How come people convicted of crimes after pleading not guilty don't get done for perjury?

A pensive entry today. I never know how personal/intimate to be on this thing, so I fall between several stools, but I'm in a thoughtful mood and just fancied an outlet for it. Hope it doesn't bore you too much.

I wonder if other bloggers get stressed about the "need" to be funny all the time? A bit of humour is pretty much a necessity in this kind of informal journal, but as I'm not really a natural comedian maybe I should just go with the flow. The problem with the flow, as you will be noticing, is that I always get into meta-discussions with myself about whether I'm posting right. Gah!

I am also saying "gah!" a lot.

I watched New Years Day dawn (wrong word. is there a verb "to midnight"?) over Sydney on the news earlier. I was moved to tears. Either fireworks pack more of an emotional punch than I've given them credit for, or I have a lot of emotion stored up in lil' ole me. I think I know the answer to that.

Maybe I'll try and do a resolutions post. Then I'll have my readership (yes, that's you, mum) to answer to if I fail to keep any of them.

On that note, HAPPY CHRISTMAS!

Gazza treated for Numb Face - why do I feel this headline is so amusing?

Gah. Need to get people to start visiting my blog again! I bet Brian doesn't get deserted in droves when he has one of his funny turns and refuses to post anything for three weeks...

Imagine you have a lovely, brand new Volkswagen Beetle in attractive silver. Do you a) wash and wax your car regularly; b) wash the car twice a year when your parents are coming over or c) turn it into 1970s bubblecare hero Herbie. Sadly, I didn't have my camera with me, but as I did the washing up this morning that's exactly what I saw drive past.

*** shellfish update *** shellfish update *** shellfish update ***

I had a BAD MUSSEL for lunch. Yuk! Am currently awaiting stomach cramps, nausea and the squits. Updates as and when.

My father is (and I'm sure he'd get cross however I describe him) a humanistic, socially aware, small 'c' conservative, clever but tends to stand back from political and moral judgements.

He declared a couple of surprising things over Christmas, though. First of all, he has offered, without prompting, to march against war on Iraq should another one be organised (somehow he managed to miss the 400,000 people who went on the last one through his home city).

However, it turned out that this wouldn't be his first demonstration! No - in the late 1940s, he attended a rally in Venice protesting against the post-war partitioning of Italy - Trieste was in danger of being granted to Croatia, and it was a hugely emotive issue for a corner of the country which had changed hands several times since its formation a century earlier.

The demonstration was directed against the British, who were overseeing the divide. My father marched against British interference, chanting anti-British slogans. My father burnt a British flag in St Mark's Square.

How cool is that?

Last night, I walked home from Wimbledon, town of my youth, at 2am in the rain. If anything, I was disappointed by the fact that it *didn't* conjure up countless romantic, emotive images. Rather I lamented the fact rain was dripping off my nose, my right calf was seizing up and it was still a bloody long way to go before getting to my parents' house. It was only about 4 miles, all told, and I kind of am glad I did it. It's the only bloody exercise I've had this month, in any case.

My store of Xmas anecdotes is entirely bare. My brother said something that had me in fits on Boxing day, but 6 hours later neither of us had a clue what he'd said. Not even the subject matter. Whiler it would be in keeping with the tone of this entry, anything else I could mention would be of the worthy but dull archetype that you can only get away with telling to loved ones. Believe me, you wouldn't care.

New Year is approaching, and I need to clarify my list of resolutions. I know *some* of you don't agree with the concept, but frankly I need all the help I can get to rearrange my life so that it fits into the Mark-shaped hole in humanity. Suggestions welcome. "Be more like Laura Llew" is sadly not an option - you know I would if I could, dammit!

Off to practice my American accent, but forever yours,
Mark

Stevie's cupboard is, I'm sure, proof that evolution knocks creationism into a cocked hat any day. Not only has he assembled a pretty balanced dietary combination, but he now owns a bottle of Vermouth! Homo Sophisticus has arrived...

Hey chaps,

Sorry about the lack of entries, um, for the last two and a half weeks. Please don't desert me forever, or I'll have to start harrassing people in the street like a loon.

Amusing tale for today - I spent two hours at a service station just outside of Gatwick Airport this morning, first of all trying to figure out how to unscrew the petrol tank cap on my brother's car, then waiting for Green Flag to come and unscrew it for me. Needless to say, it wasn't broken and I am simply a twat.

It's a strange thing when the porn spam you receive seems much more honourable and straightforward than the rest. Today, an offer to see some playmate bunnies. How comforting and 70s! I think I'll give it a miss, thanks, but you know what you're getting.

I have somehow wormed my way onto a mailing list which thinks it's a good idea to start each "offer" with the word "Friend, ...". Is it me, or are shady foreign villains in spy movies/relatives of former Nigerian dictators the only people who use the term "friend" in any seriousness? Still, they didn't have many alternatives. "Mate" sounds like someone bumping into you in a pub toilet (no, not like *that* - get your mind out of the gutter!); "pal" and "chum" are too reminiscent of the prelude to punch-ups in northern nightclubs. "Mucker" sounds too close to the porn spam end of the spectrum. What's a direct marketer to do?

Maybe I'm just a cynic and their only desire is to make fwiends through selling me things. Bless.

Hey up,

I have bugger all to say, but Marianna has threatened violence if I don't update today. And my highlights have been...

I went swimming! Unfortunately there was a retard in my lane, who kept following me across the 4 lanes available until I had no option other than to splash water in his face. It felt great! I was never a bully at school, but I might have to start late.

Actually, that's not strictly true. When I was 8 I was called to the headmistress's office with three or four of my friends and give a stern lecture for bullying Charles Crichton Stuart (I'm putting his name in full as I'm curious as to the potential of a Google search). I don't think we actually did, though I'm bad enough at dealing with the truth (the truth? I can't handle the truth) twenty years later. Anyway, we were threatened with the dreaded wooden spoon! The wooden spoon!!

I wish Alan Partridge didn't remind me so much of myself. Don't even ask me to go into that.