Absolutely astonishing rain is happening just outside my window. I call it "rain" only because it fulfils the usual criteria of wetness and stratospheric origin; in all other respects it's a near-horizontal barrage from a dark and violently angry mob of clouds lurking around like disgruntled Chelsea supporters. The noise is loud enough to prevent me from hearing the phone, which I suppose is some sort of silver lining, as it means that I don't have to talk to the sorry excuse for a technician who has been calling me all day with problems which would not tax the intellect of a pencil.

A large crack has just developed in one of the office windows. The sky is the colour of ghostly slate. I should probably go and avoid imminent drowning now.

Not entirely satisfied with my lack of satisfaction with the previous entry in my last entry. I should probably learn to accept my own ramblings for the light-hearted and idle badinage which they are. I am a perfectionist at heart, but expect more of myself than of others. I imagine that there is probably some deep and insightful analysis that could be made at this point.

Not entirely satisfied with that last entry. 'Twas more of a brain dump than a properly thought-out piece. Will have to do another one.

As if Adrian's cringeworthy-synopsis competition hadn't been hard enough, Canadian raconteuse and fellow biscuit-lover Treefen has come up with this writing challenge:

I am going to provide a opening sentence. Your assignment is to complete the scene, and make it as funny as possible. I am talking loss-of-bladder-control funny, not tee-hee funny. Go for the gusto.

Guidelines:
1) While some potty language is funny, a lot is boring. Keep that in mind at all times.
2) Word limit is 300 words (not including the provided sentence). No fudging.
3) Somewhere in the scene, you must use the word 'ickle'. You get bonus points if you manage to use either 'solipsistic' or 'verisimilitude' as well - but it must be grammatically correct!
4) While you may be inspired by other comic authors, do not succumb to the desire to rip off any major motion pictures. I'll know.

And here is your mandatory sentence:

As Dave stood there in his bathrobe and woolly socks, it occurred to him that he was inappropriately dressed for the occasion.

This is the first thing that popped into my head; I apologise in advance if it offends any passing dignitaries.

As Dave stood there in his bathrobe and woolly socks, it occurred to him that he was inappropriately dressed for the occasion. The eagerly anticipated sight of Brenda's hotel suite remained unapparent. He blinked owlishly, expecting the mildly perturbed butler to be replaced forthwith by his beloved, but this nevertheless doggedly persisted in failing to occur.

"Mister... um?" murmured the butler in a faintly disapproving but staunchly unflappable tone, obviously as if to imply that Dave might be dressed like a common vagabond bent on depraved sexual misadventure but that he, the butler, would not dream of bringing the subject up.

"Chirac," faltered Dave, "Jacques."

"Very good, Monsieur President," oiled the butler without so much as a sceptical twitch of the eyebrow, despite the blatant lack of verisimilitude in Dave's claim, and slid aside smoothly.

The party had clearly been in full swing for some time, and the more inebriated guests had abandoned the traditional seating arrangements and had opted instead to bring down the immense, glittering chandelier, as evidently it was more comfortable. Enormous buckets of what looked like cocaine were placed strategically around the vast ballroom, and were being sampled enthusiastically by shiny-faced partygoers with silver straws. No attempt was being made by the staff to restrain the debauchery, and as Dave peered myopically around he realised that most of the guests appeared to be senior politicians and international heads of state.

"This is all a figment of my diseased imagination," he thought blearily, "none of it exists. None of it at all." As he wallowed in this solipsistic daze, an elderly woman bearing a striking resemblance to the Queen wearing a nurse's uniform lurched unsteadily up to him, sagged conspiratorially onto his shoulder and breathed, "Would ickle diddums like his bottle, hmmm? Nappy time, Charlie," before staggering away in a haze of alcohol fumes to accost a furtive-looking archbishop.

"I’ve wandered into Hell," thought Dave, and scurried off.

I make that 299 words... no idea what degree of incontinence they'll cause...

Suffering from bizarre ailments today. Firstly, I have a nasty case of Playstation Thumb, occasioned by the thoroughly unwise purchase of a football game to which I've been glued for several days, causing The Missus to declare me a closet addict and other unsavoury epithets which I dare not repeat for fear of giving offence. My left thumb is approximately twice the girth of its twin due to swelling. This is not making typing noticeably more difficult, although I'm finding it tricky to read the screen due to the reflection of the bright red glow. Secondly, my right nostril is twitching sporadically, as though detecting a skunk at long range. I'm not sure if this malady has a name, or is even recognised by medical science, in which case I propose to name it Bloody Annoying Disease, as it's driving me to distraction. I suppose I can always scratch it with my usefully enlarged thumb.

