Legalize Polygamy

No thanks mate. My life is complicated enough. Still, if you fancy a giggle, click on the underlined bit.

Shiny, shiny teeth. And stuff.

Firstly there was that... thing involving shenanigans at the White House. You know which one. If you don't, then read on down. But it ain't nice.

Now I bring you this:

"Still stood in stunned silence, the youngest of the four began to realise the stories she had heard were true, WBF girls school really was the hotbed of lesbian tooth brushing activity she'd been told and secretly dreamt about."

Yes: it's a lesbian tooth-brushing fantasy.

Read more here. G'wan. You know you want to.

The hell that is slash fiction

I'll type this quickly, blog it and forget it. Ohgodohgodslashfictioninvolvingdickcheneyanddonaldrumsfeld. There. I said it. Not safe for work. Not safe for anything. EVER.

I'm going to take my brain out and steep it in bleach for a few hours. I feel dirty: and it's not a good dirty.

An unwise experiment for Christmas

Don't mess with Federal Agencies. That's my experience after bizarre shenanigans with the INS caused by a poor, deluded daft sod who sent an anonymous letter alleging all sorts of rabid crap about my supposed drug-fuelled terrorist past to Portland INS from Holland, PA. She also hand-wrote the envelope (du-uh!): a big thank you there to the INS man who interviewed me - and a big hello to the Freedom of Information Act.

On the other hand, should you want to ignore your Uncle Sp3ccylad's advice and get the G-Men on your case (Angus! NO! Your mother's a bad enough influence), Richard M. Smith has the perfect project to make sure you never fly in the US without a thorough shakedown.

For the record, I ALWAYS get a shakedown, and they always check the insides of my shoes before boarding. The fact that I have custom orthotics (long story and, funnily enough, linked to the letter) makes for the odd scary moment, I can tell you. So: why the shakedown? I think they clocked the fact that I attended that hotbed of dangerous radicalism, Finkin Street Methodist Sunday School.

Good god, Margaret Thatcher went there. Isn't that scary enough?

Thanks, dear. It's lovely.

Looking for the perfect belated gift this christmas? Well, you just missed the chance to buy a toadskin handbag. As the blurb said:

"Strange? Yes!
Attractive? Yes!
In the shops? Definitely not!"

You can say that again.

The Mothers of Disinvention

Oh, blimey - the concerned parent is back, and this time it's noise that they're after. They seem to have been going for some time, but (for the most part) I don't think Mothers Against Noise will be coming after Sp3ccylad's music in the near future, for I am an old fogey prone to Dadrock. Allegedly.

What tickled me about the site was the inclusion of The Pink Floyd Of The New Millenium, Radiohead - they are considered as a "gateway band". Damn right they are - they lead to Coldplay.

Incidentally: lucky, lucky Apple Martin. When her dad is asked to sing her to sleep, it must work like a charm. God knows it does for me.

How Motorways Work

The title is a joke in itself. They just don't. There's so many cars on British roads that motorway driving is a white-knuckle journey into hell. So we have here a guide to the sort of irritations that make driving in the UK such an interesting experience (hey! let's play spot the euphemism!), written with the sort of wit that makes one want to hug the author.

Read it and weep - here.

A seasonal game

Here's your scenario. Santa has blundered into a house through the chimney and is trapped inside a train set's tracks. Glasses of booze appear. Drink them for points.

However, what will the booze do? They'll make him more unstable and more difficult to control with the cursor keys. So, if Santa blunders into the train tracks - and this train set will be confiscated by West Yorkshire Trading Standards, I tell thee - he gets electrocuted.

Mince pies will appear. Eat them. They fortify him against the zapping. Fiendish, anarchic fun.

A great game: the link comes courtesy of LeVic, source of a proportion of The Scaramanga Six's income. Play Sober Santa 2 here.

Couple finds stoned owl in Christmas tree

There is nothing I can add that will dress this up...

Football-based tomfoolery

Oh, dearie me.

Me and the missus were watching Manchester City's demolition of Birmingham City last night - whooping triumphantly at the 4-1 drubbing handed out. We liked it so much, we watched it a second time on Match of the Day on BBC1.

