I can’t even be bothered to be sardonic about this (I had to look that up to make sure it was the right word; I’m fairly sure it is). This really speaks for itself.
“I’m actually flying commercial. That’s how high gas prices are. … Tell whoever the next president is we need to bring gas prices down.”
This is just beyond words fucking stupid.
The summer’s most interminable transfer saga has taken a shocking new twist just days before the transfer window slams shut until January, with the news that Cristiano Ronaldo is to get his move away from Manchester United after all – although it may not perhaps be the ‘dream’ switch he had hoped for.
Whilst participating in an empty, vacuous photo-opportunity arranged by his handlers in poverty stricken Guatemala in an attempt to convince the Portuguese virtuoso’s merchandise hoovering public that he’s not quite the slavering greed-merchant he so patently is, Ronaldo’s trusted agent and close friend Juan-Pablo Handwash had to break the surprising news that the English champions had decided to cash in on the want-away winger by offloading him to Deportivo Impetigo, regional champions in Guatemala’s premier Leprosy League, played out between 20 neighbouring village teams, and known as one of the world’s toughest and most demanding competitions.
With a colossal fee funded by the national government’s handing over the entire nation’s annual GDP in order to bring a bit of much-needed glamour into their peoples’ lives, the player’s wages will be subsidised by the introduction of a new ‘Stepover Tax’, in which every leg shimmy performed by the starlet will require a local family to give one of their children into slavery, stitching together £45 replica jerseys at an enormous sweatshop churning out Ron-related cobblers to the masses.
Boarding a luxury private jet bound for Rio, Ronaldo’s team of advisors seemed as bemused as anyone at the unexpected turn of events, or at least, they were all smiling very widely. Even whilst being weighed down by innumerable bulging suitcases of cash, they were kind enough to share with Sandwiches Corner the exclusive information that part of the megadeal involved the construction of an enormous 3G base station so that Ronaldo could use his diamond encrusted iPhone to get in touch with former mentor Alex Ferguson for tactical advice, and to plead between sobs for a return to Old Trafford, even when the team are playing away from home. However, in a desperate telegram to our sports correspondent, Ronaldo has claimed there were critical problems with the transmission equipment, as several ‘confidential’ calls to the fiery Scot had returned only the sound of roaring laughter and whisky bottles being knocked over.
We may live in era of credit crunch fear, teen knife gang horror and terrorist…er…terror. Fear not though – because we have sandwiches.
How many times in average day, say, on the journey from home to the office, or perhaps between the local graveyard and the shed one might keep at the allotment for storing body parts, do you think the opportunity to purchase a sandwich presents itself?
I have no idea you might say. There’s that ropey selection of cellophane wrapped oddities at the fridge in the corner shop (next to the Special Brew - one for the journey in, one for the way back). Numerous exorbitant train station cafes. Vending machines (yes, vending machines). Add that to the explosion of bread snack vendors dotting our high streets like sesame seeds on a grimy, piss stained baguette – plus the fact that, incredibly, even McDonald’s describe their range of heart attacks in a bun as ‘sandwiches’ - and it’s clear that the mighty sandwich is on our minds and in our faces most of the time, whether we like it or not.
For any reading McDonald's Team Members, the sandwich is the one on the left.
Yes, this is surely the golden age of what seems like a never-ending succession of evermore exotic sandwich stuffings. Yet one potentially explosive combination seems to have gone almost criminally unexploited; namely that of Chicken and Egg.
What could be more delicious than bone dry flakes of chicken arse, delicately tossed in rancid egg mayonnaise? They begin life as one, what could be more natural than to end it together, in a vacuum packed, vomit inducing embrace that sells for £3.50 to intrepid office workers? Why not take advantage of the Sandwiches Corner Family Meal Deal, and get a 12-inch Chicken and Egg Panini, 4 Beef Milkshakes and 15g bag of Potato flavour crisps for just £9.99?
Perhaps the problem lies in no sandwich purveyor having yet managed to crack the dilemma of which ingredient should come first, chicken or egg. It’s a tricky one.
There’s a fully paid for Yorkie bar teetering off rack F6 of the incompetent vending machine on platform 2 of Truro rail station if anyone’s hungry. Just give it a good kick, it’ll drop off no hassle. I would, but I have to refrain from all heavy foot work on the advice of my Mexican finger doctor (he does feet as well, as a sideline).
Don’t worry about me, I just bought another one, from a shop. Cheers.
Vending Malfunction
UPDATE 5.40pm: It’s still there.
How do you improve an elephant? Why, with an extra trunk of course.
Mask, in paper, crayon and glue. © The Artist
It worked for this happy customer - why not you? Call now on 0800-111-EXTRA-TRUNK, and a representative of Sandwiches Corner Pachydermical Cosmetic Surgery will put you on hold to the sounds of Geoff Love and his Orchestra, performing favourite hits from the repertoire of Girls Aloud until the end of time itself. Satisfaction guaranteed.
