Don't mention Viruseater to Joe Rogan.

we're pretty damn cool as countries go, but i wish we weren't so fucking stupid. went to turkey last month and stopped for a weekend on some greek island on the way back, which put us on a plane full of british holiday makers for the home leg.

this hideous snotball on the row across from us wouldn't stop crying, no matter how much his flappy-breasted orc of a mother shouted at him. the cabin crew were all busy helping other molepeople perform complex tasks like unfastening their safety belts or operating their 3-button TVs - so I carefully and politely asked the young lady if I could help. It occurred to me that his ears might be hurting with the air pressure, so I gave him a couple of jelly beans to chew on. The effect was instant with the first movement of his jaw and he shot me a suddenly wide-eyed look that said "these sweaty, week old, pain-relieving jelly beans are the best fucking thing i have ever tasted, ever".

Gave his mum the rest of the bag, who said that she'd given him a little can of coke (poor fucker only looked about 3) and a colouring book already, so I had to try and explain the pressure thing and that all he needed to do was click his jaw. Kept it brief, but I thought I made it pretty straightforward. I got her to click her own jaw (which 'ooh, makes everything louder') and even used a packet of peanuts that had inflated as an example of the principle, but I could see in her eyes that grasping the concept was like trying to catch a wet cake. it seemed to be only now that she was really seriously thinking about the fact that flying meant you weren't on the ground.

the kid was quiet so i gave up and went back to my seat, crying inside a little because i don't have an unreasonable arrogance fuelled near-field weapon that instantly and silently vaporises people who fall below an acceptable comprehension threshold.

i sometimes go and lookup 4days typewriter post

a portable typewriter. it was a christmas present from my parents when i was 8 or 9 years old. a friend of my mothers, a woman called daphne, taught me to type.

we were sat at her kitchen table one night when she told me never to use my typewriter to write a ransom note, because the police would be able to track down the make and model. for a moment i panicked, cursing myself for having filled out the warranty card with my own details, but then i remembered that i had the same initials as my father and could pin the whole thing on him, i was in the clear.

all this flashed through my head in an instant. i managed to hide it from daphne by scratching my chest and looking at her like she was crazy. i'd deal with her when the time came.