" It must be Thursday, I was never very good at Thursday".
Sardines are weighing heavy on my mind today. What is this cruelty of man to drag them screaming from the wide oceans and make them suffer the indignity of being submerged in oil, (or tomato sauce), and forced into a small tin, crammed together like, er, sardines.

And George Bush?
Exactly.
It's no good I've tried to be nice about him, never laughing while friends laid him open to ridicule. But it's no good, the man is a feckless twat.

Where do dreams come from? I'm more concerned about where they go to? Some emminent people have suggested they wander off to be filed in our sub-concious. This is obvious horse shit. This would suggest that out sub-concious is an empty filing cabinet waiting to be filled. If so, does it fill up? And can we download them when needed?
My own dreams have of late been filled with friends old and new all running around some unidentified Sino-Oriental country flailing each other with an assortment of medieval weaponary. And of course, a serious amount of kinky sex. And a really bad soundtrack by Uncle Kracker.
I'm moving house this weekend so I expect the usual amount of separation anxiety and alcohol.
Speaking of which, I feel a serious D.P. (drinking opportunity) coming on and I've discovered a new pub... life is a minestrone indeed.

I'm worried. Again.
I haven't seen Mr Apathy for ages and I think he's avoiding me. Then again as I haven't left the locale of my house for so long maybe I'm avoiding him. My main worry is that I might miss this years I.T. joke and have to wait till next year for another.
Enemabag Jones seems in good form, his hypocondria is rearing its head again and I'm sure this means he's up for a new Fad soon... The I-Pod sounds like his kind of thing although my money is on a Laptop.
I had an SMS from the Wop, he's a strange cove and it worries me that he still thinks of me. Dark thoughts appear.
I'm moving house and the badgers are hinting at coming along for the ride... and bringing their own peanut butter. Sheesh.