Dae Buys New Shoes

Tim Tam Slam

My absence from the front page of this website has been lengthy, and already I hear many of you crying out in the long dark of the Internet, asking me why. Why have I left you without one of my poorly written and factually derelict rants? Why have I left you in the clutches of Dae and his masturbatory linguaphilia? These questions, and more, shall all be answered, but not now, and not by me.

Rather, in a rarity for this site, my post will concern itself with the subject matter referred to in its title – the infamous Tim Tam Slam. For the exact technique of this manoeuvre you may wish to familiarise yourself with the bullet points in the above link, but I am not myself concerned with the cold, unfeeling methodology; my intention is instead to describe my personal experience with this awe-inspiring biscuit dunking procedure.

It begins, as so many things do, underwhelmingly. At first I was unable to discern any effect at all, and I may be forgiven at least partially for believing that I was doing it wrong. Such was not the case. This period of inactivity was merely the time that it took for the hot tea to travel the length of the biscuit, and when it reached my mouth it struck me almost physically, so unexpected was its appearance. After this first shock I was unable to continue for more than a couple of seconds before I realised that what I held was no longer a biscuit, but had become a hot, sodden mass. Quickly cramming it into my mouth, I became aware of the horrific damage done to the structure of the biscuit by the tea, its alteration from crunchy snack to amorphous piece of faerie flesh being complete and entire. I was rendered almost insensible by this effect – my only response when an enquiry was made after my success was to shout a barely coherent string of affirmatives.

7/10

With the Ill Behaviour

It's bad enough having to go through the ritual humiliation of saying the words "I'll have a Jumbo Sausage and chips, please," without having the fruits of the trial spoilt by the visual excrement that is Channel Four's 'The Friday Night Project'. The only bit I get any pleasure out of is where they force that grinning fuck Alan Carr to run into the audience wearing a jacket made of fivers, being unceremoniously stampeded over by an audience clearly desperate to acquire some kind of compensation for the fake laughter that is so relentlessly demanded of them. While C4 have not yet commissioned my suggested replacement - a show consisting in the main of unsigned indie bands being ritualistically beaten with living snakes - they have at least got a good thing going with The Album Chart Show. Non-singles played live has to be a plus, however fawningly presented.

I spent my day wrestling with DVD Studio Pro, software clearly designed for the retards who believe that gratuitous flashing bollocks is suggestive of professionalism. Nonetheless, in the spirit of computer users everywhere I persevered and have managed to extract from the bowels of my G5 enough copies of Minor Details to redecorate a modest semi. Remember this though, Apple Macintosh, nemo me impune lacessit.

SLN news. Where the Latin never stops.

Mood: Apathetic

I suppose it's only fair that I notate the events of the last couple of days. I met Harry, a soft-spoken Scotsman of intermittent wit, just as Thursday afternoon was getting into its stride. After a brief banjo tutorial we availed ourself of the bus propitiously numbered 'sixteen'. Jom was four minutes late - time spent pointing at balding fat guys and saying 'there he is'. The evening inevitably found the coincidentally named Ian - Jom's father - Harry, Jom and myself taking dinner at a moderately palatable Italian on Lothian Road. It was some distance from what one might term 'comfortable'.

Praccy, Audrey & Jemmie turned up on Friday, as promised. Jom's dad made himself coveniantly absent. Games followed. Harry played Kirby, spending most of his time predictably metamorphosizing into a brick, while Jom's Young Link tracked a steady downward curve from the first glass to the last swig. Praccy, to his credit, played some G&W, though arguably his playstyle could have done with a lot less chair and a lot more parachute. SF2 quickly became a contest of whose retarded abuse of Blanka, Chun-Li or E. Honda was superior. There was pizza, there was wine (drunk too quickly by Jom, too slowly by myself, not at all by anyone else). Sleep was had by some (others, Audrey, elected to spend their evening reading Larkin's collected works chronologically, what the hell), fun was had by all.

If you weren't there, I can tell you this much: they're all pretty much exactly as you'd expect them to be.

Jets Are Like Comets at Sunset

I was woken this morning at an ungodly hour, beckoned from my bed and sustained by sheer force of tea through a morning of Marianne and Minor Details... A pleasant precursor to an even more pleasant lunch on the grass of The Meadows, under the glorious sunshine and the shadows of overflying frisbees.

Attempts at work, after such a profoundly calming afternoon, came to nought, rendering me with no option but to don velvet and head to The Cameo's nine o' clock. On the way my efforts at an elegant saunter were swiftly stopped quite dead by no small test of moral character. I'd like to think they were sixteen, but let's be honest, they might well have been fifteen, and they, like most reasonable human beings most of the time, wanted a drink. Having availed myself similarly at their age, I was hardly in a position to decline, though I was unable to determine which mode of karma I'd thereby solicited. At very least I hope I inspired within them a good taste in lagers, and however encouraged to 'keep the change', landed that particular £1.81 squarely in a piece of destitute headgear. Brick, incidentally, did, while not without some failure, manage to jangle several of my more notable bells.

Don't go looking at me like that. The day I got news, news is what you get. The day I eat prawn-mayo in the park, you damn well shut up and act interested.