Squeeee-klikkity-klikkity!

Wheeee!!

Well hello there delicious human types. Has it really been 9 days since i flippered my keyboard? It would appear so.

The reason for this slight delay in all things fish related is that i have recently purchased a Blu-Ray machine. For the last 4 weeks, I've been waiting eagerly for its arrival and it finally turned up here, at the Government Research Facility for Smart-Arsed Fish, in a nice brown parcel.

Unfortunately, much to my disappointment, this "blu-ray" thingy is not quite what i expected. Instead of it being some sort of marine-based flatfish making machine, it would appear to be some sort of gadget that plays little flimsy disc things.

Totally rubbish!

This morning, my human captors decided to test me. They do this quite often, usually while holding a selection of clipboards and pens and making little "hmmmm" noises from time to time.

This mornings test involved them holding up a series of cards and then pointing at me to decide what type of card it was. Was it a few squiggly lines? A triangle? A square? A little star?

Who cares? I answered each one with the word "fish" which, after twenty eight minutes, seemed to irritate them and they left me alone.

Until they return, let me take this opportunity to show you THIS!!!

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/International_Year_of_the_Dolphin

see it? See it?

Told you i was special.

Another Suspicious Bedtime Story...

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away somewhere on the B-Road between Dingly-Dell and the Enchanted Forest there lived a troll.

Since the changes in Government Legislation, the troll was allowed to operate a government operated Troll-Bridge and had been doing so quite successfully since last October.

On a particularly warm and sunny day, the troll was sitting, comfortably watching television in his cosy little home below the bridge. Crumpets were toasting lightly on the grill and two soft boiled eggs were almost ready to be plucked from the bubbling saucepan when the troll heard a loud clippety-clopping on his roof.

Grabbing his luminous jacket and clipboard, the troll (who's name was Graham, which, incidentally was also the name of his father who used to work at Tescos until an unfortunate incident with a pricing gun and an over-excited otter family...but let's not get off-topic), made his way up to the bridge.

The source of the clippety-clippety-clip-clop-clippitying was a small goat. Graham immediately struck his government approved pose and snarled his government approved snarl. His intention was clear.

"Oh please let me pass!" said the little goat.

"under sub-section 5.2, paragraph 2, I am instructed to ask you to pay the toll of 5 gold pieces. Should you not wish to pay or cannot pay, I am, under sub-section 4.9 paragraph 11, allowed to eat you." Said Graham.

"Wait" said the little goat, "I'm only a very small goat and probably not even a worthy mouthful for someone as big and strong as you. If you let me pass, my Mummy will be here soon. She's all plump and delicious. You could eat her instead..."

Graham considered this and, despite this not being in the government handbook, he decided there was some truth in the goat's story and let him pass.

Back below the bridge, the troll sniffed some daffodils he'd collected that mornng and then began his weekly chore of carefully separating the tins and plastic and paper in preparation for his trip to the Environmentally Friendly Recycling Centre when there was a Trotty-trot-trotting noise from above.

Once again, Graham whisked himself upstairs and was faced by a larger and slightly prettier goat than before. "Ahem!" He said.

Mummy Goat (for it was she), knew all about the troll and cut him off before he had a chance to say all that rulebook stuff and saved the writer of this story from getting repetitive strain injury.

"Dear Troll, I understand your plight but I've been on this bran diet for weeks now and, well, my insides are all wrong. I'm pretty sure that I'd taste quite awful at the moment BUT my husband passes this way in a short while. He'd be a worthy meal for you".

The Troll, once again, carefully considered this proposition and decided to let Mummy Goat pass.

Under the bridge once more, Graham the Troll took the opportunity to see to the baby sparrows he had rescued recently after their mother had vanished. He had gently microwaved some small juicy worms and fed each one in turn with a plastic spork. The baby sparrows chirped with joy as their tiny tummies were filled with tasty wormy goodness.

Graham was just licking an NSPCC charity donation envelope as he heard a loud clompity-clomping from upstairs...

Scrambling back to the bridge, the troll was faced with the biggest goat he had ever seen. He fumbled to grab his clipboard and was just about to read the stuff about sub-sections and paragraphs, which I still cant be bothered to re-write, when the goat charged at him.

Ramming the Troll hard in the stomach, Graham fell over the side of the bridge and made a sort of high pitched squeaking noise (which was similar to the one the troll's father had heard eminating from the aforementioned excited otter family right before he'd been sacked from Tescos...but let's not get off-topic), leaving the bridge unattended and free for the big goat to pass.

