I shall ignore such unimportant events of today, such as the comedian-cum-seminar-presenter person who attempted to put things into our minds, and I shall cast aside what he said like an abandoned fridge (someone else’s problem). I shall disregard Adem Aljo, and his blog and I shall pay no attention to the fact that I should be working on a history essay instead of blogging here.

Rather, I shall describe the curious events of Friday lunchtime. The memory will always be with me, and if not the memory, then the mental trauma or the physical damage to ourselves will be remembered in years to come when we have to have major organs removed. Soon I shall turn into George Best, only more despised, and with less money. I do not pretend to be some kind of aged footballer, far from it, I pretend not to be a kind of aged footballer, which as you will know confuses Mrs. Best, whoever she may be, in relation to Mr. Best, a well known greengrocer.

However, recently I have undertaken a strategy not to imitate any famous footballers, scared of people thinking that I can, and indeed enjoy, playing sports. This is totally untrue, and a fantasy that must be dismissed. There are many serious consequences of believing sports are, in any way, fun, and the Armageddon is only a small part of that.

But back to the coke-drinking contest: I’d dearly like to get the video of what happened here. It was taken on a guy’s mobile, and his money-making-scheme-site is here. This guy I know watched it too. And wanted me to plug his website. Ho, hum.

PEOPLE are crowding around a small fire in the middle of a room. They are holding low flickering torches, and are chanting mysterious one liners, such as “Dea est illuc  qui bibet Coca cola. Bibe umquam morte!” Some people are throwing food, especially chips [I’ve always considered that a great honour – some people throw underwear (generally other people’s but who am I to complain?) others throw flowers. Only the best get chips. After all, those chips were remarkably tasty, as I soon discovered] to the disapproval of all. ERIC and LUNCHLADY 1 are wearing blood red togas and throwing obscenities, such as “Abite! Quam infeles sumus!” or even “Why the hell am I talking Latin? I knew I shouldn’t have listened to that weird bloke selling togas…” Some people are catching the aforementioned obscenities, but occasionally someone drops one. When it lands on the foot of the receiver, it usually leads to a collapse of semantics, causing mass confusion everywhere but America, where semantics is banned. On the walls, there are posters of paintings that were left unknown for a reason. One shows a MIDGET eating a banana, or so it has been interpreted. In the corner of the room, there is a sideway, and a mysterious sound of two notes been played repeatedly but nervously. Every now and then there is a bang, a scream and then the tune repeats again; slow, long, mournful but unsteady, like a kiwi with a heart problem (it once had diabetes, but it was stolen by a mango; crimes like this can be a problem because there’s a large black market for fatal diseases, because they can be used by writers who are trying to make a joke, but don’t really know how to end their sentences, and make the same joke over again. Alternatively, it can be used to create large sentences, with nearly no meaning). DANNY and DOMINIC are drinking coca cola in large quantities and some ritual cookies are being consumed in large volumes. 

Danny: Ah, Dominic, how are you doing? I’m on about 3 cups.

Dominic: Glug. Glug. Glug. Breaaaah. 

Observers might notice that Dominic is drinking, but they’d be wrong: he is snorting diet coke, having decided that drinking was to slow. Also, he normally goes “Glug glug glug, breaaaah”, especially when he is being talked to. Danny finishes off his cup, throws it in the air, and doesn’t catch it. He looks around to see if anyone notices, and he then pretends that he meant to spill coke droplets all over his blazer.

Danny: Number 4, done. This pacing rubbish is a waste of time. I knew I should never drink coke while I stroll up and down, looking pretentious and tripping up on chips. As it is said “While training to work at Coca Cola he was given a pop quiz.”, and so, I avoid working, just in case.

Dominic: Glug. Glug –

Danny: Give up Dom; you have no chance in this

Dominic: Glug. Glug.

He finishes off his cup.

 Dominic: Breaaah.

Dominic raises his cup to the heavens, as a sacrifice well done. Danny notices this, and also sees that many other characters haven’t spoken.

