, so I lose my post.  I was up late the other night and wrote a scintellating post full of wit and banter, but alas, it fell on deaf ears (or eyes – and then that’d be ‘blind eyes…) because stupid Firefox took on a life of it’s own and saw fit to go take me back to the Courier Mail which I’d been reading beforehand.

Anyway, the other day I was inspired by my muse (also known as ‘Cadbury’s Peppermint Chocolate’) to write about what life is like as a 40 year old, as opposed to life as a 39 year old.  In short, I concluded it’s no different.  As I was pondering this I happened to rub my chin, and found to my dismay that a nasty pimple had sprung up overnight.  Further exploration found yet another one – this time in the crease near my nostril.  It was one of those painful little sods which are twice as sore as the big impressively eeky looking ones.  Hmmm…40 years old and a bout of acne.  I wondered if my decrepid 40 year old body had begun to show it’s vintage.  Had my aging, diminishing hearing mistaken the word ‘forty’ with ‘fourteen’ and given me a rash of zits as a teenage birthday present?

As I am apparently going through a second teen-age, I am going to have to engage in egocentric moodswings, squeeze into ugly outfits which make me look like a cheap prostitute,  giggle at boys, and say stupid things on the end of my sentences like ‘like’, like.  I will have to fill my life with angst ridden poetry, and complain about my lot in life because I’m asked to do the washing up and I must be the only 14 year old in the universe who has to work so hard.  Myspace is going to have to be my top priority – I’ll have to fish out the digital camera and pose in front of the bathroom mirror while capturing my sexiness for Myspace posterity so that everyone can make such astute comments about my pics: ‘ur HOT!’  (or not, I think I’m getting a bit carried away here).

Anyway, so far, so good, I’ve managed to waffle and I haven’t lost the post yet. This wasn’t actually what I was going to post about, but, well this is a wafflelogue, and I’m lucky Firefox hasn’t had a hissy fit.  Maybe I should quit while I’m ahead, like.

My sister sent this poem by Pam Ayers to me in an email, and I thought it apt to post it in honour of my turning the big 4-0.

Oh I wish I’d looked after my tits

Oh, I wish I’d looked after me dear old knockers,
Not flashed them to boys behind the school lockers,
Or let them get fondled by randy old dockers,
Oh, I wish I’d looked after me tits.

‘Cos now I’m much older and gravity’s winning.
It’s Nature’s revenge for all that sinning,
And those dirty memories are rapidly dimming,
Oh, I wish I’d looked after me tits.

‘Cos tits can be such troublesome things
When they no longer bounce, but dangle and swing.
And although they go well with my Bingo wings,
I wish I’d looked after me tits.

When they’re both long enough to tie up in a bow,
When it’s not the sweet chariot that swings low,
When they’re less of a friend and more of a foe,
Then I wish I’d looked after me tits.

When I was young I got whistles and hoots,
From the men on the site to the men in the suits,
Now me nipples get stuck in the zips on me boots,
Oh, I wish I’d looked after me tits.

When picking them up requires some leverage,
When it’s not so much lift as industrial heavage,
When there’s more of a parting and less of a cleavage,
I wish I’d looked after me tits.

When I was younger I rode bikes and scooters,
Cruising around with my favourite suitors.
Now the wheels get entangled with my dangling hooters,
I wish I’d looked after me tits.

When they follow behind and get trapped in the door,
When they’re less in the air and more near the floor,
When people see less of them rather than more,
Oh, I wish I’d looked after me tits.