Have YOU ever had an injury at work? Ever needed to make a claim for an accident that wasn't your fault but worried about the legal costs?

Our experts are ready 24 hours a day for your call. So don't delay, contact us! The number is toll-free but we hope it isn't Troll-Free!!*

This story was brought to you in association with the Trolls Will Always Try Society - demanding fair representation for misunderstood slimy creatures everywhere.

*sorry.

Chess Club

1. The first rule of Chess Club is, you do not talk about Chess Club.

2. The second rule of Chess Club is, you DO NOT talk about Chess Club.

3. If someone yells "Checkmate", the match is over.

4. Two guys to a match.

5. One match at a time.

6. No "en-passe" moves allowed.

7. Matches will go on as long as they have to.

8. If this is your first time at Chess Club, you HAVE to play chess!

Would you like Smys with that?

When it comes to Fast-Food, I only really count those little darting minnows and the occasional speedy salmon* but I'm well aware that outside my pool there is a whole cornucopia of choice that awaits you in the form of pre-cooked, plastic packaged meals.

The whole idea of these places makes me squeak with unpleasant upsetness and so in order to make the visit to such establishments more pleasurable, I have come up with a helpful set of tips:

1. Ask for a Mc Meal without the fries and drink.

2. Use the staff-members name repeatedly throughout the transaction to the point of weirdy-stalky behaviour

3. Point at the hamburgers. When the staff member says "you want the burger?", burst into tears and ask them never to use that word again.

4. Ask if you can get the double-cheeseburger without double cheese.

5. Bring your own frozen burger from home and ask them if they'd mind popping it on the grill for a bit. Then complain that it's taking too long.

6. Spend ages deciding what you want, casually asking poncy questions such as "would you recommend a red or white wine with that?" and "do you have foix grois?" or "Is Raymondé working today?"

7. After being presented with your McNuggets, take a tape measure from your pocket and analyse each one, holding them up to the light, bending them slightly for "tension" and repeating "hmmmmmmmmm....."

8. At the drive-through, when ordering your meal (more than likely speaking into the mouth of a giant plastic clown in a dignified touch which can not be understated), tell the order-taker that "you haven't booked in advance" and ask for a table for two.

9. When given the option of Pepsi, 7Up or Fanta, ask if they serve "Dr Pepper" and stamp your feet if they dont. Shouting "Fascist!" at this point is always a nice touch too.

10. Take a clipboard and wear something smart. This gives the impression that you're a McDonalds Quality Checker and will ensure that you get served double-quick! Make notes after every sentence and pay extra attention while the staff member enters your order on those cash-register thingys that look like they're from Star Trek.

Enjoy your meal!

*this is not an admission that I ate Brian in February.

Phwoarrr!

Look!! Look!! It's some of that "internet corn" you've heard so much about!!

Go on, download it!! You know you want to!

It's My Birthday and I'll Smy if I Want To!

Well actually, it's my birthday tomorrow but I'll probably be farrr too unwell to type properly so, in case you were wondering what to get me, here's a list of things i don't need:

Beachballs - Not only do i have an endless supply of these handed to me by my lovely human captors, but i also find that they're almost impossible to wrap.

Hoops - see above.

Fake plastic castle - i have one. i call it home and it's lovely. currently situated in the deep end just past the thick seaweed and the mysterious pebble.

Roller skates - i cant skate.

Tins of John West Tuna - they remind me of my half-cousin Duplexx and an unfortunate incident that happened off the coast of Molvania. Makes me whimper just thinking about it...

A subscription to Porpoise-Life Magazine - i have one already. Fabulous article in this month's edition on page 398 about dorsal fins.

Turtle Wax - i can wax all the turtles i want. There's three of them somewhere in the shallow end of the pool.

A Bedtime Story

Once upon a time there were three bears.

Mummy Bear, Daddy Bear and Baby Bear.

On a particularly breezy Autumn morning, the bears decided to make porridge for breakfast. They'd run out of Coco-Pops and refused point blank to eat anything called a Pop-Tart for fear that were might be munching on Britney Spears (the bears were vegetarians, you see).

Anyway, the bears made a fresh batch of porridge and decided to take a stroll in the forest while it cooled. Why the bears simply didn't cook the porridge to the required temperature to begin with instead of all this faffing-around is any one's guess.

Daddy Bear took this opportunity to collect his copy of Bare-Bears magazine from his local "speciality" shop.

