With a clap of thunder, and the drum of rain beating against the windows like a steel band under a palm tree in the Bethnal Green monsoon, Corporate Blawg decided that it was time to take his wife on holiday.
So Centreparks being booked up for the season, Corporate Blawg is going to the Amalphi coast. And tomorrow he will say hello at a rave in Ravello, whilst eating ravioli ravenously.
Then on Saturday he will attend the wedding of two good friends. And on Sunday he heads to Athens for week to ease some classical time with his wife's sister and her young family. This Athens trip would be good if Corporate Blawg wasn't a little fearful of his Greek brother-in-law, to whom Corporate Blawg gifted a small bag of marbles for Christmas to ease his pain.
Corporate Blawg hopes to be back around 8 June, and looks forward to giving you a super-update of his mega jolly. In the meantime, live well and party!
Never one to miss a profound opportunity Corporate Blawg was surprised that his blogging chums were not all the spitting image of Corporate Blawg! Only Charon was familiar (having posted his picture all over the net if you know where to look and don't have a firewall). For instance, who would have thought that LibelBlog was a short, green, tri-footed Mekon from the planet Thaarg? All this time Corporate Blawg thought that LawBlawgUnited was a white middle-class nonce from the home-counties, whereas actually she's 8ft tall, has grey suckers on the end of her fingers and communicates by telepathic odours. Anyways, it's been a great revelation to all.
In order to dispell any myths of Corporate Blawg's appearance, he has exposed himself in the following picture as the one on the podium.
For the avoidance of doubt, Corporate Blawg always wears a suit and at the weekends and disguises himself in spectacticles.
The arms race between HM Revenue & Customs and large corporations is a funny conundrum. On the one hand Gordon Brown and HMRC tighten up tax loopholes to increase their revenue and secure employment of their employees. On the other, large corporations pay huge sums to tax advisors to reduce their corporation tax payments and secure employment of their employees. Accordingly, Corporate Blawg considers that fundamentally the purpose of corporation tax is to keep tax advisors and other intelligent people in well-paid jobs so they do not go out on the streets and riot.
To ease CorporateBlueg's cold he ventured into Marks & Spencer to purchase an orange&raspberry drink - his favourite comfort vitamin C supplement. Corporate Blueg was fascinated to discover that no longer is it orange and raspberry but "valencia oranges & crushed willamette raspberries". This has added value to Corporate Blueg's life since he is now looking forward to valencia oranges & crushed rapberries of the Algonquin, Chilliwack, Meeka, Nootka, Tullameen, Fallgold, Redwing and Summit varieties. Thank you M&S for adding further levels of pretension to an already saturated existance.
Corporate Papawg failed his driving test for the 4th time this week. He had 6 minor faults, and two serious faults. His two serious faults were for going too fast over speed bumps and using the footbrake when coming up to a junction. Not only was Corporate Papawg well within the speeding limit (22mph) but also Corporate Papawg failed his last driving test for being too hesitant. Corporate Papwg accepts that speed-bumps are not ramps, but to fail him on going too fast when within the speed limit clearly proves that the driving test is impossible for people who went to good universities and obey the rules. Clearly some people where meant to drive and other people where meant to be driven. Corporate Papawg is, hesitantly, the latter.
Watch out! There is a new threat to your inheritance.
Old people on saga holidays could become the victims of young buxom gold-diggers as of 2008. The Single Equality Bill to be published in June 2007 may end all forms of age discrimination including overseas cruises and coach tours for the over-50s. Fears are rife that the grey brigade may be inundated with youngsters in their 40s trying to woo oldies through holiday romances in Scunthorpe and Totness.
Despite concern that zimmer frames will soon become in short supply, the Department for Communities and Local Government have said that a common sense approach would be taken when they remember where they left it.
Also in the news this week is that Paris Hilton has begun a petition to escape her 45 day prison sentence. One Guardian reader suggested she be renamed Bangkok Hilton. If her petition works, and Californian judges can be swayed by public opinion, Corporate Blawg will start a petition that judges wigs should be blue and purple rinses.