People: Drink! Drink! Drink!

In true Salvador Dali style, the midget-picture warps into real life. Due to a mix up between Dr. Who and the Coca Cola advertising company (alias “Daleks”), the midget has the ability to use coca cola booths to travel through time, albeit slowly and with great pain. Midget also can sing coca cola adverts, to the delight of many. However, the Midget sadly doesn’t fit into the script, but gets left behind somewhere, along with George Best and a brick that hardly hit the pages without being edited out.

Lunchlady: Hey! Stop that! You aren’t allowed to drink…oh. But you can’t shout so…oh. Well, can you not throw so many chips; we spent hours making them…oh. Oh, you don’t like them, eh?

Karim: T’cho mamma doesn’t like them.

There is silence, as people contemplate their mothers. One boy collapses. Oh yes, that’s Dominic. Everyone cheers ambiguously, as Dominic wins the competition.

Dominic gets dragged out, while Eric stares at his near-dead pension fund.

This is the fourth time I write this, and if it doesn’t work, it will be the last. However, this time I shall save it in Word, therefore if it crashes again, I will have a copy to work with. I don’t have the patience to write this anymore, really – even writing this is sending sparks of irritation into my brain like someone hotwiring a motorbike. Admittedly, a very slow motorbike, that doesn’t like Cross Country but prefers the discus and the sleeping marathon (whereby the applicants have to sleep for as long as it would take them to run a marathon). However, this kind of motorbike (The Danny 2004 Model) is in fact a rarity, and quite a collector’s item – so you can understand why people want it. It’s worth a lot on the black market. It’s only fault is that it has too much “Metaphor Drive” and is prone to making analogies between itself and metallic driving objects.

Much has changed since I wrote this a few days ago; for example, a lunch lady thought Dom was going to eat two lunches or that Ollie didn’t exist. Either way might be true – but Ollie isn’t that prone to disexisting. Dharmesh’s rage has died down, and my Autocratic form tutor has decided to ban windows and has told us off for writing things down on a piece of paper (“I thought you were mature then that – it’s appalling. Are you taking the piss?”).

Leaving all of the more recent events beside, and going back to the events of Blog Version 2.4, I have been told by no less then 3 non imaginary people that I should update my site. In addition, I’ve been advised not to get bored, which is pretty much the same thing but will more/less (I couldn’t decide) suicides involved. So, who wanted me to continue this electronic spam? Well, one guy, name of Anshul, wants a plug for his site. Unfortunately for the both of us, his site is a mental abettoir. Oh sorry, did I say abettoir? I meant abattoir, of course. Another person wanted me to stop following her (we’ll see about that “Sienna”) and the final one told me to get a hobby or a girlfriend or some anthrax  or to burn things (OK, that one was imaginary).

This space was reserved for a Dharmesh insult. As it is, I’d have thought that India losing to Pakistan would be humiliation enough. However, I have a contract (see above for the people involved) to use this paragraph, and to mention Starbucks. Therefore, I shall make a comparison with Sean and EA – they both make bad computer games and have the letters “ea” in their names. Coincidence? I think not.

Other news? The audition attempt for “Greece!” was not so successful, due to a blatantly abnormal jealous woman taking a disliking to me, and the way I act. I ever had to ask her “Iz it coz I iz normal?” but the reply came as swiftly as it was untrue – “No, it is because you can’t act”. Desperately, I reposted with “Iz it my fault that I iz so gud at ak’tin’?” I knew I had lost, so I added “innit, ain’t this play like rubbich?”. Not only was I shown the door but to spite me, she let Dominic in.

Alas, I don’t have much else to say, as all my creativity has been siphoned off and given to the Omnistate.    

