Just occasionally, spam can be the best thing ever. I reproduce for you here the contents, unmodified and unabridged, of a spam email which I received this morning. The author, whomever he may be, deserves an eternal place in the pantheon of paranoid gods. Here it is:



Pure genius.

In my wanderings about the InterCyberWebNet today I came across a little gem of a game - well, I suppose it's more of a brainteaser - named Petals Around the Rose. You may be familiar with it, so don't give away the secret if you know it. It took me about an hour to figure out the solution, which (when I finally got it) gave me that wonderful "eureka" sensation and made my colleagues look at me oddly, which in my books is reason enough to do it. Solve the puzzle and you will be eligible, like me, to become a Potentate of the Rose, a highly-respected qualification recognised by prestigious academic institutions and large, well-paying corporations worldwide. But never reveal the secret. If you do, the Fraternity of the Rose will hunt you down like a dog. You have been warned.

One would think (would one not) that a product calling itself a "Chinese chicken drumstick" should fulfill certain criteria, and that chief amongst these should be that it's made of chicken, followed closely by being the drumstick joint, and of course exuding a certain Oriental flavour, style or panache. Well, apparently not. The one I've just had the misfortune to ingest possesses none of these qualities in any measurable degree. It gives every evidence of having been reconstituted from finely-ground guinea pig, the evidence in question being the short orange hairs I found on the underside. Its shape is suggestive of a chicken's upper leg - or possibly its arse - rather than the drumstick, and contains entirely the wrong number of bones (i.e. twelve). Furthermore, having lived in southern China for the best part of fourteen years I consider myself something of an authority on the spices and other flavourings hailing from them thar parts, and can assure you that any Chinese chef worthy of the name would hang up his wok and disembowel himself with the nearest handy pair of chopsticks, rather than put his name to that particular culinary monstrosity.

Unfortunately, in order to claim a refund from the vendors I'd be forced to regurgitate the item in question, and I doubt they'd be willing to offer me store credit on that basis. Well, you never know.

I have been accused of randomness again today. It's beginning to dawn on me that there may be some justification for this.

These are the sort of things I've been asking myself lately during moments of extreme randomness:

• Has anyone ever actually seen a chicken crossing a road?
• Given that gerbils enjoy running around inside large wheels, could you safely tumble-dry one?
• Do single people have dirty backs? How would they know?
• Why is flat-packed furniture harder to fit in your car than ready-made furniture?
• Why do doctors call what they do "practice"? Isn't that a bit worrying?
• Where does the poo go on really long plane trips? Is there a tank? And if so, which poor bastard gets the job of emptying it?
• Why don't sheep shrink when it rains?
• Why do people point at their bare wrists when asking you for the time?
• Who's that girl from the end of the new Herbal Essences advert, and where can I get her phone number?

Please enlighten me. Particularly with regard to the last item.

Actually, these kinds of question occur to me a couple of hundred times a day, but invariably I forget them within a few minutes, as I have the long-term memory capacity of a senile goldfish. I need some sort of handy device which will let me note them down instantly, so I can look them all up when I get a spare quarter-hour. Any ideas?

So I get a phone call half an hour ago, from a relative who shall remain nameless (lest a passing vengeful angel should read of my wrath and decide upon an impromptu spot of righteous smiting), imploring my assistance in fixing an apparent virus infection on his home PC. I'm quietly crossing my fingers and hoping for a quick fix here, because I'm sat in the office with any number of Pointy-Haired fellas pestering me for genuine work-related stuff. Anyway, I'm trying my damnedest to fingure out what kind of virus it is, what files are infected, and so on - and it's pretty damn near impossible, because the guy doesn't know the first thing about PCs. I mean, he needs a three-sentence explanation just to find the Start menu. I'm saying things like, "Okay, open an Explorer window," and he's going, "Open a what?" He's utterly bereft of Clue. It's like trying to operate a stapler with your feet.

Am I just being unreasonably impatient? I mean, the guy has owned this PC for at least four years; it's fair to assume he's used the Start menu at least twice, right?

I have a theory.

My colleagues tell me how strange I am, every morning at breakfast, because of the way I spread Marmite on my toast. I'm quite picky about it. The Marmite has to go all over the toast, right to the edges and the corners. I'm not saying I spend three minutes per slice or anything; I just like it spread all over the slice. This is because I am weird. I make no apologies for it; it's just the way I like Marmite on toast.

My theory is this: everyone has at least one private foible which they know, deep down, is a bit loony. A little idiosyncratic habit which makes other people look at them sideways. Some people might have several, and they are called eccentric; others do it all the time, and they get to wear those funky white wraparound jackets and live in bouncy rooms. But everyone has one.

What's yours?

