Unutterably Silly Countdown!

[beppe]

Originally Posted by poohbear_nc

Better yet - write the check and send it to me. We can drown him in my new hot tub!

Fantastic Avatar. This is also one of the Genialities of Florence!

Do me an Avatar Florence, I will behave for a whole week

[FlorenceArt]

Ninety five, schminety five! I say 12.

[FlorenceArt]

Originally Posted by beppe

Do me an Avatar Florence, I will behave for a whole week

I don't believe it! But let me think about this...

[beppe]

Originally Posted by FlorenceArt

Ninety five, schminety five! I say 12.

I second 12

It's a winning number.

you see?

[LazyScot]

20

I like 20; it can really take a joke, which is just as well given what 3 and 4 got up to (we'll doubtless hear more about them, and how 3 made up for its embarassement, but for the meantime let's just say that 4 is a little too fond of a joke for everyone else's good.)

Somehow, 3 and 4 convinced 20 that it was, in fact 3 times 4. How they managed this, I've not found out -- 3 just gets embarrassed and silent, and 4 just does one of its irritating smiles and that indicates you are about to encounter the wrong end of a joke.

Anyhow, the maths scholars among us will know that 3 times 4 is actually 12, and as a consequence for a certan period of time there was something of an identity crisis in the number system. In general, this passed by unnoticed, but there were a few consequences.

Mr Paul Ngtta (28), who lived at 12 Wellington Street had no idea that there was one Mr Peter Ngtta (23) who lived at 20 Wellingston Street. As a result, he was very confused, on Februrary 14th, to receive a large bunch of roses with a card that read "To My Four Star Mr. Petrol from your Girl Racer." It is fair to say that confusion was not the emotion on the forefront of Mrs Ngtta (27).

One Alex McNeil (31), who lived with his two flat mates who also played on his rugby team (rugby, for our friends in the former colonies, is a game like American football, but played without armour, no timeouts and almost no substitions), was really surprised to receive a box from the Hen Party Outfitters company, when he was expecting a new set of rugby strips. His surprise was elevated to find in it a shocking pink tutu, pink angel wings and a set of pink horns, complete with the note "Alex, here's your outfit. See you at the Chippendales." Amazingly, it all fitted perfectly... To my knowledge, he still hasn't lived this down.(*)

However, though she doesn't know it, 20's biggest fan is one Jemima Potter (21, with experience). Jemima was surprise, on a day that just so happened to be her birthday (the 9th, actually), to find 5 kilo box delivered. On opening it she found a packaging note: "5 kilo assortment of finest Belgian Chocolate and Chocolates. 75 Euro voucher for your next order."

20 couldn't help laughing at some of the above. And to 20's credit, the idea of some sort of comeback against 3 and 4 never even entered 20's mind.

There were a number of other incidents, including some slight bottling overflows, a problem with a bath but apart from an on-going problem with almost all car parks, 20 seems safely to have sorted out its identity now.

All in all a pretty fun number.

(*) Alexandra McNeil turned up at the Chippendales in the rugby shirt and shorts, and after some initial confusions had a very memorable night....

[zelda_pinwheel]

Originally Posted by LazyScot

"So long as Zelda doesn't start posting here, and he doesn't try to understand anything Marc says, he should be able to cope. In the meantime, there's the bat-sign from the commissioner. We'd better go and save the city from its newest nemesis - The Electronic Bookworm."

hey !

alfred should know by now that all it takes to cope with me is a zany carter or two. sheesh, you make it sound like i'm all obstreperous and the like.

(poohbear, you're looking absolutely adorable today. and beppe is looking quite tasty. how confusing.)

[LazyScot]

19!

I have a rule, I try to live by: Never Judge Anyone. Sadly, I fail in this. And one case of this is with regards the number 19. As a result, when reading this, realise that I'm biased, having made a judgement on this number, and that this judgement influences the telling of the tale and the facts. To be fair to 19, realise that the facts will have another viewpoint, and may have another perspective...

19 was created prime. It started out as a natural leader -- the sort of number others turned to for advice, for decisions, for inspiration. And 19 was good at it. In it's way it was a magnetic number; others flocked to it banner. And naturally enough, 19 rose in success and stature, in standing and promotions.

But then some started to notice some worrying little points. Firstly, it started to think that making a decision made something happen. An example was whilst playing a game of soccer when, as captain, it told 37 to go wide, down the line, cut in and score. 37, near as it could, followed the instructions, but didn't score. 19 blew, tearing into 37 for not doing what it was told and scoring.

Over time, this slowly developed into a noticeable attitude, one of "if what I suggested didn't work, then you're at fault". And 19 started to loose a few of its followers. Not many, and it certainly didn't worry 19.

