Awards Ceremony

I don't normally accept awards as I am far too busy being Gothic to give a fuck about them. However, as Mr Farty, who is Scottish but likeable none the less, nominated me for the awardy thingy, I thought I would accept.

Rather unsurprisingly, I did not come first - we Goths have some principles we like to uphold.

Although, I usually prefer to come in position 69, I think number 3 was ok on the list. Number 1 was taken by a set of speakers, with an admirable tone. Number 2 was taken by my Prince Of Sarcasm and I followed, pushing the chair.

Apparently, there were another 2 bloggers after us but, as they were 'runners-up' - the Prince (formerly known as squiggle) told me to ignore them.

Here is a picture of me wheeling Prince to pick up his award - I'm the pushy bastard at the back.



Part of this 'Oscar, who lives in a trash can' thing is to nominate 5 other blogs who deserve such an award. I really had to think about this one as I have to say why I read their blogs. I could bullshit and give you some inane crap like a true award speech but, let's be honest... no, really, let's be honest...

1) Honey - Because she scares the shit out of me with her honesty and I know her in real life. She is one of the most beautiful people to have graced the planet and yes, I did think seriously about kicking the living shit out of her erstwhile partner.

2) Lady Daphne - My Matron of the nursing profession. She brought me Jelly Babies on the day after I scraped my arm. For that alone, she deserves an award but, her blog is inventive and invective at the same time.

3) Joilet Jake - for taking over my position of talking more bollocks in one post than any bufoon can. I also want to ensure that his visitor numbers increase so that he posts more often and thus stops listening to shit music, or eating cheese sandwiches in hotels when he could have curry.

4) Big Titticus - aka (.)(.) - because I want her as my bedtime nurse. I'm not sure I would survive a night but, what a way to go. She might be as mad as a bag of squirrels but at least she's honest.

5) My Suicidal American Buddy - I admire him when he writes whilst pissed as a cunt - but I wouldn't want to be within 100 miles. Also, I'd like to teach him how to drink properly - i.e. without the 'blowing chunks' thing. Drinking properly is an acquired art that requires practice.

This completes my list - if you're not on it - tough shit - you're missing nothing. If you're on it, you can adhere to the rules, posted on Mr Farty's nomination or not. Really, I don't give a shit - but they call that Gothipation or something.....

Oh, nearly forgot, I have to include a link to the award site - well, here it is.... find it if you can (easy if you look at the code)

Rugby and Cricket - Shite

As I was brought up in Wales, there were 2 sporting activities which were compulsory in school. During the winter months, rugby and then when the rain and mud had abated, cricket. I hated (and still do) both equally. My physique is not designed for rugby being far too elfin like in physique - I suppose I could be a corner flag....maybe.

I became the obvious target for the neanderthal kids in my school if I accidentally caught the ball. "Tackle him" the games teacher would yell with gusto. I tried a number of tactics - throwing the ball away (no good) I would just be sent to fetch it and used for tackling practise. Running away didn't seem to work either, odds of 15-1 against me were obviously not in my favour. Opting not to participate didn't work either and so week after pitiful week the torture would continue.

Eventually logic, or rather I, found a way out. In hindsight it is blindingly obvious. Get sent off. Granted I had to wait for an actual game to achieve this but it wasn't long in the coming. Apparently, rugby appears to be a battle in the mud between two packs of animals intent on destroying each other - well, it bloody well is. My first sending off was accidental, I knew you had to stop the player with the ball and although it is perfectly ok to stamp on a player whilst they are on the ground, tripping them up in full flow is not allowed.

"S - Off!" demanded the games teacher and off to the library I was sent. In the peaceful solitude of the library I read up on the rules. Aha, I thought - another fine method to be employed. So the following week with what seemed like a rhinocerous on acid galloping in my direction and cries of "Stop him" ringing in my ears - I did just that. A very neat side step at the last second with my outstretched arm at throat level. "Off" demanded the games teacher "But why" I protested none too innocentally "You said stop him and he's stopped isn't he - you should have been more clear in what you wanted".

The by-now scarlet in the face games teacher was hopping up and down shouting "You'll never play rugby in this school again". Good, I thought, that's the end of that shite then.

Onto summer and the infinitely boring game of cricket. Why anyone would want to stand there whilst someone throws a rock hard ball at you is beyond my comprehension. On top of that, you have the fielding team. The ones that have to go scuttling after the ball like an over anxious puppy if the batsman does manage to twat the ball. Yeah, that's a great game then. Not much chance of getting sent off in this game so the alternative was just to be so incredibly shit that no-one wanted to play with you - ever !!

Fortunately, my games teacher had already figured out that I was very good at running, as my brief rugby career had proven, so he asked me to try cross-country running. Now this was much more my style. No one chasing you trying to stamp on your bollocks and no one throwing things at you for no apparent reason. I liked this and thus stuck with it.

Rugby and cricket - stick it sir, preferably stumps up your arse sir....