During the post-match interview (click here to read the match report and for a link to the interview), Manchester City manager Stuart Pearce spoke glowingly of the rather fantastic youth policy that the club has these days, saying that he was always willing to give youth a chance. He then rather cheekily put out a plea for young players to join City; urging them (slightly tongue-in-cheek) to "write in, if you will". The following conversation ensued:

Mrs Sp3ccylad: I should write in. I could play for City.
Sp3ccylad: You should. Draw a picture as well. I dare you.

Never dare Mrs Sp3ccylad. It always ends in tears.

So, write in she did. The letter and picture are below (clicking ensures massivity). If we get a reply, I will post that too. We possibly have too much time on our hands.

Cripes (or: From an office party hangover to this?)

she's smiling 'cause sp3ccylad's on her ipod

And I'm blushing furiously for the same reason.

Thank you, Blue Gal.

More music?

Oh, yes: and it's quite different to the last one. Not so noisy. More atmosphere. Very much a winter song.

Spun Out

I'm quite proud of this. It's also pretty bloody honest.

Enjoy.

Separated at birth: Sp3ccylad and...who?

Well - what a surreal and upsetting start to my day. After hanging out at the disreputable street corner that is quinparker.com, I took his advice and tried out some face recognition software.

Anyway - I uploaded my photo, waited... Only to be told I was a 70% match for Salvador Dali. Uh? What? Then, delving down the list of close matches, it gave me John Ashcroft. John Ashcroft.

You know, it was like my mac was participating in some bizarre version of Newman and Baddiel's History Today sketch. "You see that Spanish surrealist, the one with the idiotic moustache and the permanently surprised facial expression? That's you, that is. That's you when you go to gigs in Huddersfield."

So there you go. Should you want to try out this frankly puzzling piece of tripe, it's here. You never know - it might work for you. Or it might tell you you look like Pol Pot.

John Ashcroft (mutters death threats).

New Song!

Yup. It's a SONG. I be songing once more. And it ain't all cuddly. Ooh, no.

It's that difficult "second album" thing.

What we have here is a spiky surfpunk/rockabilly doodad. Listen through click-magic.

Everything Has A Price

Origami Boulder Company

"YOU BUY WADDED UP PAPER NOW!!!!":

Here's one for the laydeez...

Oh dear:

"Your period comes every month, but Xmas comes only once a year. So bring that menstrual joy to this holiday season with these tampon tree decorations. From a string of tampon lights to a star at the top of the tree, feminine hygiene has never been so festive!"

I can't help thinking this one's a bit of a niche market. Go see for yourself at Tampon Crafts

Actually, I'm reminded of a bunch of students from my year at Uni. I was at a place famed for its liberal approach towards the arts, and these girls took it further than most. They hung tampons from their living room ceiling, but not before they'd dipped the ends in red gloss paint. It wasn't as if they were making a point - they just thought it was funny.

Think on this: they'll be all responsible now. Some of them may be schoolteachers. I shouldn't name names...

Mad egg game

And oh, boy: is it certifiable. I'd say sectionable, but it doesn't seem harmful. Basically, you have a dozen eggs and you have to jump them vertically from eggcup to eggcup. Some of them move, some of them don't. Drop an egg, lose a life. A dozen eggs dropped equals Game Over.

It's well addictive. Play it here.

Don't blame me if your spouse (or significant other) leaves you.

I'm not entirely sure what to say about this

You Are Cupid

A total romantic, you're always crushing on a new reindeer. Why You're Naughty: You've caused so much drama, all the reindeers aren't speaking to each other. Why You're Nice: You have a knack for playing matchmaker. You even hooked Rudolph up!

Which of Santa's Reindeer Are You?

So I'll stay mute on the subject.

Stats and beats - the ultimate MusicGeek confluence

Oh, Music Thing, I love you. One of their readers who is way geekier than me has adapted Excel to work as a drum machine.

Where I can see the whole thing going horribly wrong is with the usage the guy wants to put it to. Apparently, he wants audience members to play it with a wireless xBox pad that he hacked to work on USB. The ex-drama student in me is clapping wildly at the thought of audience participation. The music bit of me (notice I avoided calling myself a musician) is wincing horribly. Most people think Meg White is a good drummer.

God, I hope it quantizes on the fly. I suspect, however, that it doesn't. Ouch.

Portrait of the Reader as a Young Dork

A challenge from Gizmodo:

"Here's what we want: one scanned photo of you looking like the biggest dork in the world at age 10-18. We want too-tight shorts. We want long hair and walking sticks. We want inappropriate trench coats and Battlestar Galactica-themed hairstyles - Wiki Wiki Wiki!"