Corporate Blueg is still on holiday and will return when he has detached himself from the loving embrace of NHS law.
Corporate Papawg has had no fatherhood frights in the last week, and is contentedly working his way through his 2000 A.D. collection, in a mid-life crises but-not-really since I'm-nearly-30 kind-of-way.
Banggo the braincells, the liver shivers, and the skin starts to shrivel like a dehydrated prune.Another weekend of intoxication subsides like a cliffside cottage tumbling into the sea.
All day Sunday, vodka-in-the-neck returned on me as if a putrid dog was p**sing down my hairy throat. I'd recommend it. Vodka-in-the neck that is. First you swig the neck of a Smirnoff Ice, then you fill the neck up with a double vodka. Four of these and Bob's your uncle, your aunt and a comedy game with a porcelain bowl.
This celebration was prompted by visiting Jez, an excellent friend from University. Jez has put a bun in his wife's oven, and we had to spend our bread on toasting his success.
Fred (short for Frederica) is showing a bump that represents 12 weeks of nervousness. The impregnation has come as a great relief to them both, particularly Jez. It is a worry for every man, to some extent. My personal experience is that rugby boots make soft work of unprotected gonads, and slipping on electric fences makes pubic hair stand on end. Despite similar accidental tortures, Jez's tadpoles have proved that they can swim vigorously, vigorously enough to reach the spherical gamete of womanness and turn it into a prawn.
Jubilent at seeing each other again, Jez and I left Fred with the washing up and a lime cordial. On Fred's suggestion we headed into town to chat mano-a-mano, and read birds' names from an Eye-spy paperback - such as Shag, Shoveller, Spoonbill, Little Tern, Woodcock, Swallow, Mistel Thrush, Great Tit, Raven, Great Skua, Horned Lark, Northern Flicker, Ruff etc.
Jez wore a pink cardigan so come 3a.m. every bouncer directed us to gay bars,which weren't on the agenda for us. After 3 vodka-in-the-necks and 4 jugs of Star we found a place with titties and beer in a seedy backstreet of Bristol. Unfortunately, this wasn't the kind of bar where the girls take off their clothes for money, but it was the kind of place to hang out with Gracey and her sister, Memphis.
Gracey was 17 in age and stone. Twice as wide as me, and when she talked her cleavage leant into my beer as if her nipples would suck up the alcohol and spray it across the room.
In a thick West-Country accent, Gracey told me that she has a one-year-old at home, and her sister who is 19 also has a baby. I asked her, politely, how she spends her free time, she told me: "Oi loike foitin' men. Oi dun loike foitin' wimmin, bah oi loike foitin' men". It was a wise decision not to ask her about the father of her child. When this scary creature from Viz started threatening to flick cigarettes at ethnic minorities Jez and I politely asked her not to (which she did to our surprise), and then we moved away from this unpleasant elephant. Clearly motherhood does not have a calming and maturing influence on all women, we discussed, back on piste.
We started to recover from this ordeal over a kebab and an irn bru. As Corporate Blawg chewed the garlic sauce, Jez told me he wanted me to be one of the three Godfathers to his barn. Congealed chicken fat escaped his nose. Me? A godfather? Had he lost his mind? Apparently not. He said that I was the one to take his sprog to Glastonbury and hear funky jazz musicians in the West End. I decided to park this idea for another day.
And now, back at work, all that seems quite far away. At least two hours on the motorway. Haven't told the wife about the godfather thaing yet, in case she thinks I'm ready for responsiblity.
Corporate Blawg has discovered the fear of fatherhood (approximately 2years and 6 months as agreed with the wife), the fear of fatherhood and losing all that's known and good. So Corporate Blawg has ditched his other blog and will also record here (in green) all that there is to lose before it's gone - craziness of youth, adventures of adolescent proportions, and mis-spent hours between the playstation and the pub.
Corporate Blueg is temporarily on holiday in Rogersnogfairy, for at least another fortnight, maybe.