Then, its attitude on the failure of others changed again. Subtly, to be true, but changed nonetheless. It slowly changed from the "others are wrong" to "I'm always right". Nothing it did was wrong, and if it didn't work out as intended then even if the other people had done nothing and knew nothing, they were at fault.

This came to a deadly conclusion when 19 was out driving its Mercedes-Benz M-Class. Hurtling down the road, as was 19's wont, it rapidly approach a line of five cars travelling just slightly under the speed limit. Now, speed limits, 19 had long concluded, were designed for lesser folks without skills reactions or decent cars, and so didn't apply to it. Rather than loose a few seconds of its life, 19 decided to overtake. After all, it had a powerful car and should be able to get round the cars in a few seconds.

But the cars had just started going round a blind bend in the road, not that 19 thought that mattered.

Just about round the corner, 19 met, head-on, at a combined speed of almost 130 miles a hour, a small, rather aged, Citroen carrying Mr and Mrs Festwick and their daughter Esme. The Mercedes crashed into, mounted and ran right over the top of the Citroen. Slightly dazed, 19 got out of his ruined car and walked over towards the wreckage of the Citroen, yelling at it for dangerous driving, having no idea of road safety and various other points.

The cars 19 had been overtaking, miraculously, had not been touched by the accident. One of the occupants called the emergency services, as two more (including an off-duty policeman) restrained 19, and two others (including a nurse) went to the wreckage that had been a Citroen.

Mr Festwick had been killed outright as the Mercedes drove over the car. Mrs Festwick had been fatally wounded. Barely conscious she would die holding the nurse's hand minutes before the ambulance arrived. Esme survived, but lost a leg.

However, Esme was never able to forgive herself. In the moments before the crash she had been having a bitter argument with her parents about her wanting to go to a party. And in those last seconds, the heated exchanges gave birth to words that no-one really meant. This transformed itself into a belief that she was to blame for the accident, that she'd somehow caused it. And she felt compelled to tell everyone that she was to blame.

Meanwhile 19, after chatting with its good friend 39 (another nasty piece of work), had found a really good lawyer. And needless to say, the lawyer found out about Esme. All of a sudden, the accident had been caused by the Festwick's and that 19 was the innocent party. The legal battle was one-sided. Lawyers of the ilk 19 had access to, and the details they dredged up (the tyres on the citroen were virtually at the legal limit; it hadn't had a proper service for over 13 months; the father had tiny traces of alcohol in his blood stream from a glass of wine the night before; that there was a mobile phone turned on in the car were just some of the points), combined with Esme's apparent determination to be found guilty of causing the accident meant the judge had, really, no choice.

With the legal result, the Festwick's insurance found a loophole, and were no longer responsible for the fees or the payouts from the case. The small inheritance that Esme would have had, the result of her parents life work, was swallowed up with the compensation package for 19 and its lawyers fees.

19 went straight out and bought itself and Porche Cayenne with the compensation.

So, if you'll forgive me, and in memory of the Festwicks, I stay not liking 19.

[FlorenceArt]

LazyScot, I hate you.

[LazyScot]

18

Ah 18, how to describe 18. The best I can come up with is an incredibly optimistic extreme sports fan who is protected by a sort of bad-luck teflon. Amazing.

A couple of examples, I think, are called for to better illustrate 18 and maybe give advice on where to stand.

These both happened when 18 was on a school trip.

The first happened on the second night, when they had agreed to have a barbeque. Now Mr Struthers was, admittedly, somewhat silly in leaving 18 in charge of building up the barbeque whilst he headed off to collect the food. 18 decided it would be really good idea to make sure the barbeque started quickly, and so added a collection of flamable liquids, match heads, firelighters and some assorted chemical that had been "liberated" for the chemistry class before they headed off.

Mr Struthers returned.

"Right, lets get food cooking," said Mr Struthers and knelt down to light some of the paper that 18 had placed for just that purpose.

WHOOOMPHHHHHH!

Mr Struthers was informed that all his facial hair will all regrow, and that the minor scars are not permanent. He was discharged from the hospital after about three hours.

The trees on the far side of the camping, however, have been permanently scarred by an interesting assortment of odd shaped pieces of metal and strangely embedded wood shards. However, the photos taken of the trees did win several prizes.

On the positive side, the fire engine and its crew were very understanding. As it turned out, two members of the crew were the winner and runner up of the regional barbeque champion chef competions. They were perfectly happy to stay around and look after people while Mr Struthers was at the hospital, and the provided what everyone agreed was the best ever barbeque.