In English recently, not many miles from IT…

STRANGER is getting a grilling from PERSON. It contains peppers as well, and is on a KEBAB. However, STRANGER secretly hates vegetables, and is a vegetarian to spite them. STRANGER is making an attempt at retaining some dignity, by wearing a think black hat like DARTH VADER. He filters out all words that might contain an insult or a virus using his high-tech Selective Hearing. PERSON has a dark hood, covering most of his or her face. The PERSON has strange gold jewelery around his or her person, looking almost Masonic. There are strange geometric markings on the floor, in chewing gum. There is a crack in the fabric blackboard behind PERSON - it blinks.

Person: This is not good enough. I will not tolerate such mistakes. Failure is not acceptable.

STRANGER goes white. His helmet goes a funny grey colour

Stranger: Sir, I am truly sorry.

Person: You had better have a good reason for this.

Stranger: I left it on the coach – I only got it back yesterday.

Person: Why were you doing your homework on the coach? Hmm? It’s called “home-work” for a reason, you know.

Stranger: Yeah, and you’re called “teacher” for a reason too, but I just can’t think of one at this particular moment.

Teacher: I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Danny

Danny takes of his hat. It is he. He straightens his glasses and with a flourish of dandruff takes out his biro.

Danny: Oh come on, grow up. Stop pretending you’re in control here.

Teacher: Fine. But I’d like to remind you that I have control of your entire English-based life!

Danny: I don’t want to have a job in English – I plan to kidnap James Bond, and film him doing indecent acts to an Apple Mac…then blackmail him…then I shall take his acting part [Look! Continuity! I mentioned acting only just above…]

Teacher: Oh do shut up, Danny. Carry on pretending to be a lawyer, and I’ll carry on pretending to teach. Oh, what do you want, you pathetic fallacy?

Danny: Can you think of an ending to this weblog?

Teacher: No.

Normally I start of diary entries after a long hiatus with a comment or excuse as to why I haven't done this earlier. To those who like that tradition let me say two words: "Omnicult" and "must-get-higher-in-the-postings-chart". OK, it was perhaps three words. Who’s counting (if you are, go to the nearest barber, and tell them to do something drastic)?

I returned from a skiing holiday about a week ago, and I have been meaning to update the site ever since. Also, although have lots of jokes to say about my fellow skiers (who seemed to come straight off the evolutionary tree, after “fungi”). Actually the skiing wasn't too bad, but Tignes (a really insignificant dump in France) seemed to be more like an insignificant dump, in France, then the "really rather significant part of France, and everyone loves to go there, and its residents don't try to commit suicide by throwing themselves onto the ice-river over and over again, until they knock themselves unconscious and pray for the vultures to eat them" that I was promised.

So I came back from Tignes, all present and correct, with presents and correctness just leaking out of my ear. It isn't a very exciting story, I'm afraid.

Other then that, Omnicult is back up, and so I am engaged in fierce discussions, and life or death pun situations.

An interesting situation has sprung up between me and my rather delusional brother. He has claimed (quite missing the point) that my e mails address is too much like his, and is suing for punitive damages, and is forcing me to change it. Unfortunately, I cannot think of a new e mail address. I might make an ordinary e mail address like dannysblog@msn.com or help_I’m_stuck_in_a_toaster@hotmail.com. Anything, really. UPDATE: I have come up with “dense_ears_kill”, which I thought was rather clever. It is an anagram of my real name.

I failed to get my greasy bitten hands on any sort of government position (the Council) this year – it went to this rather blobby person, with no talent at all (well of course he has no talent – he was up against me, no less).Having said that, the blob has almost no power, and all he has is a rather cushy job, with a rather cushy title (there are some serious contenders for the prestigious title of “ugly, fat and stupid” award, which I nominate everyone who ever beats me. Currently, the favorite to win it is Bill Gates, with Shakespeare coming a close second. Despite himself being ugly, fat and stupid (unlike Shakespeare), I do not envy Abbz, but merely pity him, and his slug (which does the thinking). It’s like the Oscars, but without Lord of the Rings winning all of the prizes.  

