The Gap Between The Pauses

I’m not a good flier.  Although not aerodynamic, I am referring to my psychological attitude to powered flight; the fad that started at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina with the Wright brothers and will, any day now, disappear from society like the hula hoop and efficient customer service. I embark on any aeroplane with trepidation. I think of it as a potential fiery tube of death.  A winged cylinder filled in a split second with a vicious orange fireball, the heinous result of a tiny spark, from an ill-maintained circuit, igniting tons of aviation fuel. People try to help by saying things like, “it’s more dangerous driving on the roads.” I know they have statistics on their side, however, if the engine stops on my Toyota Townace, then I am not 30,000 feet above ground in a machine that the Internet informs me weighs approximately the same as 56 African elephants when fully fuelled. (Yes, the Boeing 747, not the elephants.) There are no engines, so we glide. We travel pretty far, but t

Existence is a real head trip, huh guys? I was thinking about how sad things could be and that made me sad. So in order to conquer the feeling, I sourced some of the most sad imagery I could find. And in so doing, I created a film about how sad existence can be, sometimes. Do not watch this video if you have recently lost some money at the track or ruined your laundry by mixing white items and colours. What I am trying to say here in this video is so infinitely sad, that not even a brisk episode of Two and a Half men will cheer you up. Get ready for The Profound Sadness of our Existence here on Planet Earth. The music is Horst Jankowski from his album Verve Jazz Club. Mr Trivia

I had only planned on getting the above items.However, the vending machines in the place I work are programmed to take your money and give you nothing in return. I required a bag of Sour Squirms. They were in the bottom right hand corner compartment - E8. I put a fiver into the note-snatcher, heard $1.50 clatter into the coin return. The large black coil holding The Squirms, rotated one turn and released the bag, it shuffled forward two centimetres, then stood teetering on the ledge, just above the pit you grab your goodies from. I willed it to fall. It trembled on the brink like a plump diver waiting for the referee's whistle. After about five seconds it became clear that my paid-for bag of Squirms was content to stay where it was - like a portly Greg Louganis, frozen in time on a sprinboard to nowhere. There was no way I was going to allow this to happen, but because I too can be described as portly there was also no way I was going to be seen shouting at or tilting the machi