Exotic colour-themed beverage number two has been churning inside that feverish maelstrom of half-digested synapse effluent which I call a brain, and is presented here for your edification (and possibly even consumption). Please charge your glasses to the rather magnificent...

Purple Arse

• 50ml vodka
  
• 50ml liqueur de cassis
  
• Top up with cranberry juice, and add 3 drops of Angostura Bitters

This is tangy and potent. And, for some inexplicable reason, good for migraines. In moderation, obviously.

Much like the late, great Arthur Dent, I can't get the hang of Thursdays.

Especially rainy English Thursdays. The ones where the rain just seeps into everything in a gradual, insidious manner, so that it's not a good honest soaking, just bloody damp. It's like you're watching the world through a grey filter lens.

I should be asleep, I really should. I'm suffering from protracted stupidity and weak-willedness, viz, inability to get myself to sleep at a reasonable hour. I'm absolutely knackered, yet there's always just one more thing I fancy doing before I actually give in to the sack-hitting urge. It's probably a twisted inversion of my procrastinating nature; never put off until tomorrow what you can stay up and do at 2am tonight.

I have been challenged to define what my idea of Real Cider is. Before I do, let me first say that I have nothing against those who drink the sort of thing which is called "cider" in trendy bars in London, for example, despite its urinaceous flavour, ludicrous temperature, fizziness and high water content. I do not denigrate them in the slightest; I don't want them to start crying like little babies. Nor do I wish to participate in alcohol machismo (alright, further alcohol machismo). But I must strike a blow for the Old Ways, which are drowning beneath the tide of mass-market consumerism and will soon be gone from this fair land forever.

Anyone from Somerset or Devon or Cornwall will be able to tell you what Real Cider is. It's the stuff you have to pour out carefully using a non-metallic ladle, the stuff you're only allowed to drink if you sign a waiver and give the details of your next of kin to the barman first. You can often spot a Real Cider by its name. Pretend ciders have really hard names, like "Strongbow" and "Bearstrangler". Real Ciders have innocent, fluffy-sounding names, like "Wells Hazy" and "Applemeadow". This fact belies their astonishing power to maim and kill. I was in Glastonbury a couple of years ago, and shared a (small) drink of a Real Cider called "Old Rosie's Scrumpy" with a bunch of very agreeable biker-hippie types, who were kind enough not to thrash me too badly at pool, and also to drop me off at the motel afterwards, despite my incoherent mumbling and dogged insistence that I was perfectly capable of finding my house, I was quite happy to crawl there, and could they please lend me a cycle helmet to stop me damaging myself on those vicious-looking wandering lampposts. I distinctly remember waking up the next afternoon and thinking that my tongue had been laminated to my feet with mud-flavoured concrete.

Today I've spent just under nine hours driving. This may not seem like a lot to some American readers; I know that many of you think nothing of driving fifty miles for a spot of lunch, but by British standards this is a lot. My poor beleaguered bottom has only just recovered from snowboarding, and like a fool I've subjected it to prolonged and torturous car seat habitation. You know that sensation you get when you've been driving so long that you can't feel the cheeks of your bum any more? This syndrome is colloquially known here as "motorway arse", and I am suffering it exquisitely...

As I haven't had much of a holiday recently, I decided to take The Missus on a wee expedition, to Longleat Safari Park near Bristol. Having spent three hours trundling along country roads, much of it in the wake of a battered old Aston Martin which must have set off in approximately 1930, we then spent an hour queueing to get into the park (in the car), before queueing to see the llama enclosure (in the car), then driving in convoy at 0.0006 mph around the roe deer, the Bactrian camels, the ubiquitously defecating zebras, the three very thoroughly asleep tigers, the allegedly sixteen (but evidently invisible) wolves and the disturbingly horny lions. (I must admit that the sight of two lions having it off twenty feet from your car is... well, yes, disturbing and unusual, but also rather powerful. Baby Lion In Progress. You have to wonder what they're thinking, though... bloody hell, Mavis, the damn humans are watching us shagging again, the perverts.) Then we had to repeat the homeward journey, by which time my legs were starting to turn purple and The Missus was becoming agitated at the lack of in-car tea-making facilities. I've just dragged myself up the stairs to my study, using my arms and teeth, in order to type this and explain to you all why I won't be posting for a day or two, as I will undoubtedly need extensive physiotherapy.