The following day, 18 and its friends were out for a walk in the local countryside. Whilst walking, they crested a wooded hill-top and came to a fenced field, with a collection of farmers' detritus in the corner -- bags, cardboard, wood, string. Now this field sloped downwards. Those that knew 18 would know the look that crossed 18's face...

"We can go sledging," announce 18 happily. "We can build a bobsled from with those bits, and perhaps some branches from the wood. It'll be great fun."

At this point, by way of explanation, it is worth explaining that 18's enthusiastic optimism is both highly contagious and a natural innoculation against common sense. Anyway, back to 18 and its friends in the field, where we find that they have jury-rigged a Heath Robinson contraption that would have won any self respecting series of Scrapheap Challenge.

"Lets Go!" shouted 18, and everyone jumped in.

And nothing happened.

"We need a shove," announced 18 and so two friends got out and started pushing, and sure enough the bobsledstarted moving. And gaining speed. Quick alarmingly really. So fast the two friends didn't have time to get back in. Much to their disappointment. No, honestly.

At this point, it is worth indicating something about the field, that 18 and the friends realised at the same time. This was to do with the field's previous use. The field was not a crop, nor had it been placed in set-aside and left unused. It had been used as pasture. For dairy cows to be precise. And a certain amount of the cow spoor was still in evidence.

"Oh P-" shouted one of the friends, the one sitting at the front to be precise.

"Weeee..... Now lean left, " shouted 18, in a surprisingly successful attempt to steer the bobsled that, it is worth observing, was still accellerating and had achieved a rather impressive speed. However the attempt was not completely successful and there was a small amount of spray.

Now, while the bobsled weaves at least partially successfully down the sloping field, I think it is worth discussing the topography of the field. The field was steeply sloping, for reasons we shall come to later. Towards the foot of the field, roughly in the direction the bobsled was heading, was a large, black plastic wrapped straw bale. The field was surrounded with a wire fence. Beyond the field was a relatively narrow slightly stony track. And beyond that the landscape sloped off dramatically, but with a few treetops visible. Now back to 18 and its friends...

"Weeeeee.! Right!" shouted 18.

"Aarrrgghh," confirmed 18's friends.

At this point the edge of the field came into view.

"I said we needed breaks," exclaimed one of the friends

18 decided that the best breaking system was the straw bale.

"Right!" shouted 18 heading the bobsled straight at the large, round plastic bale.

What 18 had failed to notice was the slight unevenness of the landscape, which given the speed the bobsled had now reached was fairly understandable. The bobsled hit the slight bump which imparted a significant upward trajectory, resulting the to bobsled hitting the straw bale above the mid point. This meant that the curve of the bale added to the upward motion of the bobsled, and the that the bale started rolling towards the fence (at a fair speed thanks to the momentum of the bobsled 18 and its friends).

Just as the bale hit the fence, the bobsled was at the peak of the bale. The bale abruptly stopped. The bobsled didnt, and so became airborne.

"Weeeee....." shouted the airborne 18 with evident relish and enthusiasm.

"Arrrggggg...." commented 18's friends with somewhat different emotional stresses to 18.

As the bobsled gracefully arcs over the path, it is worth returning to the topography of the area somewhere roughly underneath the makeshift bobsled. As mentioned, the landscaped sloped away from the hilltop. Now the reason for this, as so often, was due to water erosion. Specifically a stream, or more accurately a small river. The other side of the track sloped too steeply to be farmed in towards the river, ending in what was almost a cliff at the base of which was the river.

"Weeeee.... omph." continued 18 as the bobsled finished its first attempt at non-FAA approved flight.

"Arr... ummpouch," added the friends.

As the slope was now somewhat steeper, most of the speed lost during the flight was rapidly regained.

"Weeeeee... Right!" shouted the near estatic 18, suddenly noticing one of the trees in front.

"Arrghhhh....." confirmed the friends.

"Weeee....." squealed 18 noticing another potential upcoming flight and the river ahead.

"Nooooo....." added the friends.

And the bobsled left the slope and took, once again (still not FAA approved), to the air, this time above the river.

Leaving the bobsled airborne above the river, a little discourse into recent meterological conditions and a mention of hydrology is worthwhile. Now the last few days had been exceptionally pleasant and dry. However, prior to that there had been extensive rainfall. The river itself travelled a fair distance to reach this point, and much of the land it passed through acted with a nature akin to a sponge, soaking up the rain and releasing it continuously over a longer period of time. As a result the river, whilst not at full spate, was certainly flowing very well.

"Weeeeee---" 18's continuing enthusiasm was cut off by a very loud splash as the bobsled landed in the river.