While the bears were out doing whatever it is bears do in the woods, a small blonde haired girl, possibly Norwegian, came scampering up to the bears front door. She knocked on the door and waited. No sounds came from within except the delightful melodies of Mr Neil Diamond playing gently from the radio. As the girl was a little bit chavvy and already had three ASBOs against her, she decided to simply walk in to the house.

She noticed the living room was set out with three chairs and decided to test them out. The first chair, Daddy Bear's chair was hard. This was because Daddy Bear has posture problems and had to buy a special chair to ease his chronic back pains. .This had once cost him a job and also led to an amusing incident at a local swimming pool... but that's an entirely different story.

The blonde girl tried out Mummy Bear's chair next. It was soft and squishy. A bit like the melons they don't want you to see at the Supermarket or the texture of a fresh turd that you discover accidentally while barefoot around the house days after purchasing a puppy.

The third chair belonged to baby bear and apparently was "just right".

Having had a good old nosey through Daddy Bears vinyl collection, the blonde tart decided to investigate the sweet smell coming from the dining room. There she saw three bowls of porridge and, once again, decided she MUST try them all.

The first one belonged to Daddy bear and was incredibly salty. Daddy Bear liked salty things and he would even add salt to jelly. Mummy Bear suspected Daddy Bear of having a medical condition but didn't like to mention it as Daddy Bear was a bit violent especially when he had a sore head.

The second bowl was Mummy Bears but this one was, as the Americans say, "Todally Gross Mahhhn" or something. Anyway, it was full of sugar and tasted like the underside of a school desk.

The third bowl, Baby Bear's bowl was, according to the blonde girl, just right.

After her porridge, it was time for a nap. She whisked herself upstairs to the bedroom and was not even slightly concerned that the bears had all their beds in one room. The first bed was Daddy Bears (can we see a pattern forming here?) Once again, due to the back pain thing, the bed was dead hard...like a fossilized Mike Tyson. THAT hard!

Mummy bears was too soft. It was like sleeping in a giant marshmallow which from all accounts from friends, colleagues and the members of my local chess club, is nowhere near as much fun as it sounds.

Baby Bears was just right..yada yada yada...

The bears arrived home. It was 9.25 and just time to switch on to the Jeremy Kyle show but the bears noticed something which made them completely forget about their daily intake of underclass-teevee. The chairs had been moved and porridge had been consumed!! Mummy Bear had OCD and would've probably noticed if a mouse had farted in her pristine kitchen. She was distraught.

Daddy Bear rushed around the house and eventually came across the sleeping blonde chavette. She squealed and jumped out of the window.

Daddy Bear called for the Badger Police who, after a few weeks of general snuffling, found the blonde girl and gave her 18 months for Breaking and Entering, Criminal Damage and the Eating of Another Bear's Porridge.

The bears were free to return to a life of normalcy but who can truly forget the events of a break-in? Mummy Bear felt violated and asked for the locks to be changed every three months. Daddy Bear felt like a failure; he had not done his duty as a father and protected his "castle". He turned to alcohol and soft drugs.

Baby bear had bed-wetting issues until the age of 23 and a reoccurring dream involving otters plagued him on a weekly basis...but this was unrelated.

The End.

March!!

White Rabbit! White Rabbit! White Rabbit!

Oh, I feel so much better for getting that out of my system.

Yes, it's March, my favourite month of the year. March is quite possibly more sexy than finding 27 baby ferrets in your sock-drawer.

As everyone knows, March is also quite special cos it's also my Birthday month. I shall expect presents, cards and requests to touch my dorsal fin in abundance. As well as preparing yourself for my birthday, here are some other fascinating facts about the month of March:

March is named after the Roman god of chocolate bars.

In ancient times, we used to go straight from February into April and skip March entirely. This was because March had locked itself in its bedroom and was listening to The Cure tracks and refused to come out because "no one understands it".

March was last years semi-finalist in Sexy Months Magazine poll. It narrowly lost out to Leo but only because Leo threatened to pull March's ears off.

March rhymes with more stuff than April...like erm...Larch... and err.. ..omm.... no, that's it.

In Shakespeare's Julius Ceaser (a story about a little fluffy dog who enjoyed canned dog food and conquering Gaul), he mentions "the ides of March". As we all know, Ides are small lobster-like creatures that lay eggs in our brains when we sleep.

March is banned in Denmark to make room for the annual Bagel festival "Bagelscmokeundapancakefeshht" This consists of daily consumption of bread-based products and talking endlessly about Hans Christian Andersen.

Did i mention it's my Birthday soon?