Author: Criss Crimz

Avatar Do not remove

This sign at work has not been successful in its aims.

Presumably, at some point, another bin will be provided by whoever considers it vitally important that this little-used basement corridor always has a bin available at this precise location. When that happens I suggest they adopt one, some or all of the following suggestions for improved security:

  • Add “on pain of death” to the end of the sign
  • Add a nice positive thumbs up symbol to the sign
  • Have a speaker playing the sign’s message out loud on a loop in case the bin was taken by a blind person
  • Keep the existing wording and layout of the sign, but enlarge it so that it covers the entire wall
  • Use plainer language that low-life thieves will understand, like “get your stinking hands off my bin, you pilfering shitbags”
  • Make multiple versions of the sign and use them to plaster the bin to the wall like papier-mâché
  • Apply camouflage netting to the bin, thus rendering it invisible
  • Put another more desirable bin next to the bin as bait

Avatar Cracking the code

In the last few years, whenever there are renovations to some part of the building where I work, there have been some common design elements. They’re always more colourful for a start, which is nice because the building’s original colour scheme was mainly shades of grey. They also involve little holes or indents in otherwise blank panels that spell things in morse code.

In reception, for example, there are large dark coloured panels with a repeating pattern in morse code that’s lit from behind, which spells out the name of the building over and over again. It’s like a little interior design Easter egg.

Lately, a shared kitchen area near our room was refitted and gained new green cupboard doors. One of them just covers the equipment for the instant hot water tap. It has a pattern of holes that form a vent so the cupboard has some air circulation, and the holes are in morse code.

Eventually my curiosity got the better of me and I looked up a morse code translator to see what the vent spells.

It says VENT VENT.

Avatar Album release

It’s finally here – just in time for Christmas! Place your order now for the musical sensation of the decade. It’s the greatest hits of Shoe and Bin!

Featuring all those toe-tapping classics:

  • It Must Have Bin Love
  • It Had to be Shoe
  • Shoe Can’t Hurry Love
  • It’s a Bin
  • I Wanna Sex Shoe Up
  • Bin Around the World
  • Shoe Spin Me Round (Like a Record)
  • Can’t Get Shoe Out Of My Head
  • Working My Way Back to Shoe
  • Since Shoe’ve Bin Gone
  • Shaddap Shoe Face

…and many, many more!

Place your order now, and feel free to let us know what your favourite Shoe And Bin songs are in the comments.

Avatar Floater

Recently a new floater has entered my life. It is a dark spot in my right eye that is very obvious when I am looking at something white – a blank Word document, for example, or a sheet of paper, or this empty blog post that fills the screen. It hovers a bit below the thing I’m looking at and is only sometimes visible.

There it is. Little bastard. Go away, floater.

Generally speaking anything that has the title “floater” is something I disapprove of. I like floats perfectly well, of course – there are three that spring to mind:

  1. Vehicles moving in a carnival, carrying people who wear bright costumes and wave a lot. I like waving. These floats are good.
  2. A glass of coke with a block of vanilla ice cream in it, forming a weird foamy top and offering the pinnacle of hot day refreshment from the 1980s. Coke floats are delicious and I haven’t had one for ages but I might now have to go make one.
  3. The small amount of cash put into a shop’s till at the start of the day. I don’t have any strong feelings about this but I certainly don’t disapprove of it.

Floaters though? No. Nothing good comes with that name. The lavatorial variety need no discussion. The eyeball kind haven’t bothered me much until now but they are not welcome here.

I’ve always had a couple of little floaters in my eye, of course – virtually transparent ones only occasionally visible when I look at a bright clear sky and focus my eye a certain way, or something. But now this little dark bastard is here, uninvited. He will probably be a feature of my vision for the rest of my life, and is visible proof – highly visible proof, since he’s literally everywhere I look – that I am growing older and my eyes are only going to get worse.

Last year I went to the optician for the first eye test I’ve ever done. I have been lucky with my eyes until now. I’d noticed that reading anything with small writing now involved moving that thing slightly further away from my face. The optician said no, my eyes were great, nothing needed, thank you. Excellent, I said. Come back in two years, he said. You’ll need glasses then. My face dropped. Is there anything I can do, I asked? No, he said. You’re just getting old.

Now my glasses deadline is just 12 months away and, as if I wanted or needed a reminder of my gathering years, in what is likely to be my last year of unfiltered ocular excellence, my floater has arrived to remind me of my mortality.

Floaty little bastard.

I’m off for a Coke float.

Avatar Nine million minutes ago

It’s hard to believe it, but it’s been slightly more than nine million minutes since the first time Kev travelled down to London to visit me in my poky Mortlake flat. (If you prefer more conventional time measurements, like some sort of idiot, that equates to 6465 days, or 17 years, eight months and 13 days.)

Obviously we used our time together extremely profitably. Among our many intellectual and sporting pursuits, we found time to spend quite a while – several hours, in fact, judging by the timestamps – taking pictures of ourselves with my iMac’s photobooth software.

Here are some highlights of a couple of very youthful idiots having a laugh nine million minutes ago.

Avatar Greasy spoon restaurant review

This weekend, we decided to finally visit Café Zeynep, five minutes away from home, that has been open for a year without us even looking inside. It’s the latest creation from daring café owner Zeynep, who has been frying pork products and cooking eggs five different ways for twenty years in other nearby parts of Hampshire; now her extraordinary vision has been set free in this bold new cafeteria experience. From the moment we stepped inside, the all-Turkish staff and fully brown leather furniture set the perfect tone for a memorable fry-up.

Since it was breakfast time, we both opted for breakfast. I chose Zeynep’s Big Breakfast, while my partner went for the Mediterranean Breakfast. The Big Breakfast had local butcher’s sausages infused with well-seasoned porky notes that elevated each bite. The hash browns had real crunch while the egg yolks were runny. It was clear that the chef had taken care to source high-quality beans. My partner’s fried halloumi was perfectly cooked, a delightful contrast to the spicy Turkish sausage. The accompanying toast added a refreshing crunch that brightened the dish.

To drink, I selected the White Americano, while my partner indulged in the Mars milkshake. The coffee was a revelation — smooth and well-rounded, it was served in a mug of plain brown ceramic and garnished with semi-skimmed milk. The flavours melded beautifully, with bitter Arabica bringing out the sweetness of the thick-cut bacon as I swilled down my fried feast. My partner’s shake was equally impressive, sweet but not overpowering; we suspect the Snickers milkshake would offer a more rounded palate.

Throughout our meal, the service was attentive without being intrusive. Our server was knowledgeable about the menu and offered great recommendations for wine pairings, which we ignored because we were having breakfast.

Overall, Café Zeynep exceeded our expectations. The atmosphere, impeccable service, and feeling of extraordinary fullness stayed with us for the rest of the day. It’s basically next door and we’ve never been. We are idiots for not trying it sooner. Next time I’m going to have a go on their brunch menu.

★★★★☆