So Slipknot were wrong after all. Particularly about the cd-buying ones who paid for their solid gold mansions, faberge egg collections and (probably) chocolate golf courses.
In the space of a single week, two events occurred in which those involved had no personal gain to be made form helping me out but did so nonetheless - all the more astonishing when you consider my general demeanour is even often of somebody who’d sooner slice their tongue out with a rusty breadknife than make pleasant how d’ya do’s with random strangers..
First, a very helpful train inspector, upon enduring me bemoaning the impossilibility of getting to a ticket booth to acquire a Photocard (necessary to purchase the more economical travelcard for my 6 trains a day - yes, 6 - journey to and from capitalist wage slavery etc etc) due to the fact that, in a rare instance of rail serendipity, every train service on my journey connects within microseconds of each other, arranged for the person on shift the next morning to identify me (presumably by my charming aura of misery and despair), and provide the necessary sticky bits, numbers etc. so that I might get the bit of card required and thus save me about £100 a month.
She didn’t need to bother, especially as I was moody with it when I asked why she couldn’t just give me cheap ticket, and I felt like a real dick the next day when her similarly helpful colleague told me she’d made the effort to help me out. Truly, I am sometimes an arsehole.
In Tesco, admittedly a venue guaranteed to coax the curmudgeon out of even the sunniest demeanour, a middle-aged tourist couple on holiday shouted at me for maybe 5 minutes at the checkout before my natural reflex to just ignore anyone trying to talk to me in public buckled, and I learnt they were were merely trying to offer me their ‘Clubcard’ points gained from their copious amounts of holiday shopping, as they wouldn’t be able to use them back home.
So, to Ted and Mavis from Sunderland and all other such generous souls, I say ‘Cheers!’, as I down the first of my Clubcard-funded bottles of Tesco own brand vodka on my many trains to work.
(Note to self - Be nice to random stranger tomorrow. Expect apprehension, bewilderment, possible screaming for help).
New from Sandwiches Corner Games, the Mooresaw is the new pastime that’s sweeping the nation.
As seen on GMTV(*) and feted by the likes of Cheryl Cole(**) and Barack Obama(***), families are going wild for the chance to shuffle, slide and contort the grid based stargazers’ unique features into new and unexpected dimensions of space and time, maybe.
Patrick Moore in puzzle form at last
You can get in on the craze while it’s still hot by clicking here right now. New features to come include high score tables, live “Celebrity Mooresaw” faceoff screencasts and a balance board controller that you wobble about on for no good reason.
* Possibly untrue
** Unconfirmed at time of publication
*** Just a lie
Stumbled a nice tutorial for turning out Sin City style images in Photoshop.
Columpoo says...
Got bored towards the end of mine though so it’s pretty rubbish 
If there’s a benchmark point in life at which it becomes simply embarrassing to maintain the delusion that you’re still more or less the young, slender, perhaps fashionable kind of person that it’s even remotely conceivable may be considered attractive by similar persons, it’s when purchasing a pair of jeans means painful acknowledgement of the fact your waist size has begun to exceed that of your legs.
A first it might be possible to brush this off as a temporary aberration, maybe think “ok, i’ll go for the 34 inch waist, lay off the battenburg and drop that couple of inches again in no time”… this is a lie and you should stop it now for everyone’s sake.
Accept the fact that you are now technically fatter than you are tall. Put those drainpipes back on the peg, return the ‘distressed’ skinny fit t-shirt with the ironic cartoon print from your childhood to Topshop, and use the refund to pick yourself up a some elasticated waist slacks, or possibly a generous pair of chinos, because you are officially now your Dad, and it’s all over.
Having begrudgingly accepted this, it becomes easier to adapt to your new life as a regular perpetrator of fashion crime, such as the adoption of enormous turn-ups necessitated by the impossible task of finding legwear which both accommodates your girth whilst bearing any resemblance to the length stated on the label.It may be popular with the kids, but I just can’t afford to let my the hems of my jeans scrape along the floor, shredding to pieces until they’ve attained sufficient clearance from the ground so that I might make it to the local shop for a bag of Werther’s Originals and the Daily Mail without injuring myself, and possibly others.
Embrace the turn-up, and you may even find it rewards you in small and baffling ways. As well as affording you the expected gifts of accumulated food, gravel and hair, come laundry day you’ll be treated to trouser exotica the likes of which you could only have previously imagined. Unfolding my jeans for the wash this week (waist 36 / leg 32, but more realistically, leg 82) I was surprised to find not only a small domino, but a wasp, sadly deceased.
I like to think he’d been practising for an upcoming tournament, or maybe even just using it to learn rudimentary counting skills. Either way, two things have become very clear; firstly, I need to do some exercise, and secondly, I really need to wash my trousers more often.
