BAD JOKE ALERT: The first sign of Madness is Suggs walking up your drive.
This is a lie. I am not mad, and we've got a communal car park.
However, I have to question my own sanity when driving to work for the early-early-early shift. That's the one that means I have to get up at 5am to make the office at 0630. Let me tell you something - you never feel more alive at that time in the morning.
Unfortunately, the early starts are not good for the brain, and you eventually end up having conversations with yourself. It was during one of these in-car exchanges with myself that I caught myself saying the following:
"I've got nice legs."
I don't even know what the context of this outburst was and why I told myself I have nice legs. I caught myself saying -for no reason at all - that I have nice legs.
You go along to the surgery with a long standing foot injury, and you don't even get your shoe off in the consultation
When you wait two weeks for an appointment and you're back in reception within two minutes wandering why Dr Spaceman has a revolving door on his consulting room, asking yourself if he even actually listened
But most of all...
Getting the locum, who asks "Did Dr Spaceman give you the result of your blood test?"
"Yes he did, he gave me the all clear"
She sighs, and points to the rash of bold red text on her computer screen.
"So he didn't tell you that your cholesterol is sky high and you're a borderline diabetic?"
No, he had not.
Goodbye Dr Spaceman, slowly coasting your way to retirement. Hello low fat diet and fitness regime.
And Dr Masood, I think I love you. In a purely professional manner, of course.
Apropos of last week's piece about conspiracy theories and the kind of nut-laden fruitcake who thinks passenger airliners are spraying us with mind-control drugs, reader Paul sends me this photograph which proves EVERYTHING:
Not only are chemtrails real, but they appear to be the work of Gandalf.
Or the Flying Spaghetti Monster (All hail His Noodly Appendage)
In the entire history of the internet, there has never been anything quite as ridiculous, mystifying and downright hilarious as Crimer Show.
For those of you that don't have the Twitters, Crimer Show is a blow-by-badly-spelled-blow account of a TV cop prgramme, in which exactly one criminal (the eponymous Crimer) pits his wits against exactly one detective (The forever on the edge of a nervous breakdown Detetcive).
In his own words: "Im do crimes . Crimeing. Detetcive cant stopme."
Crimer is coole, has an endless supply of sunglasies, is pubil enemy numper 1, and has a habit of talking directly to camera
Detetcive, on the other hand, faints at the drop of a hat, has terbil draems, and is addicted to melk, which comes out of cows. He is not coole and say "CrimERRRR!" a lot
Chief says "Heckit!" a lot.
Pupey says "Wuf"
VOISEOVER: This is true.
You're right. Crimer Show makes no sense at all out of context, but put it all together it makes perfect sense. It is every TV cop show and police action movie you've ever seen, written by somebody with only the merest graps of the English language. All it's missing is Detetcive's ageing partner just one week away from retiring and that would be a complete set of cliches.
The work of Irish comic writer @AstonishingSod, Crimer started as a show-within-a-show for his already cult FrientsShow feed. The difference between the two being that you need some knowledge of Friends for it to make sense. Everybody, on the other hand, knows where Crimer is coming from and understands Detetcive's slide into insanity. Read this stuff long enough and you'd probably join him.
Mr A Sod has now gone out and expanded the franchise. Fans of angsty west cost comedy can now follow @FrasserShow wit the Frasser, Kniles, Mortoin, Dampy, Razz an Edy
Crimer Show certainly needs to be celebrated. While Jane won't let us have a Crimer-themed wedding later this year, I am already pressing the local authorities to change the name of the venue for us. What was once Heckfield WILL become Heckit-field by the end of the year, even if we have to (puts on sunglasses) DO CRIMES
VOISEOVER: This is true.
If you don't have the Twitters, every Eppasod is available on the Crimer Show website
Alternatively, just type the words "I don't get it" in the comments and agree to be mocked.
So, I fell into discussing my morning drive to work with a neighbour who has a similar commute.
I really ought to know better, but I accidentally took him to his word when he said the fateful words: "Oh, you go that way, do you? I know a short cut."
His words still ringing in my ears as I approached the fork in the road between tried-and-tested-slow-but-it-gets-you-there and "I know a short cut", I went against every single fibre of my instinct and took the short cut.
I say "short cut", but I actually mean "forty-five minutes of my life I won't see again", for I have never been stuck in a traffic jam on a country lane until that morning, as the whole world and their dog tried this alleged short cut.
On the plus side, I got to write a blog post in my head as I waited to pull out at the distant mini roundabout.
Not terribly long ago one major supermarket caused a few ripples by banning shoppers who turn up wearing their pyjamas.
Fair play to them. If you can't be arsed to get dressed, you shouldn't be allowed out in public. And that includes driving your offspring to school and kicking them out of the car at the school gate. Every other bugger's got clothes - why not you?
However, the recent trend for onesies - one-piece zip-up suits popularised by the orange-faced Satans at The Only Way Is Essex* means that this ban should not only be widened to include all public places, but should be enforced by fatal force if need be.
Now, I'm not advocating lynch mobs going out and stringing up some onesie-wearing buffoon who made a fatal error of judgement by deciding to hang around the shopping precinct in what is essentially novelty nightwear. That's a job for the forces of law and order, who are able to open fire once a reasonable number of warnings** have been issued.
But when your sanity is shaken to the core by running into an entire family of Onesies in the Fleet branch of Waitrose, some of whom being actual adults who ought to have known better, you know it is time to write to your MP.
People who wear onesies in public: They're fucking pyjamas. Get dressed you slobs.
* Sometimes I miss poor, dead Jade Goody. Whatever her faults, she would have wiped the floor with these TOWIE and Made in Chelsea dullards ** One warning, mumbled, from at least two miles away