The meal I have just eaten would make an angel rip off his halo and dance a blasphemous boogie with Beelzebub for just one more plateful. I've spent the evening with the family at a Malaysian restaurant in Kenilworth, flabbergasting the waiters by sampling more or less everything on the menu, and sitting back and going "aaaahhhhhhaaaaaAAAAAAAUUUUUUUMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmooooooooooGodyes," Meg Ryan-like, after each morsel. To give you a mere taster (hah!) of this heavenly repast, imagine succulent seared red snapper coated in coriander, lime and chilli; diced chicken in saffron, tamarind and coconut sauce with sautéed okra and grilled roti chanai; and sorbet de cassis with brandy butter. That was just what I ordered. We have an endearing family tradition of sharing food around the table, often without asking first, so of course I had to have a bit of everyone else's meal as well. I am now stuffed like an overripe straw dummy, and also completely skint, but very, very gastronomically satisfied.

One of these days, my freaky metabolism is going to do a sudden double-take and realise just how much food I actually eat, and then I'm rapidly going to start expanding like a balloon on the end of an exhaust pipe. I guess I'm just going to have to keep enjoying the good stuff as often as possible until it happens. It's a hard life, I tell you.

Courtesy of evilynn and river selkie, I have just learnt how to say "I have an axe in my head" in German. I'm quite pleased about this. It may seem trivial to you, but it's the way I learn - picking up random bits of useless information by osmosis. I can't really think of any circumstances where I would need to say that I have an axe in my head, in German or otherwise, so of course it's absolutely vital that I learn. Most of my linguistic facility comes from this kind of thing. For example, I can say "the cow is stuck in the mud" in Zulu, and "the lamb chops are too small" in Portuguese, despite the extreme unlikelihood of either of these situations ever actually cropping up. I can live my life without fear or doubt, secure in the knowledge that, should an Esperanto-speaking hotel porter ever ask me why I am calling Reception at 3 a.m., I will be able to tell him that it is because there is a frog in my bidet.

Have joined the ranks of the guestmap-users. Please feel free to add your tuppence-worth. Extra points awarded for innovative entries.

Snowboarding again! Whee!!! Finally managed to get back to the slopes last night. I was attacked rather vigorously by the half-pipe a few times, due to which my arse is now an interesting purple colour, but otherwise it was a top evening. No gerbils were mangled during the making of this film.

By popular demand, and at great expense, we bring you the recipe for that infamous beverage of champions, the...

Orange Bastard

To make one cup:

• 75ml vodka
  
• 50ml whisky (don't use the expensive stuff, as you will only be renting this drink anyway)
  
• 25ml blackcurrant schnapps
  
• 25ml Rose's lime cordial
  
• Top up with fresh orange juice (no "smooth" varieties, please - the "bits" are essential to the overall effect)
  

Bear in mind that these are approximate measurements, as the Orange Bastard should ideally be made to taste, such as it is.

I don't generally comment on the war, but this is too good to pass up.

Stick it in the vein and pour in the caffeine, doctor. I went to my cousin's birthday party in Preston at the weekend. All was going well until we decided to resurrect an old invention of mine from my university days, a drink involving vodka, whisky, blackcurrant schnapps, orange juice and lime cordial. This Satanic concoction is known as an "Orange Bastard", for reasons which shortly became known to everyone in the room, who felt a sudden urge to jump on the kitchen table and start dancing the "Macarena". (Singing - or something vaguely resembling it - was also attempted by some, but it came out as "Blurble wurble schlorf blarf uurgh macarena" and therefore lost some of its charm, particularly as the song actually playing on the stereo was "Stand and Deliver".) Nobody ever asks for a second Orange Bastard, if only because they usually can't formulate coherent sentences after the first one. Also, it tastes like cat piss.

Back in the saddle again, more or less. The Pastamobile, however, is on its last legs. The engine temperature gauge went this morning; it's now in the habit of telling me, variously, that (a) the engine is too cold to start, and could I please scrape off the icicles that are undoubtedly hanging off it; (b) the engine is about to explode messily as it has reached roughly the same temperature as the surface of the sun; (c) there is no engine in this car, what the hell am I trying to pull? And it changes its mind every three seconds or so. Luckily, I am about to sell it. (Don't worry, even my shrivelled sense of ethics forbids me from hiding the car's idiosyncracies from the poor bastard lucky person making the purchase...)

