This one includes mention of a duck!!!

Well, this is rather upsetting. In the past 48 hours this site has had about 10 new page-views, of which about seven were by Alex, and the other three by me. So, seeing as though Alex is apparently the only person who reads these things, I shall address him personally in this one. I'm going to address him as a (somewhat badly translated) fat Chinese fellow eating a surprisingly tasty glazed duck.

"Nǐ hǎo Arex" crunch om nom nom munch munch " it's good to talking to you agai- Ō, wǒ de shàngdì! This duck is suplisingry tasty! Tā mā de, the glazed is so nicery and lich." chomp crunch "But I am splitting, what I meaning to say is that I appleciate you leading this brog, even though it is leally a xuèxīng rost cause."

Alright, enough with this light-hearted racism. You might think that Chinese is quite a random choice of language to address my entirely English-speaking friend with, however there is actually some connection between our friendship and China (the place where they speak Chinese). By the way, I've stopped addressing only Alex now, and I'm back to addressing you. Unless you're Alex, because then I never stopped addressing you, and I can't go back to something I never left...

The connection is the fact that two years ago we both went on the same cultural/diplomatic/historical/mathematical/scientific tour that our high school organised, which essentially turned out to be a holiday justified by seeing some old stuff, doing some cool things and meeting some interesting people. This, come to think of it, is the typical description of a holiday. So I guess you could say that it was a tour which was a holiday which justified itself by being a holiday...

I am, of course, using hyperbole to enhance an only mildly humourous situation which without my exaggeration would hold absolutely no interest to you. The fact is that it was a very interesting and eventful two weeks and, although its main purpose was to be an educational tour, much fun was had by all, and many a stirring story came out of it.

It is my intention to regale you with as many of these stories as I can remember, but these are too numerous and long to be included here. This is merely the prologue to a saga of adventure, humour, thrill and horror; tales of delight and despair that will have you laughing with terror on the edge of your seat. Unless, that is, even Alex stops reading this. Then I'll probably give up and go paint something, just for the entertainment value in watching it dry.

God I'm bored.

A tale of two kitties.

I'd like to tell you about my two cats. One is named Snowy, after her off-white-with-splodges-of-grey coat which mildly resembles snow that has been left to its own devices for about a week, and the other is called Harley-Socks-Simba-Thunderbird-Cat (this will be explained later). I am allergic to both of them.

I suppose I should start with a bit of background info. When my family relocated to England, we were forced to leave our pets behind, simply because England is too tiny for 4 cats, 2 cross St Bernard/Boerbuls, numerous fish, some chickens and a monkey which sporadically used our property as a food source and toilet (don't worry, they all had wonderful homes provided - except the monkey. He was pure evil). While I was somewhat relieved that my sinuses would finally get a break from their constant battle with cat spit, my 12 year old sister was very distraught by this separation. She came to the logical conclusion that she could fill the petless void that had consumed her with... well... another pet. I had no problem with this, I just thought it slightly inconsiderate that she actively chose to get the one thing in the world that I am allergic to as her cuddle-object.

After many hours of begging and pleading my sister finally convinced mum (despite my avid protests) that this was a good idea, and the pet store was phoned. Here's where the real fun started: my sister was very insistent upon getting a female cat, for reasons she has constantly avoided stating. The pet store had no issue with this request, as they had just received a delivery of small kittens (or whichever way kittens are supplied) and were sure that they had the perfect female kitty for my sister. After a quick visit to the store my sister absolutely fell in love with the thing, and I might have too had my eyes not been burning. We were advised to wait about a week before collecting it, so that the kitten could... set (or something).

A week later all kitten-raising preparations had been made (sleeping quarters, food stores, a college fund - you know, the usual) and we were on our way to collect it (at this stage the name was still in dispute). Upon our arrival we were informed of a 'slight alteration in plans.' The kitten was not, as the store had originally determined, female. This (aside from confusing me considerably - how exactly does one get that wrong?) sent my sister into a terrible panic. She immediately renounced all ties of affiliation to the poor thing, repulsed by the the idea of it's horrible (and apparently easily missable) penis. Having been assaulted by the profusest of apologies, my sister was directed to another cat, which was assuredly female. The cat had an off-white-with-splodges-of-grey coat which mildly resembled snow that has been left to its own devices for about a week, and like a twelve year old falling in love with a cat, my sister fell in love with it.

