Parrrr-tay!

Despite the best efforts of the (frankly, quite depressing) nay-sayers and doomsdayers, Biblocafe has survived for three years.

Three years!!!!

In spite of the trials and tribulations of The Thing that Flushes; in bold defiance of Those Who Don’t Like Books Because They’re Pretentious; with courageous contempt for the (unsolicited) advice of self-proclaimed experts; with valiant disregard for those Who Would Seek To Irritate Lou To The Point Of Violence, Biblocafe has, with your support, persevered.

Until now there have been no celebrations of landmark moments (except for the occasional quiet gin, of course) as it seemed to be, well, tempting fate.

Given the current climate, however, it was decided that celebrations were most definitely in order as the next 12 months could bring financial odds that are simply insurmountable…so on the 1st March, from 8pm, in the top bar at the Uisge Beatha, Biblocafe gratefully recognizes the support and encouragement of all those who blogged, recommended, strong-armed and bribed to keep Biblo alive.

(You’re buying your own drinks, though…we’re not that grateful…)

x

26.2.09

There’s been a lot of comment on the Washington Post Mensa Invitational. According to the Washington Post, however, it has nothing to do with them: “With mystifying regularity we receive…(often passed through several mailboxes at the Post) unsolicited entries to what is sometimes called the Mensa Invitational”.

A collection of words that have had a single letter added, altered or deleted to create a new word with a humorous meaning, do we have an urban legend in the making?

Some of the best:

1. Dopeler Effect: the tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly
2. Goodzilla: a large lizard that puts out forest fires by stamping on them.
3. Furnitour: the two hours in which you wander round Ikea searching for a Leksvik table.
4. Cashtration: the act of buying a house which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period of time.
5. Intaxication: the euphoria at getting a tax refund which lasts until you realise it was your money to start with.
6. Bozone: the substance surrounding stupid people which stops bright ideas from penetrating.
7. Karmageddon: it’s like, when everybody is sending off these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the earth explodes and it’s , like, a really serious bummer.
8. Guiltar: a musical instrument whose strings are pulled by your mother.
9. Inoculatte: to take coffee intravenously when you are running late.
10. Sarchasm: the gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn’t get it.
11. Glibido: all talk and no action.
12. Osteopornosis: a degenerate disease (think about it…)

And then there’s the redefinition of exisiting words:

1. Flabbergasted: to be appalled by how much weight one has gained.
2. Abdicate: to give up all hope of having a flat stomach.
3. Esplanade: to attempt an explanation whilst one is drunk.
4. Rectitude: the formal, dignified bearing adopted by proctologists.

And then my personal favourite:

Frisbeetarianism: the belief that, after death, one’s soul flies up on to the roof and gets stuck there.

Oh, and due an honourable mention:

Ignoranus: a person who is both stupid and an arsehole.

overheard

very well-dressed, well-spoken lady to her similarly attired friend.

no. 1: my daughter is coming back today.

no. 2: really? Did she have fun?

no.1: many boyfriends while she was there, apparently.

no. 2: exhausted, then…

17.2.09 (a bit later…)

I had a shitty day yesterday. I made the mistake of being cautiously optimistic after we had a good finish last week and proved, once and for all, why I need to be a grumpy, pessimistic bitch – if I allow hope into my life for as much as a second, karma vindictively teaches me a lesson.

The only known cure? KFC.

So I persuaded C to drive me to the Springburn outlet in the hopes that the Colonel’s secret recipe could cure my ills. This was a lot harder than one might imagine, as C has a soul-deep loathing of the brand.

Typical conversation:

C: What do you fancy for dinner?

ME: KFC

C: No.

ME: Why?

C: Just No.

ME: What if I was ill?

C: Then it wouldn’t be good for you.

ME: What if I was depressed?

C: Then you wouldn’t want to eat.

(Yeah, right.)

ME: What if I lost the business and I needed cheering up?

C: If you lost the business then we couldn’t afford one.

ME: What if it was my dying wish?

C: I wouldn’t want to hasten your demise.

ME: What if you were the beneficiary of my life insurance policy?

