On the Air

Well, this is a blog about something I know almost nothing about.

So that should be something of a challenge from the kick off, you might think. This, coupled with the fact that most of the letters on this keyboard are vapourous (the stuff that comes out of it is pretty vapid, so maybe that’s no real inconvenience), all adds up to the very real possibility of this making perfect sense to the illiterate extraterrestrial fraternity, but few others outside a zoo or asylum. I refer to the way that ‘T’ looks remarkably like ‘-’ ; U is nearly an ‘I’ ; and ‘R’ is also, confusingly and to my mind unnecessarily, nearly another ‘I’. Everything else I can’t see anyway, having the eyesite of a slug.

hbhskjvnjeh 945u8oi; nve98.

I just wrote; ‘Aside from the tree-creeping grass trailer, the political arm of the Metropolitan Bakers and Brewers Inc. is top of the tree at sucking for woodlice.’  You see from this simple expedient that we are in a lot of krjnjnfkrk. Sorry; trouble.

So why, after a break in proceedings of several months or so, should the motivation to pick up the pen once again, come from such unpromising manure?

Think of it in terms of an experiment in iurhc38n. Whatever that is.

Being a person of limited interest in virtual matters, I was surprised to find a pop-up thingy….popping up (is that right?) to tell me that I had been invaded by massed hordes of Greeks in wooden Trojan outfits, the like of which are freely available off the shelves of Billy Ball’s Bargain Basement, and doubtless fit about as well. One suit I got from there required me to grow an extra leg slightly shorter than a sleeve. But I digress.  

These Trojan hordes had no manners, it was plain to see. They invited themselves in; no invitation nor nothing. Had they been real and not virtual, the dogs would have had the arses out of their wooden designer underpants.

For three months my little blog languished (not having barrels of real cash to chuck at folks I would never see to sort out problems that didn’t exist.) Then the wonderful Captain Dan came along, made various invocations and incantations and ripped the arses out of those Trojan horses in their badly fitting chests of drawers.

So far, so incomprehensible. Why, wondered this backwoodsman, would anybody go to that much trouble? Poor home life? Designer stubble an unfashionable length? Stuck for something to do between fixes? A religious thing? Money?

Well, the last one is the most mystifying, my little blog’s profitability ledger still hanging around for its first red penny-farthing.

It seems that, in the great cyber-space of the non-existent, nonexistent robots with nonexistent Trojan horse underpants comb the nonexistent web for opportunities to suck off real money for doing fuck all that’s useful.

I did say I didn’t know anything.