Some schmuck a few yards away is fiddling about with a Homer Simpson desk toy. I use the word (toy, n. object to play with, an amusing or diverting item. M.Eng. toye) - in its loosest conceivable sense, because this thing seems designed to cause maximum annoyance to everyone within earshot. Right now, there are seven people wincing visibly every ten seconds or so, as a tinny "Doh!" or "Why me??" bleats forth from this small, yellow, intensely irritating plastic lump. One of my less tension-friendly colleagues is gritting his teeth and breathing heavily. Hang on, I'll just go and hide all of his sharp objects.

Why do we imagine that this sort of thing is diverting, let alone amusing, for more than a couple of minutes? And yet a whole industry is devoted to churning out this inane crap in mass quantities, to relieve us of the job of thinking of something worthwhile to give as a gift to people we don't know or like particularly well. And believe me, these annoying little trinkets fill that niche admirably. Who needs to spend precious hours shopping for thoughtful or imaginative pressies? We can nip into Woolworths, spend ten minutes and a few quid, and burden the Christmas stockings of our hapless colleagues and third cousins with Singing Ninja Gerbils. Hooray.

</RANT>

P.S. But wouldn't "Ninja Gerbils" be a great name for a rock band?

A miracle has occurred, friends! Yes, spread the joyful word, the glorious day is here! This very morning, I wandered into the canteen for my usual breakfast two-toast-and-Marmite, and upon finding only an unopened packet of bread by the toaster, I opened it. Imagine my astonishment, ladies and gentlemen, when I saw that the loaf was composed entirely of crusts! And all facing in the same direction! Surely, thought I, this can be no ordinary event... this must be a sign of the coming Day of Judgement! The sinners will be cast into the fiery pit! The seas will boil! The sky will fall! A bunch of impatient-looking wingèd chaps with flaming swords will start getting frisky! Death and the Horsedudes will play a charity gig featuring songs from their forthcoming album, "Reaping Grimly"! Repent ye now, for the end is near!!

No, seriously, that was really weird. Okay, so the crusts didn't have the face of the Pope imprinted on them or anything, but still weird, right? I mean, how the hell do you get a loaf made up of nothing but crusts? Where did they come from? Are they recycled from the loaf-ends that kids won't eat because they don't want hairy chests? And what did they do with the rest of the loaf? It's a MYSTERY. It's an ENIGMA. It's a bunch of other words meaning "mystery" or "enigma" which undoubtedly lurk in a nearby thesaurus. It's the sort of thing that Miss Marple gets out of bed and puts in her best teeth for.

What sort of world is this, I ask you, where innocent consumers can be terrified into witless paranoia by the sight of a inexplicably sliceless loaf of bread? A call to the nice people at Hovis is in order, I feel.

Have been listening to the rather excellent Franz Ferdinand album in the car on the way into the office this morning, and again with the headphones stuck into the laptop this afternoon. Can't shake off the feeling that the beginning of "Take Me Out" would make a great song in its own right - better than the single, in fact - if suitably extended. You know, the fast bit at the very start, before it all goes decrescendo and kicks into the guitar riff... dum dah didi dum dum dowwnnggg... yes, that bit. I wonder if it was actually another song to begin with, and they just tacked it on the front to sound cool.

Have just learned, as a piece of completely random knowledge of the type which I treasure dearly, that the proper abbreviation of the rank of "Flying Officer" in the Royal Air Force is... yes, really... "Fg Off". Isn't that just wonderful? Doesn't that bring a smile to your face? I mean, imagine the feeling of welcome you'd get every morning when you pitch up at work, and the door to your office has a wee sign on it saying "Fg Off Pastamasta" or similar. Genius.

Sarah now insists that all objects in any given room belong to her. "Sarah's seesaw," she said immediately upon our arrival at nursery (in Sarah's car) this morning, gesturing imperiously to the seesaw in case there was any chance I hadn't worked it out. Last night, we had to put Sarah's telly on so she could watch David Attenborough explaining interesting things about Sarah's fish.

She's also developed a stubborn determination to put her own shoes on in the morning, which takes at least twenty minutes but is preferable to the enraged screaming you get if you try and help her before she's asked you to do so. "No! Sarah do it! Daddy off! WAARRGHH!!!"

To top it all off, we had a proper full-blown tantrum yesterday evening, because I told her that she had to put her pyjamas on before cleaning her teeth (which she loves to do, and will in fact demand to do at least six times a day). We had to carry her up the stairs, squirming like a bag of rats, and plop her in her cot to let her calm down. Ballistic toys sailed about the room for a few minutes, until eventually she stopped kicking the headboard, looked up at me with tear-stained countenance and furled bottom lip, and said, "Sorry Daddy, kiss better," at which I went all melty and parental. Manipulative little minx.

I've heard that sometimes the "terrible twos" start early.