C: Hmmm…

So I managed to persuade him (tears, pitiful looks, flinching as if hit) on the understanding that I would queue, order and pay as the last time I managed to wear him down we stood for 20 minutes in the town centre branch, surrounded by drunks, screaming kids and lost tourists only to be told, upon reaching the counter, that they were out of chicken.

Understandably, he was a little miffed. And although I was full of admiration for the rant that followed, I felt it best that we left before his erudite invective started a riot. As it was, the reeking fellow hanging off the counter (convinced that he was in Dundee, for some reason) was ready to storm the fryers and declare the kitchen an Independent State of Colin.

So I left it a good few months before trying again. Surprisingly, it didn’t take more than 5 minutes begging to persuade he-of-the-glorious-driving-licence to pander to my whim and save himself an evening of enduring my epic sulk.

We drove.

We parked.

We entered.

We queued.

And as we approached the counter I even allowed myself to anticipate the restorative first bite of my 3 piece meal with cola…

‘We’ve run out. Twenny minutes wait.’

KFC? Can’t Find Chicken, more like.

And that’s the last time I allow hope into my heart.

17.2.09

Hattie has just introduced me to www.postsecret.com.

It updates every Sunday.

Even my wizened little walnut of a heart went, ‘aaah’.

AAAAAArgh

Moronic selfish self-centred illiterate fucking arseholes.

Some bastarding fuckwit flushed God-knows-what down the you-know-where and the engineer can’t come until tomorrow. I swear, I’ve put that man’s kids through college and we’re currently working on his grandchildren’s PHD funds. (I’m hoping he’ll send me photos of their graduation ceremonies – I’ve got a space all picked out in non-fic for the frames.)

How hard is it to comprehend?

If you wouldn’t want me to hunt you down and return it to you via your left nostril DON’T FLUSH IT DOWN MY BLOODY TOILET!!!

Although I just realised that actually applies to everything. Unless you  have some exceptionally dubious social pecadillos…So let me make it absolutely clear:

IF YOU FLUSH ANYTHING APART FROM THE TOILET PAPER PROVIDED DOWN MY SMALL BUT RIDICULOUSLY EXPENSIVE BOG, I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN AND RETURN THE OFFENDING ITEM/S TO YOUR PERSON VIA YOUR NASAL PASSAGES.

Gotit?

 

 

 

 

 

ps. Sorry for the language, Ma, but I feel the occasion warrants.

ANNIVERSARY PARTY!

On the 1st of March Biblocafe will be 3 years old!

To mark the occasion we have decided that:

ON 1.3.09

BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 10AM AND 6PM

all PAPERBACKS WILL BE £1

all HARDBACKS WILL BE £2

and all are invited to join us in the Usige’s top bar afterwards for a wee party…

11.2.09

SAGITTARIUS – November 23rd – December 21st. People are naturally drawn towards you because wherever you are, that’s where the action seems to be.

Jonny just pointed out that, in my case, it is more likely to be a crowd of lookieloos enjoying the spectacle of the latest disaster rather than a group of partying friends.

Cheers, mate.

As usual I’ve managed to hire someone who appears to view me as the infotainment; I was put on this earth to physically demonstrate what will happen if he doesn’t utilise his education.

Apparently, if you can, you do; if you can’t, you teach; and if you can’t teach, open a coffee shop. *sigh*

2.2.09

It has been pointed out that I have been terribly remiss with the whole blogging thing, despite promising that I would make a real effort to integrate it into my daily/weekly routine.

In my defense I find it incredibly boring to log on in anticipation, only to be presented with someone’s viewing habits – unless, of course, the blog is specifically set up to chart televisual obsessions; or the result of voyuersitic curtain-twitching when the pubs kick out; or anything even vaguely interesting rather than “I was bored today so I ate cheese and watched 14 hours of Golden Girls reruns”. So if it ain’t particularly enthralling even to me, then I don’t bother.

Also, if I repeated half the stuff that has happened in here I would probably be deep in shit with the various persons who, through sheer incompetence, have screwed with my business. So I don’t bother.

What I can report without fear of reprisal is:

• you need a degree in engineering to get the sodding stapler to work after it has jammed.
• some people are just rude. No matter how pleasant you are (and it wasn’t me serving, before you point out the implausibility of that statement).
• IT’S SNOWING!!!!!!!!