Scary, eh?

More details here.

Floating Logos Project

Eep! Imagine a world without very tall poles. That's the Floating Logos Project. It's a bit crackers, and I heartily endorse it.

Help!

I need somebody!

Quickly, mind.

Because it's arbitrary, that's why

I like pointless projects. Doing things for the hell of it and having other people join in is one of the things the internet is good at. That's why I love t'interweb. And one of those venerable futilities is the Degree Confluence Project.

The whole point of it is to take photographs of every integer confluence of latitude and longitude on the planet. Yes, it really is that gloriously futile. To show my utter approval of the project, I'm illustrating the entry with the only confluence point I can say I've definitely been to - 45°N 123°W, literally on Interstate 5, near Salem, OR.

Woo for confluences!

Should I be jubilant?

Dodging Bullets: neither funny nor clever

Well, unless it's this rather spiffing little reflex-tester of a game. Simply click the mouse on the B of the Bang to dodge the bullet. I tend to get around 10,000 points before I die, and I'm not claiming to be any good.

It's got to be better than writing lyrics. Hasn't it?

Prince questioned on Diana death

Imagine my confusion when I saw this headline on the BBC News site this morning. But then I realised that in 1997 his name was The Artist Formerly Known As Prince. So that's OK.

Having said that: triple album or not, Crystal Ball wasn't much of an alibi.

I'd really rather not, if it's all the same to you...

Simple link - a menu where things got a bit lost in translation. Hilarious? Puerile? Dammit; with me, isn't one so often the the other anyway?

Battle of the toys!

Never mind Transformers: what do you get if you face off Lego against Rubik's Cube? Well, apart from a bunch of brightly coloured geometric shapes, you get CubeSolver: a Lego robot that actually solves the Cube. Which makes it cleverer than me; had I not already co-opted the excuse of not really being bothered.

An admirable use of technology, I'm sure you'll agree. Next week, I hope to bring you a tsunami early warning system made entirely out of Stickle Bricks.

Run, Jesus! Run!

A daft game. Hit the X and C keys to make Jesus run. You'll play it a few times and get well sick of it. Click here to get it out of your system.

Text-Pong

Yes! Text-Based Pong! And this time: it keeps score! Wow!

The 371-day iPod

My iPod died today.

It started to do odd things yesterday (it was really struggling to find songs) and today I decided to wipe the drive and start again. It wouldn't play ball and the resulting HD probs were playing havoc with my mac - I saw way too many beachballs this morning. So in the end I gave it up for dying, if not dead. Imagine how I felt about that. I was distraught. No: screw distraught - I was bereft.

So - I did some mental 'rith and reasoned that it was probably about two weeks out of guarantee. Never mind, thought I. There's probably something I've missed. And anyway - I could probably fit a new HD with one of those kits I believe you can buy. But it wouldn't do any harm to take it to one of those Apple Geniuses I hear so much about - and as the 2nd Apple Store in Europe is but a train ride away (and a bit), I may as well. If you want a death certificate, you can't write it yourself, can you?

So I did. With iPod in hand (note beginning of sentence avoiding a lower case letter) I made my way to Manchester.

Took it to a guy in the Trafford Centre Apple Store called Julien. Francophone, but I wouldn't insult him by assuming his nationality. He tested it and... he shrugged. Like Francophones do. Then he went to have a word with his manager. It turned out it was 6 days out of warranty - and he replaced it anyway. I couldn't say much. I wanted to do cartwheels all over the shop, but I thought it might look smug. So I just sat at the genius bar, all smitten with my genius. Wow.

What a guy, what a company. I've just fallen in love with Apple all over again.

Tragedy for toy people

Car crashes. They ain't funny and they ain't clever - escept when they're lovingly reproduced at 1:43 scale using bonsai trees. CrashBonsai is one of those sites I wish I'd thought of. Actually, I'd have to take that back because the thought of actually having to do it clashes rather violently with my incipient laziness.

No, you're welcome to the idea. But it's a bloody good one.

I'm at it again

Yup, the music is back, and while I get back into singing mode again here's an instrumental to get you in the mood. A bangin' electronic piece to dance around the living room to.

Get the glowsticks out and enjoy.