Now the river, as we mentioned, was full of water rushing down. As a result of this, and the somewhat eratic edges of the river, the river had many eddies. These very rapidly imparted a quick dramatic spin to the now water-going bobsled.

"Weeeeee--" was 18's predictably eager response to the new spinning fairground ride.

"Nooooo...." disagreed 18's friends.

"Oooohhhh," said 18 who had managed to look ahead and realised that there was something of a waterfall.

"We're going to die...." commented 18's friends.

On the opposite side of the river was a large, old tree. One whose roots had largely been eroded over the years, and which was clearly a favourite itching post of many cattle. In fact, at this point, one was vigorously scratching its side. And it was to be the last time the venerable tree performed that function as, with a loud crack, it broke and fell into the river creating a huge splash and accompanying wave.

The wave hit the aquatic bobsled.

"Weeeee...." someone said.

Then the tree, which had also gained a spin hit the side of the bobsled.

Which dramatically changed its direction.

And all of a sudden it found itself grounded on a little, quiet gravel bay.

"Wow," shouted 18, leaping out of the somewhat waterlogged bobsled. "Quick, help me carry this back up to the top and we can do that all again."

I shall, if you don't mind, refrain from repeating the friends' comments.

So perhaps that gives you some idea of what 18 is like. A fun, indestructible optimist. I'm just not yet sure whether it is safer with 18, or as far away as possible. Still, the tales are, ummm, interesting?

[LazyScot]

17!

Ah 17. Almost my favourite number (after 9). Why?

Well, have you ever met a 17 tog duvet? Nope. What? No that's two duvets and 13 and a 4 tog combined, not a 17 tog.

How about a size 17 dress? Nope!

Or a 17 wheeler truck? Nope!

Or a pack of 17 toiler rolls? Nope!

Or a 17 month subscription to a magazine? Nope!

And why not? Because 17 has the most wonderful characteristic that I so greatly admire. It just cannot be bothered to drag itself out of bed. Hence there are so many places we just don't have a 17. And I applaud it's laziness.

Not convinced? Have you ever seen 17 sleep? No?

Oh yes you have! You see when 17 settles down for a snooze, it lays the 1 horizontally and snuggles into it. What do you see? Z! Yup, the famous Zs are actually snoozing 17's.

What a wonderful number!

[montsnmags]

Originally Posted by FlorenceArt

Ninety five, schminety five! I say 12.

Originally Posted by beppe

I second 12

It's a winning number.

you see?

Multiple friends are friendship multiplied.

So, by my reckoning, that makes 144.

144 it is. Got that LazyScot?

144.

[beppe]

Originally Posted by LazyScot

17!

Ah 17. Almost my favourite number (after 9). Why?

Well, have you ever met a 17 tog duvet? Nope. What? No that's two duvets and 13 and a 4 tog combined, not a 17 tog.

How about a size 17 dress? Nope!

Or a 17 wheeler truck? Nope!

Or a pack of 17 toiler rolls? Nope!

Or a 17 month subscription to a magazine? Nope!

And why not? Because 17 has the most wonderful characteristic that I so greatly admire. It just cannot be bothered to drag itself out of bed. Hence there are so many places we just don't have a 17. And I applaud it's laziness.

Not convinced? Have you ever seen 17 sleep? No?

Oh yes you have! You see when 17 settles down for a snooze, it lays the 1 horizontally and snuggles into it. What do you see? Z! Yup, the famous Zs are actually snoozing 17's.

What a wonderful number!

17 on Friday does not allow marriages and departures! Lazy bastard!

Am I waiting for you to arrive at magic 16?

Yes I am.

[FlorenceArt]

Originally Posted by LazyScot

Not convinced? Have you ever seen 17 sleep? No?

Oh yes you have! You see when 17 settles down for a snooze, it lays the 1 horizontally and snuggles into it. What do you see? Z! Yup, the famous Zs are actually snoozing 17's.

What a wonderful number!

I love 17

[Sweetpea]

But I still go for 108.

[LazyScot]

Originally Posted by montsnmags

Multiple friends are friendship multiplied.

So, by my reckoning, that makes 144.

144 it is. Got that LazyScot?

144.

No way are you getting me to say that number, Lord Marc of Green.

Both you and I know the power and meaning of that number.

It is the number of squirrels in an SPQR cohort. (SPQR, for those who don't know, stands for "Seriously Pissed-off Quarrelsome Rodents".) And the reason there are only that number in a cohort is that they are so much more deadly than the Roman Soldiers.

And the power of that number, lest you think I am dim enough to forget, is just like the power of the number of the beast. Say it, and the cohort will magically appear. Hell-bent on chaos, mayhem and nut-acquisition. And there is no way I'm letting that happen. Again.

So no. That is not the number.