Month: August 2018

Avatar Smidge on Science: Time

What is time? I don’t know. I mean, I know what It’s Time is – it’s a horrendous album – but I don’t know what time is. And you don’t either. If you think you do, try explaining it to someone, and you’ll immediately hear the ignorance falling stupidly out of your mouth.

Not to worry. Smidge Manly, renowned world expert on railways and Essex, returns once again to the world of science to answer all your questions.

That’s the last in the present series of Smidge on Science. Will he be back? We simply don’t know. Only time will tell.

Avatar Time Hole

Welcome to the Time Hole. Do you want to see the past? Do you want an insight into how things once were? Could you handle how much a time share in London was in 1982?

Regardless of how you answer these questions, it doesn’t matter. Let me present you with a recent find of mine. I “stumbled” across a copy of the Women’s Journal from 1982 (as you do) and inside was a bounty of adverts. And I do mean a bounty, because half the magazine was adverts. I don’t think I would have minded paying the 60p for it 36 years ago but my eyes would have screamed over from the sheer volume of glossy makeup, perfume, skincare, appliances and cooking apparel pornography thrust directly into my brain.

Luckily things are a little (little, I’m not referring to you, Little Miss Internet) bit more toned down for 2018. Let’s open the Time Hole for a bit. You like butters and spreads, right? So did people in 1982:

I was planning on scanning the whole thing but, as Emma quite rightly pointed out, every time you turned the page it creaked as though the glue was about to give up and run away to Greece to open a juice bar down on the beach.

I’ve never heard of this brand. I can only presume it doesn’t exist anymore, meaning that that the high demand referred to in the advertisement was actually baloney. Still, I’m sure 95% of the industry is baloney and the “butter mountain” was a real thing seen HERE in all its glory courtesy of our good friends at popular online wank-filtered encyclopaedia Wikipedia.

I wasn’t alive then but it sounds as though it was a good time for all.

Avatar New beans, please

“One! Ha ha ha. Two! Ha ha ha. Three! Ha ha ha.” The immortal wisdom of the Count.

Here on the Beans, our counting is not done by a furry purple vampire, but by the Bean Counter, an ingenious piece of machinery made from old sofa springs and a second-hand nuclear reactor that we found in a car boot sale. For more than four years now it’s been faithfully counting up our posts and generating new genetically-modified beans and peas as a reward for our performance, while also disgorging between eight and twelve tons of a resinous toxic by-product into the picturesque River Swale each day.

The highly complicated algorithm by which it awards beans has remained the same since early 2014, so it’s no surprise that earlier this year there were calls for an overhaul of the system to better reflect the realities of blogging in the futuristic world of 2018.

The point of the Bean Counter was never to create a level playing field, but rather to produce a playing field with carefully chosen hills and crevices so that we all stand a chance of scoring a Bean each month according to our various blog posting habits. Critics of the existing system pointed out that it was far easier for Ian to score a Bean than anyone else, and that Kev’s time-consuming building projects meant that three posts in a month was an unattainably high bar for him to reach.

I am delighted to announce, as a result, that major engineering works have been completed and the Bean Counter is now operating a completely new set of rules.

  • Kev will now score a Bean if he makes two (2) posts in a month.
  • Ian will now score a Bean if he makes precisely three (3) or four (4) posts in a month.
  • Chris will continue to score a Bean if he makes four (4) or more posts in a month.

Some would say that these new rules should begin operation from this month onwards, and that existing scores should be left alone. Perhaps they should. But I had a go at that and it was really difficult, so the new rules now apply to all previous months as well, causing a major recasting of our historical Bean Counts.

  • Kev has gained six (6) additional beans for months in which he made two posts.
  • Ian has lost ten (10) beans for months in which he only made two posts.

This is deeply and inherently unfair, which is unfortunate but unavoidable without further major re-engineering work that will just be an absolute faff.

Your comments, detailed feedback and outright anger will be welcome in the comments section below, but may not amount to much.

Avatar Four Word Reviews: Eyes of Innocence

Do you remember the 1980s? Do you like 1980s music? Are you keen to hear all the many sounds of 80s pop music on a single album? Yes, yes, yes and yes: the album for you is Eyes of Innocence, the 1984 debut from Miami Sound Machine, better known as Gloria Estefan plus her husband and some guys who would be quickly forgotten about as her solo career took off. Me? I like some 80s music, yes, but I generally don’t require all of it to be performed on a single album by a single band. And yet that is what I got when the postman pushed this through my door.