But there was an issue. My mother (oft overcome with sentiment and pity) felt sorry for the other cat, the one my sister had rejected. She also found it incredibly cute. Ignoring my observations that we had not prepared for two cats, and that another cat would double the workload and cost of maintenance, she made a spontaneous decision to get the rejected one too. I thought that my sister would be upset by this, but in fact the promise of two cuddle-things just sent her into a high-pitched frenzy of excitement and jumping.

While my mother went to fill out the necessary forms, I decided to observe the new additions to the family. The splodgy cat (which my sister had named Snowy to no objections) was incredibly shy and would not let me near it, but the other cat was soon pretty fond of me. It had jet black furwith white patches on its cute little feet, a white patch on its neck and... well, that's about it really. Aside from that it looks like any other cat.

Mother returned and it was soon time to name the other cat. My sister was stuck between Harley (yes, after the motorbike. No, I don't know why) and Simba (she really, really likes the Lion King), my mother wanted to call it Socks because the white patches on its paws resembled white socks, and I put forth the name Cat because naming a cat is really pointless as it'll never come when you call it anyway. Since we could not decide on a name, someone (and I can't remember who) suggested making a long winded, quadruple-barreled name. And so Harley-Socks-Simba-Cat came to be named. I found this a little unfair however, as the long name kinda defeated the purpose of my short suggestion 'Cat,' so I insisted on getting another go. And so Harley-Socks-Simba-Thunderbird-Cat came to be named (Harley, for short)

It's 5 months, 2 surgeries, 13 dead birds, 4 dead rats, and about £100 million in food, cat entertainment toys and de-worming stuff later and all we have to show for it are two incredibly big cats and a house without any unscratched furniture. It seems that all these cats have really done is attack and eat every living thing within five km, poo all over the house, sharpen their claws on anything that looks expensive, sleep on my face (which gets terribly frustrating, especially so thanks to my allergy) and get sick a lot. The worst thing is that I think they know what they're up to; they know they shouldn't scratch the furniture, or bring in dead birds, or sink their claws into my cheeks, but they also know that they're cute enough to get away with it all. Although I love them to bits because they are the cutest things in the world, I wish that they could be as cute without being so... anarchistic.

This, however, is a fruitless hope, and I have resigned myself to the fact that if I wish to continue appreciating the aesthetic value of these furry feline fiends, I will have to accept all the arrogance, terror and pain that comes with them. But there is also no harm in taking the fullest pleasure from those moments of pure, deserved humiliation; such as yesterday, when Harley took on a peacock - and lost.

Nursery rhymes but different (not recommended for small children).

Refract and diffract, minuscule burning ball of nuclear fusion,
Oh how I contemplate the nature of your existence.
Far beyond the outer limits of this planet
Similar to a lump of compressed carbon in the stratosphere.
Refract and diffract, minuscule burning ball of nuclear fusion,
Oh how I contemplate the nature of your existence.

A trio of vision-impaired rodents, A trio of vision-impaired rodents.
Observe the manner in which they scamper, Observe the manner in which they scamper. 
The complete group lopes after the agriculturalist's spouse, who severs their caudal appendages with a shaping blade,
have you ever observed an event during your existence
similar to a trio of vision-impaired rodents

Baa baa atramentous sheep, are you in possession of any scalar quantity of your fleece? 
Affirmative m'lord, affirmative m'lord, a trinity of packed satchels.
A single for the Lord, a single for the mistress, and the final shall be bequeathed unto the miniature young male who resides bottomward of the pathway.


The iconic platform overpass in the former city of Londinium has experienced structural failure, experienced structural failure, experienced structural failure.
The iconic platform overpass in the former city of Londinium has experienced structural failure, oh unprejudiced female of mine.

