Jacko of the North Star

Sense Talk: Coughs and Sneezes

There exists the custom that, upon sneezing, an onlooker seeks to safeguard your escaping soul by chanting “Bless You”, yet there can be little doubt that modern consensus would confirm that the one responsible for such explosive expulsion of air is at little risk of losing their intangible spirit. Sneezing now represents the expulsion—and liberal distribution—of disease, thus surely representing the cleansing of the body…so I say it now that “Bless You” be replaced with rallying cheers of “Yeah, bro‘—show that illness who‘s da man!” and “Blast that sinus-stinging sickness, dude!” The streets would come alive, they would.

Last Window: Midnight Promise

                                                     Though Christmas promises to yield many surprises, I can’t help but wish that this sequel to Hotel Dusk would be one of them. Set for release in January 2010 in Japan alone, Last Window does not prospectively look prepared to cement a localised release date—being a text-heavy game, localisation of the product in at least 5 European languages is likely to push the game’s release well back—but I would have loved to be seated beside the fireplace late on Christmas Day playing through this interactive noir novel. 

The guy in the picture seems to be walking past the Grand Opera House, too, so that’s situational.

Thoughts upon crossing a road.

I’m a travesty to the roads—and not simply consequence of some frightening driving sensibilities, but also my considerable lack of awareness as I flounder across junctions where the red man has cautioned against any further progression. Rather than look left and right, I simply look straight on and hope for the best; it’s some inherent instinct that I often think about after causing yet another car to barrel roll out of the way. So hazardous is my presence that I would think it quite justified for a driver to disregard my misshapen remains—following any collision—in favour of lamenting any damage done to their vehicle. I’d vocalise an embarrassed “I’m sorry”, too, provided the scenario sees my lungs remain functional.

And I would definitely seek to stamp out this habit, were I not distracted at each turn by prolific displays of flashing fairy-lights and promises of Christmas sales at 30% off. The December Survival Kit has never before been so worthy a purchase.

300 Word Deathtrap: The Invisible French Errors!

“Sometimes, you write things in French that make perfect sense, and are grammatically sound,” the professor mused to the class, emanating an air of understanding forged from years of tackling the many idiosyncracies of the French language.     “But it just isn’t French,” he underlined, sadly. “You’ll get marked down consequently. There’s no way you can avoid this. It will happen. I’m fully expecting to mark work next week that commits these invisible offences. But that’s all right.”

“But…we get marked down if we have the misfortune of applying these inane errors, yes?”      

“Absolutely.”

“But that’s not—!”                                                                                       

“Exactement!”

The Tuesday Files

Picture the scene: in French class, someone is reading out a most morbid piece of factual writing in a dreary monotone—typical of the blues elicited by the early hours of the Tuesday morning. A languid situation, aye…but then they read out just one word that is uncharacteristically funny, and sniggers are evoked around the room.

A trivial situation for most; evidently, there is no be no concern.

Then there’s me—the one who has the unfortunate tendency to start laughing when everyone else does…and keep sniggering—against my will—well after everyone else has stopped. The laughter and chuckles won’t cease, even when I rehearse internally, “For heaven sake, Jack! Stop it! STOP IT!” I pierce my arm with my nails to quell the chuckling—to no avail. I punch my stomach a few times to cease the hiccups—but no effect—and the guy next to me—the poor soul reading the piece of work—is beginning to feel a bit uneasy. I try to explain—in French—my dilemma, but oh! the tears of laughter.

What a scene.  I didn’t even know that the word everyone was laughing at was ‘prostituée’.

Wild John Humphrys appeared!

Fight   PKMN

Bag     Run

Have you seen those woollen hats?

Dad: What do you think of the little woollen hats for the Innocence Smoothies? Cute, eh?
Me: Yes; I do think it lessens the impression of a frosty and self-interested Capitalist conglomerate aspiring to generate extensive revenue, masking its intentions by claiming sympathies with its consumers.
Dad: That sounds like an excerpt from Mao’s Little Red Book, Jack.

Father thinks I have communist sympathies.

This is something of a curious departure from the days when I would be sentenced to burning at the stake following accusations of being a Thatcherite. “Witch! Witch!” they cried. “Economic protectionism!” I wailed, in response.

The Bus Report: File 91

I gazed thoughtlessly out the bus window as our vehicle waited tolerantly at a red light. In the lane parallel pulled up another bus, and I saw its driver…who boasted all too cheerful an expression for a Wednesday evening. Reflecting briefly on this peculiar phenomenon, I opted to think no more of the matter. Minutes later, as our bus edged towards yet another red light—it’s Belfast, see—I again perceived the disturbing smirk of the driver in the bus parallel, peering in at us…. And that’s when I saw it.
 
Our bus driver. Face contorted with the same smirk.

“…No…” I gasped. “Oh, heaven forefend, no!” No time to think: the second that red light was to turn green, I realised, a race of disastrous proportions would commence.

Arriving home half an hour early was not the finest moment of the evening, however—that was accomplished by emptying coal into what should have been the coal scuttle. I actually ended up missing the scuttle by an implausible distance, and shortly concluded that it couldn’t be helped.