Has someone designated April as Bloody Enormous Squid Month without telling us? Adrian's find was frightening enough... and now we have this. It may look like a slightly squashed floating umbrella, but I am not going anywhere near the bugger. Ick.

Somewhat less corpselike today; have been able to contemplate (and even, on occasion, perform) vertical movements, simple sentences and basic cuisine, i.e. toast with butter. What I'd really like is some proper chicken soup, but the unfortunate dearth of free-roaming chickens in the neighbourhood prevents me. (Would you call that a poultry excuse?)

I feel like death warmed up. Awoke this morning with splitting head, parched throat and tongue like a barbecued aubergine. Despite phoning the office to let them know exactly how sick I am and how many bunches of grapes to send, they insist on calling me every half-hour to fix some dreary little problemito. Well, sod it. I am on strike. As of now, all incoming calls are being re-routed to Mister Chan's Double Happy Luck Takeaway in Glasgow. As for me, I intend to sit on the sofa wrapped in a blanket and feel properly sorry for myself in peace. Donations of fresh fruit gratefully accepted.

Damn damn damn damn damn DAMN, and also, bollocks. The doctor has banned me from snowboarding this week, as he says my back muscles need more rest. What the hell does he know?? I need my fix, man, I need it baaaad. [drools slightly] By the time I get back on the slopes all my boarding buddies will have outdistanced me, and I will be reduced to pottering along on the gentle bits while they bounce themselves stylishly off the ceiling. Bastards.

Have been watching the Oxford-Cambridge annual boat race from Henley-on-Thames. VERY EXCITING. Oxford won by a nose, or possibly an oar, causing much family disturbance as we have adherents on both sides. Many claims of unfair advantage have been bandied about, as a result of which I have had to declare the living room a Neutral Zone in order to restrain the seething combatants from turning the house into a trench warfare area and lobbing bowls of non-conventional weaponry (okay, salsa) at each other. Am attempting to maintain a suitable neutrality in public, but as I'm tucked away in my study and no-one else can see me, I'd just like to say, very quietly, yay Oxford. Thank you. Back to your corners, everyone... now play nicely...

Have just had the most amazing food in this tiny little restaurant in the middle of a wheatfield outside Stratford... poached fillet of monkfish in garlic and white wine, with fresh spinach and pine nut salad and a tarragon and balsamic vinegar dressing... my poor stomach is laden with this stuff but it is SO VERY HAPPY. I wax lyrical on this subject, you know. Haiku to a Poached Fish:

The tasty monkfish
Fills the aching void within
Now I am replete

The results are in... the trip took exactly (and yes, I am sufficiently pernickety that I wrote down my start- and end-times to the second. Never let it be said that I am not scrupulously attentive to detail in such matters) 4 hours, 9 minutes and 25 seconds. Mina is the winner of this week's win-an-invisible-Ferrari competition, with a staggeringly close 4 hours, 16 minutes and 42 seconds. I have already notifed Queen Latifah, Graham Norton and Brian May who have all promised to write, if not actually to post, congratulatory missives. Tune in next week for our new contest: How much did Moby Dick weigh? Winners will receive an all-expenses-paid trip for two to sunny Southampton.*

I am knackered, and thusly am hitting the sack. (I wonder where that expression comes from? I humbly request etymological enlightenment.)

* Subject to Terms & Conditions, including current residence in Southampton.

How to Get Ahead in Mail Server Administration

Day Four

I knew it was too good to be true. The Sponge has given up the ghost, which means that we're all diligently studying Sitting On Your Arse 101 while the engineers drag it off to the great server room in the sky and fit up a spare. No sign of life from the newcomer as yet. We had been told that we might be able to finish early today, but given the sudden and not entirely unexpected demise of the test server I anticipate a lengthy sojourn in the Shower Room. This does not bode particularly well for my trip home, as it will now undoubtedly begin right in the middle of rush hour and I'll have a chance to get my rusty commuter-dodging, pickpocket-avoiding and Tube-cramming skills back up to scratch. The more pessimistic voters are likely to make a killing.

At least it's still sunny...