In loving memory of The blog which was lost.

As my previous post has explained, my entire blog was deleted, or something to that effect, yesterday. Aside from being a terrible burden to me, this puts many of this page's newcomers and random happeners-upon in the dark. As my frequent readers and beloved followers will know, I have made some bold statements in the past few days, as well as provided some information vital to the understanding of my posts. I shall briefly summarise these important posts, to bring everyone up to speed.

The first mention must be of my challenge: due to a very important anniversary (the details of which are far too convoluted and numerous to even begin to summarise) I have decided to challenge myself to produce 30 posts in 30 days (please note that it is my prerogative to choose how to disperse these posts - I may choose to post three in a day and then have two days off, or something of the like. Do not expect one every day). Due to the fact that three of the posts on what will from now on be referred to as "The blog which was lost" fell into the 30 day time span, this post is now officially the 5th of my challenge. This means that I have 28 days to complete 25 posts.

The second piece of information is an award. I shall not beat around the bush; the award for the most dedicated follower goes to Jo Balmer, a person who I am pleased to be personally acquainted with.

The third and final thing that The blog which was lost must be remembered for is a list of words. Not yet comprehensive enough to be considered a dictionary, this list contains all the made up words which the creators hope will one day be considered as popular and great as words like 'the' and 'marmalade.' These etymologically challenged words are:

bymicycle [bye-meh-{cycle}] (noun): A cross between a motorcycle and a ferret (top front bit ferret, the rest motorcycle).

edpe [kward] (adjective):  

1. Refers to the extreme of any existing adjective. "Usain Bolt is a edpe runner," "That movie was so edpe I cried."*
   *Note that this word is best used when the meaning of the replaced adjective is obvious
2. Existing on a level of emotional or intellectual complexity beyond one's comprehension. "I just read Stephen Hawking's newest publication - it was edpe"

Hexagor [hecks-ah-gore] (noun): A six-clawed Pteradon-type monster whose left wing is shorter that the right, a strange evolutionary happening which enables it to turn left easily while in flight.

Swee [swee] (verb)

1. The act of hedgehog copulation
2. Can be used by humans to express desire for intercourse no matter the cost. "She is so beautiful that I'd be prepared to swee her"

Zdopy [zd-oh-pee] (adjective): Used to describe a person or an idea as having about as much common sense as the average lemming.

Once more words have been documented I shall create a post dedicated to listing and defining them, as well as putting them in clear context. For now though, this will have to do.

Although this concludes official dealings with The blog which was lost, it is my hope that It will live on in our hearts forever, and that we can share and spread the tale of our experience with it; a blissful memory shared by few, but a legend revered by all.

Damn you blogspot. Damn you to hell.

I am deeply, deeply frustrated. As some of you may know, 'Blogger.com' has recently experienced a catastrophic system failure. I am new to this service, so I do not know if this happens regularly, but even if this was a once-off happening it was at a terribly inconvenient time:

To cure the malfunction, the administrators (or whatever the idiots in high-command are called) 'temporarily' removed all posts that were entered after this most recent Wednesday morning. This seemed to fix the problem and all the recent blog posts were restored except, as it turns out, mine. Because my page was created on Wednesday afternoon, their removal of all entries included the actual entry of my blog, and (though I do not know why) they have failed to restore it.

This is somewhat of an inconvenience for me, for I spent a good several hours setting all my settings, linking all my links, posting all my posts and generally fiddling around to get things just the way I wanted. The only advice that I have found on the internet about missing blogs is from illiterate fools who are upset that their porn hub has been flagged as 'splog' (what a strange word) and removed. This is of no help to me, and I am unwilling to go through the torturous twisted labyrinth that is contacting the authorities in the matter, for I am near certain this will (after hours of letters and stupid explanations) result in nothing more than a generic apology and a half-hearted good luck in reforming my new blog.

So, rather than put myself through fruitless hours of effort I shall begin recreating A Word on Ducks. Over the next few days, or weeks, or however long it should take I will work tirelessly to restore this site to its former glory. And, unlike the Byzantine Empire, I shall not fail.