Other news? Well, www.abbz.tk has opened, and should be shut, had I had any choice in the matter (you can see the damage not getting power has done to me, I now march around and tell people to listen, and the just laugh, or immigrate to New Zealand). It contains a few plagiarized videos (one of them) a lot of plagiarized jokes (about 25 of them) and a total number of original words written by Abbz himself equals the number of people I liked on the ski trip. Don’t compliment yourselves, guys.

Bear with me – one more website to insult – Sean’s one. Wherever it is. It has a game which Ollie Fox rightfully described as “being less fun then watching your grandmother take a dump”.

Sorry this article isn’t very interesting, but I’m tired, and I know no ones reading, anyway. My viewings per day average have slumped down to about 6 per day. I assume it’s because they have either, died from the cold or hibernated for the winter. Or been swatted. Either way, I am missing the extra attention that I crave. 

As both of you have realized, I have recently got a new computer. It does not have Californian FB, unfortunately, and for want of a better font, I have reverted back to ol’ Times New Roman. It means that in theory, I can write more blogs or diary entries, or something, for this website. Whether that is a good ting or not, I’ll leave for you to decide.

This new computer of mine is much more up to date then the old one, and in consequence I have “Word 2003” instead of   ‘word 2000’. There is a large difference, but most of it is in colour (this new Hi-Tec version is blue. Frankly, I can’t remember what the last version’s colour was) and in symbols that either do nothing, or do nothing useful. Neither of them, as you might guess, are of any use to me. However, some of the extra gimmicks are worthy of more inspection. Just today, I have discovered that above the ‘2’ button there is a symbol for “””s but it turns out to really mean “@”. This is naturally rather misleading and confusing. Something is hotwired wrong, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do either.

Also, worthy of laughter is my rubbish microphone. To prove this to you, I shall now say ‘my microphone is rubbish’, and it shall type what it thinks I said. This is not a lie, and you can try it yourself, if you were to steal my computer.

‘The government is eleventh, if, at the end of the’

Now, don’t get my mixed up for someone who cannot speak; if I have a tendancy to stammer, or lisp slightly, it is never too extreme. I can only assure you that

‘The government is eleventh, if, at the end of the’

Is the microphones

“my microphone is rubbish”

I hope it doesn’t take this personally, but what the hell does it think its doing???!? Has it been possessed by the spirit of Iain Duncan Smith? What?

It gets even worse when you sing at it.

“Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away” becomes “ a said a little seen so far only”

Is this small harmless brain dead microphone suggesting that John Lennon was some kind of linguistically spastic?

But I shall digress, onto this appalling production of “His Dark Materials”. It was, to be fair to the decent actors, a farce. I am not, like I would do for Lord of the Rings if I saw something this dreadfully bad, going to go through point by point what exactly was wrong with it

Having said that, the daemon puppets didn’t help. Especially the monkey in a dishcloth.

And the witchslashhockey players looking like one of the less perverted hockey teachers’ cults weren’t quite as dramatic as a wall painted blue.

And the people pretending to walk did look like they were all ponces.

And the fact that it lasted three hours and yet nothing was worth remembering didn’t endear it to its audience.

And the disgraceful 30 year old actor playing a twelve year old girl (don’t ask me what gender the performer was) was worthy of suspicion.

And the way it took itself so seriously that it lost the better parts of the plot didn’t improve my temper.

I mean, sure, I might not have been able to improve it (save killing off the puppeteers) but I wouldn’t have been so tacky in turning a fantasy bestselling book into a crap play just because its copyright expired!

I think I’ve said enough now. I want to eat something, and so if you are a chocolate bar, watch your back.