Read More: Four Word Reviews: Eyes of Innocence »

Avatar Umbrellagate

I was very angry about it, I can tell you. I swore liberally and at considerable length.

Wait. Let me go back a bit.

So, last night I went to some birthday drinks for Robin, a friend of mine and a fine upstanding citizen. We met in a pub on the south bank in London. Rain was forecast all day, so I took my new umbrella. I love my new umbrella: it’s black and very stylish, and it’s got bright green trim so it looks very cool, and it’s got a push button on the handle that makes it open right out all on its own with a satisfying fwump noise. I kept it leaning against my seat all night.

Just before I left, I went to the toilet, leaving the rest of the party around the table. When I got back, and picked up my jacket, my umbrella was not there.

I asked other people if they’d seen it. I searched behind furniture and under chairs. I looked around at other tables. I asked behind the bar. Nobody could explain it. Nobody had seen it. It had gone. Clearly, some light-fingered Cockney wideboy had seen it leaning there, unobserved, and nabbed it, and was now strolling casually along the south bank with my umbrella in his filthy, criminal hands, probably whistling “Knees Up Mother Brown” as he did so.

At this point I was angry, as described earlier.

Anyway, on the train home, about 40 minutes later, Robin sent me a photo of some people at the party with my umbrella. They’d all been leaving as the pub was closing, and they’d found it leaning by the table – not the table I’d been sitting at, but another just next to it. I’d checked all the tables before I left – in fact I’d checked the whole bloody pub – and it hadn’t been there. Nobody had noticed its mysterious return. So presumably the Cockney wideboy’s misfiring conscience had got the better of him and he’d returned his ill-gotten rain apparatus.

My umbrella is now safely stored in Robin’s flat in Penge, and my anger has subsided.

I will now take questions from the floor. Thank you.

Avatar The Kitty Committee – update

“Brothers and sisters…

… When I woke up one morning, the sun’s rays met my whiskers and gave me a smile that could not be broken. When I awoke another morning, I felt these joys amplified because another one of our lost brothers has been found. Another kitty has been returned to the fold. Though he may flop more than the others, though he may not be as robust as those who sit above me, he is still one of us.

May you take this moment to love and understand the newest member of the Kitty Committee. May you speak fondly of him to your closest work colleagues and occasionally send him fan mail.

As always, we are always recruiting so if you wish to join for the pursuit of naps and purrs do get in touch.”

Avatar Dear Beans… Terrific Tasty Terrier Tribulations

Dear Beans,

I’ve got a problem that I can’t tell anyone about. Only the anonymous helping hands of casa de Beans can save me. I am sweating like a scamp just typing these words. I will have to use a fake name so it cannot be traced back to me for FEAR of besmirchment. Besmirching? For the possibility of a bad smirch.

My dog, Lavish Kibbles, passed away a few weeks ago. He choked on a sausage mouse and never recovered. I cried for several days after and eventually I got my stuff together, and sorted him out. In order to save on costs and vets bills I buried him in the back garden. The only thing is after I dug the hole I lost all the mud (I think my neighbour may have stolen it, he’s building his own Hawaiian mud shack) so I needed a substitute. With only my wits about me, I turned to the contents of my kitchen cupboards. Thankfully I’d been to Costco the other day to stock up on essentials and I’d picked up a 600lb bag of Bisto. Using the gravy granules I covered up Lavish Kibbles and retreated to the sanctity of my living room.

The crazy Summer weather conditions continued. A hot rain fell towards the end of the week. With it came the tastiest smell, wafting up from the bottom of my garden. I knew what it was and I knew I needed to control myself in case anyone discovered my disgusting yet mouth-wateringly frugal ways.

From my window I can see a river of gravy starting to flow. In my dreams I’m walking towards it, arms outstretched, a gigantic breadbun in each hand, desperate to dip. I’ve tried making my own as a way of appeasing my tastebuds but it doesn’t smell or taste the same. Only the raw, disturbing aroma emanating from my back yard will quench my thirst.

What should I do; give in to temptation and chow down on my now ex-dog or look the other way?

Yours excitedly

Turbot Bojangles