Whenever I see the word "superlative", I read it as "superlaxative" and wonder why everyone is bigging up the ability to poop easily.

I'm about to get a new work email address. It'll be very similar to my current one just 10 characters shorter. Presuming the average word length is 5 letters, these characters equal a full 2 words and as I type around 50 words per minute, it means I will save 1.6r seconds when I type my new email address in the future.

As a pretty much completely random estimate, I reckon I type my email address about 10 times per working day for one reason or another so saving this 1.6r seconds each time, I'll profit an extra 16.6r seconds per day. Multiply this over the year (20 working days a month, 12 months a year) and I'll have a whopping 4000 seconds per year going spare. That's somewhere around one hour and seven minutes to use as I please.

I'll probably just waste it doing pointless calculations though.

Frank had long since come to the conclusion that we are all mad. When you look at it objectively and impasionately. With that fact established, then why not have fun? Too many times he had tried and failed to represent this particular ideology in such a way that his enemies would come to understand it. However failure was starting to seem like a permanent fixture in these little adventures he liked to call "operational maneuvers".

He had been physically removed, dragged like this from busses and other forms of public transport on more occaisions than he cared to recall right now. With the plastic bag pulled hard across his face like this it was difficult to explain. "How dare you!" he gurgled. "Public transport is clearly the correct forum for my expression!", but it seemed to come out less coherently than that.

And there he was, standing alone at a bus stop somewhere in Ravensthorpe with no obvious place to go. Then the rain came.

He had killed a man before, but never really thought it worth mentioning. Where was she anyway? Could she have better things to do? He doubted it. Anyway, that was a long time ago when he was down on his luck in Norristhorpe, and a man who doesn't really exist can get away with these things. For this long at least. He overheard the old women behind him complaining about the weather. He couldn't understand why. Cleckheaton was always this grey, even when the sun came out.

There she was! "Excuse me", he shouted. "My breakfast doesn't have a grilled tomato, you forgot the tomato". He gestured towards his plate, stacked high with five of the requisite six items which go to make up a full English breakfast. Saussages, eggs, mushrooms, bacon and hash browns (the toast and/or fried bread doesn't count). "I can't begin to eat my breakfast without the tomato", he explained, beginning to sound rather concerned. The waitress sighed, "perhaps it's hiding under your egg" she said with a dry smile, deliberately escalating the tension. She saw something in his eyes, and evaluated the situation in an instant. "I'll just get one for you" she said chirpily, before rushing behind the counter.

When she came back, he ate his breakfast quickly and in silence, starting as he always did, with the tomato. "I've killed before!" he shouted unsteadily. A few people looked round, noticed that there was noone near him he could plausibly have been talking to, and quickly looked back at their plates. He grumbled something. This was a forum for the insane he thought as he buttoned up his coat and stepped out in to the bus station.

He stood at stand 3. He had no intention of catching a bus.

I work here with men and women of all ages. An ex-farmer; a rock star; some university students; ex-NHS employees; an old insurance broker; a Jewish guy; a disabled person; a biker; even a professional ebayer. But I don't work with any non-whites.

Plus everyone is really fucking ugly.

My country allows it's "defence" industry to sell technology of suffering and death to countries who repeatedly violate human rights. Countries such as Zimbabwe, Israel, Indonesia, Colombia, Nepal, the Philippines and the USA.

Of course my country has export controls to try and keep the likes of Amnesty International quiet, but the loop-voids in them allow components to be sold quite freely. UK-made firing mechanisms, bomb making equipment, guidance systems and gun barrels are being used throughout the world to murder innocent people. The Democratic Republic of Congo have used our weapons of mass murder to help massacre three million people since 1998.

I don't think we sell to China though. Commie bastards.

I have a small brushed-metal badge. It was a gift from The Company, a mark of appreciation for five years service. It's in the shape of the The Company logo with the lettering embossed. I feel this has been forged especially for me and that makes me very proud. So much so that since receiving it my productivity has improved three-fold and I've noticed a marked increase in the respect I inspire in colleagues. That's not the best thing though, because at ten years of service an even greater honour awaits. Each year all workers who've reached their decade are invited for a meal - at The Company's expense - where you're granted an audience with the Company Don, something rank and file workers such as myself would never otherwise experience.

It's important that you respect your employer. Invariably your loyalty will be richly rewarded.

I'm sitting in a pub in the middle of the afternoon listening to two people, a boy and a girl, discussing their band. Graham, apparently, isn't pulling his weight (he can't even drum in time for Christ's sakes!). Additionally, their setlist is stale and playing the same old shit for the next eight months is going to be hell. They're both bored because they know their both better than this, the only reason they're in it at all is for each other.

They hug and then they leave. She drank lemonade, he drank Coca-Cola. I drank another pint of IPA and after writing this down I leave too. Seemed worth mentioning.

You know when all of a sudden the floor rushes really fast towards your face then suddenly you're starblind and in agony? I hate that, I really do. Additionally, and for your information, I've spent most of today picking at a scab on my knee. I was wounded a week ago falling over a particularly flat and unobtrusive bit of ground in my friends front garden.

Can you get medication to improve your vertical stability?