Ninja Mousepad

Upon opening my new mousepad I find within the packaging a disclaimer from the manufacturers, absolving them of any responsibility for a great many things including (but not limited to) "Injury, sickness and death caused by the use of this product."

Death?
Death??

I'm now intrigued as to how I might go about causing death with a mousemat and so I shall be spending the rest of this morning trying to sharpen the edges and flinging it, Shuriken-fashion, at my colleagues.
If anyone dies, I'm not taking responsibility for that. It was the manufacturers gave me the idea.

Night Train

Back in 1935, the poet WH Auden wrote his famous poem "Night Mail", about the mail train carrying the post north. Its rhythm catches the titumtitum of the train as it travels, and the tone is one of mystery and romance of both the letter and of a world still enchanted by the possibilities of rail travel.
Things change. People don't really write letters any more, and the nation is no longer enchanted by rail. In my experience, there are two sorts of people who oppose rail privatisation; firstly, those too young to remember British Rail in the 1970's & 80's, and secondly the sort of people who, intellectually speaking, can look at cellular division through a microscope and then smugly declare that Intelligent Design is a really good idea because it really must be said that the railways used to suck mightily.
Rail travel has improved in the last decade or so but travelling at night on trains can still be a harrowing experience, especially when, say, heading North to visit one's parents late on a Friday night after the pubs have chucked out.
So, with this in mind, I've updated Audens poem for the modern era.


This is the Night Train crossing the border,
Filled up with neds who are well out of order,
First class for rich, cattle for poor,
The toilets are blocked and there’s piss on the floor.
Pulling past Hatfield in a proper old state:
The gradient's against her, she’s two hours late.
Ticket inspector with greasy black collar
Hundreds of Sun readers crammed into squalor,
Somebody wakes you from taking a nap
By spilling hot coffee into your lap.

Here comes the night train filled up with chavs,
Haven’t bought tickets so they hide in the lavs.
Ticket inspector orders them out;
The scrunchie-haired girl and unshaven lout.
The male half swiftly threatens to fight,
While she says she’s done nuffink, alright?

Dawn freshens, the trip is done.
Should’ve arrived at a quarter to one
Spilling out passengers yelping complaints,
Towards the bookies, the arcades and the pub
Set in Doncaster like oases of life.
My family waits for me:
With demands of being driven to Wath.
I long for bed.