In-between a course of chilli and jelly babies from the food supply drops from the UN while I struggled on creating the product which would destroy all of mankind, something became wrong. Pain was becoming apparent around the chest area, and the world became uneven. Had the arctic tundra finally began to take its toll on the Lord of Leisure? Will a man unexpectedly bust into flames to emphasise the horror that has begun? Will we use a cheap gimmick like a snapshot from Alien?

I have no idea why this is suddenly began, one would point to my silly lifestyle of eating, not moving much and spending all the time in front of the magic box with the questionable amounts of illegal dirty movies. However, one other did remark that it could be stress, the lack of sleep, there are many factors which exhibit themselves on the body as a sign that it needs urgent attention.

Thanks to an overdose of Tums with a liberal helping of Milk of Magnus Magnusson from Mastermind, it appears the pain has been subsided for the moment, but either way a trip to see Doc Brown to either sort the problem or travel to 1885 is likely to be on the cards.

The fact that it’s lasted longer than 24 hours has bothered me a great deal, as much as chest pain does tend to bother you if you’re trying to masticate, or write complete rubbish for the masses. Perhaps my laddish lifestyle of chatting up nice ladies from coffee shops or laughing at the welsh has been catching up with me, and I need to actually give a damn about what happens. If that’s the case at the age of 25, then it’s a major cause of concern. Major.

But given the fact it’s not been as bad with the silly amounts of antacids, it appears to be gas. Somehow I always manage to work wind into everything I do….

So as an excuse to not do anything (yes, aren’t I a man of action) this evening I took upon myself to defrost the DVD player and watch some of the little known HBO comedy Flight of the Concords.

It is without a doubt a strange, musical and funny affair covering only a few episodes so far, though I dare say a second series will venture forth soon, unless the excellent people who work at the studios decide to experiment with each other as they release life is short therefore forgetting to commission a new series.

Two New Zealanders reside in New York, trying to hit it big as a band while struggling with American Life. They fall in and out of girl trouble, mainly because Jermaine hangs around a bit too much and when they do get girls, it appears they are missing the ever so important manual on what to do next. Bra….What is this thing you call “Bra”? And yet strangely they do sing an awful lot about sexy ladies….tis an enigma wrapped in a mystery.

Their manager works at the NZ consulate, using what time there to have useless band meetings and seems to have the complete inability to book gigs. And they have one fan.

This is the equivalent of one person clapping after you perform on stage in front of 20,000 people.

Unfortunately she seems to be rather obsessed with the two chaps. Perhaps to the point of doing naughty but one can never say. I guess the best comparison I can make is that it appears to share roots with the Mighty Boosh, yet both are different beasts.

If you have the time to watch it, in-between bursts of pain inflicted by either your significant other or an alien wanting to escape your rib cage, please do.

I’ve also taken some time to listen to the radio and catch up with some people around the globe. I was even happy to see that Matt Seymour, the travelling fraggle was still alive and well in Australia. Which means I owe some money for losing that bet….. 🙂 Only kidding mate! The best thing to read that lady trouble is afoot there, and he is still enjoying himself. Fair play to you sir.

Perhaps as things have progressed well, the weekend should be a return to normality and forget about any degree work what so ever.

We’ll see how it goes.