Wow, there is a lot to say:

Nothing much happened worthy of my notice today. At least, in the morning... During one of my Fruitina Binges with Adem and Dom, my Brother came near me. Normally, I would just shut my eyes, and hope that he would go away, but the Brother decided that he wanted to talk with me. I spend a few minutes with by eyes closed, bravely and blindly drinking, despite the risks of someone poisoning my drink. "Did you know..." he began "Yes..." "You have won the rugby competition". I was surprised that he had formulated a sentence. Then I spotted one of his friends whispering in his ear. I thought back...Yes, some annoying person had told me I had won it, but I didn’t believe him, (he also warned me about meeting a small angry stranger, which is why I still keep my distance from Dominic). “Oh,” I patiently waited for him to go before I consulted fellow Fruitina drinkers. After ignoring their advice, I went up to Eric – a urinating stick insect, whose nickname is “Mr. Plod” – I boldly stammered, “I think I have won your prize”. His face lit up, and he led me to his lair (a small, white room, with filing cabinets, and a sign saying “No more of that bloody food” smeared over the walls. He seemed relatively sad, but I can’t have you feeling sorry for him, as he is a minor character). There he checked my I.D. (a lunch card) and presented me with…

A towel. “Well dun,” he said, genuinely happy that he could award me with a cotton implement for guessing the Rugby Final Score. I took my prize home, to my table conveniently near access to more food. “Whaddya get?” said Dom, eager to relieve me of it. “A...towel” I said, stunned. “It’s a luxury team towel…100% cotton…it really is an England Rugby Towel. People actually PAY for this.” At that, I brightened up. “Can I have it?” Dom is not particularly subtle, nor patient. Need I remind you that I bought him lunch that day. Wait a sec – I am writing this on the bus – the story will continue after this discovery: it cost Eric £16.99 to buy that towel, or so it says on the label. Heh heh. Interruption ended. “No.” Adem was subtler; “I’ll give you” he started counting fingers “Four Fruitinas for it.” I was sorely tempted; I didn’t know its worth then.  Four Fruitinas are worth about £4.00. Dom, in an effort to get me mugged for it, publicised my untimely gain.

In the End, not wishing to seem over-possessive and power-mad; I gave Dom, Josh (who had turned up at this point) and Adem an arm wrestle. I won them all, causing minimal damage to my drinking hand, mad maximum to theirs. Dom tried to use his logic to persuade me. However, I was prepared. I alternated in between saying what he was talking about was bollocks, and saying “What does Ford Prefect say in the Hitch-hikers Guide to the Galaxy. Remember its more popular then Encyclopaedia Galactica…” “He says that you should always…damn”     

As no one was reading or even insulting my screen names, I have introduced more controversial measures. Anyway, to business: Nothing happened of interest today, except during hockey. I only do hockey because cross-country does not suit my...athletic persuasion. Last week, I happily toddled off to game two, where people go who are hiding from the Mafia teachers in Physics, or who got less then a B in an English exam. There I was greeted with open arms, as one of their own (I remember...unfortunately, so do they), and got given some sound advice ("Running is for losers"). Things were going swimmingly - well, floating, anyway - until I was spotted. "Hey, YOU!!" screamed an angry dwarf with a personality problem (he doesn't like his personality) "Huh?" I mumbled, awoken from a "Tuesday afternoon" trance. "Whaddya think your doing?!" "Erm, you see, its Tuesday afternoon..." I started. "Go to game one!" he condemned me to certain movement, either because I was Semitic or because he thought I could play hockey. I sadly drooped myself off, with fallen moral. Alas, the worst was yet to come, as some shortsighted French teacher thought I could actually hit a hockey ball, therefore exceeding the talent expected of me. He, I am afraid to say, picked me for the hockey team. Let me repeat myself, to take up space, HE picked ME to PLAY for the hockey team. There is no "Danny" in team, as I could tell you, if you talk to me on MSN messenger. Well, I was astounded; "Do you mean ME?!?" "Of course I mean you, who else?” I looked around for someone to blame, "you might have meant..." I paused, to keep up the tension, "oh. Oh dear. Me." "You should be pleased" "You should be stuffed".

That’s it really. Comment on it in the guest book, or at Feedback.     

I know that this isn't working. Just assume that it is a large number, due to millions of screaming quickly-undressing girls who come to this website. No Dominic, you aren't one of them.