Cornetto Fiasco Imbroglio!

No, That Isn't Latin
It might be Italian.  Anyway, as you surely know by now, one of Conrad's little foibles is his fondness for having ice cream for breakfast.  This has aroused both curiosity and criticism at work - now that it's not fashionable to critique people on left or right-handedness, we ice-cream-breakfasters are the target of choice.  
     For reasons of logistics and thawing time, it's not possible for me to transport either my Frozen Yoghurt or Generic Cornetto-knockoffs to work without either melting, so I've been resorting to Cornettos from the shop in work.
     Not only do I get a staff discount, they're down to 25 pence each!

Breakfast!

     Unfortunately that's because they're being discontinued, according to the shop staff, which made Conrad gibber with panic at the prospect of a Cornetto-less future.  Will even the generic knock-offs* be going?
     I'll get back to you on this.

Further Of Food
We were notified earlier this afternoon about a competition, one of the prizes being a £130 toaster.  To enter one submitted a poem that included the words "giant" and "crumpet", as the competition sponsors are vending giant crumpets.
     As you surely know by now, Conrad hates poetry - hates hates hates it - but even the gentlest of nudges will inspire him to throw a bit of doggerel together:

“Warburtons, ever one to blow their trumpet,

Have created a newer, much larger, crumpet.

I like crumpets, but, alas, this novel giant

Won’t fit the toaster.  It’s not compliant!

So, if this rhyme permits me to be the winner,

I’ll have that toaster, and crumpets for dinner.”

Voila!

NO!  She's not really small.
It's a really big crumpet.  Read the title.  Do keep up!

     I should like to point out at this stage of the blog that I'm late, thanks to being an the later shift, and also thanks to the stunning ineptitude of First Bus - again.  Harping on about them might take a bit of the novel shine off BOOJUM! so I shall merely note their performance and move on.

Fog And Vanishing Landmarks
It was extremely foggy in Manchester yesterday, so much so that Dom remarked one couldn't see the Halle Tower, and indeed from our eyrie within the Electric Goldfish Bowl one couldn't even see the street outside.
     Scope, one imagines, for evil alien intruders to swoop in and remove such landmarks under cover of the fog.  I happened to mention the similar fate that befell the pub "Tommy Ducks" way back in 1993, except that back then it was construction companies who were responsible.  Less dangerous than aliens but quicker off the mark as they don't have to travel 187 light-years to the workplace.

As it was

     It transpires that the pub got a Preservation order arranged, which expired on 12th February 1993, at midnight.
     Come the very first stroke of 13th February 1993, it got flattened instantly and was completely gone by the next day.
     Gosh!  I bet you're wondering.  What on earth can the reason behind that have been?

No comment from Conrad -

"Dastard"
Please note, for non-English speakers**, that this word is NOT interchangable with the other one that begins with "B".
     It's origin is in Old English, from the Fifteenth Century, where it meant a "base coward", later evolving to mean "Dull and stupid".  Now, of course, it means an utter, unscrupulous rogue, especially -

No-one - absolutely NO-ONE - tweaks a moustache as villainously as Dick

     - the villain you love to hate, Richard Milhouse Dastardly.

Call Of Duty: Black Ops
Conrad's eye has been caught by the garish animated digital billboard that adorns the pavement close to the Electric Goldfish Bowl, particularly by an advert for the computer game above.
     Conrad is given to understand that "Black Ops" are covert, sneaky, deniable, stealthy, underhand jobs.  Not it these adverts are anything to go by - more Red and Yellow than Black thanks to all the explosions and blood.

"The Cat And The Canary"
Which is a fillum, in case you don't know, made back in 1939 and only 74 minutes long when people's attention spans were obviously shorter than today's MTV/mobile phone/computer game generation -
     - hang on, have I got that right?
     Whatever.  I'd seen this ages ago, read a review in "Empire" and decided to rewatch it.  Still entertaining and also refreshing to see a hero as cowardly as it's possible to get.

Bob Hope, literally bobbing along

     I do have a few questions.  Who opened the safe and read the letters that Uncle Charlie left behind, and how did they do it?  Because the creepy mansion he left behind is on an island, you can't just walk up to it and sneak in.  Also, how does the real cat get into and out of locked rooms that don't have catflaps?

Case in point

     Why strangle the lawyer?  - and then leave the incriminating letter in his pocket?  Why on earth bother to move his corpse?  And why did Paulette carefully pause outside the shed, allowing her stalker to see exactly where she was going to hide?
     Having re-established my credentials as a hair-splitting pedant, we shall now move on.

You What?
As you are probably aware, it takes very little, even nothing on occasion, to annoy Conrad.  A day without an episode of explosive rage is a day wasted, in my book.
     So!  It was with tremendous delight that I came across a hoarding that pumped up my venom levels to 11:

Maybe even 12.

     Excuse me?  "#becauseitschristmas"?

OH NO IT ISN'T!

     Bonfire Night has not even passed yet.  And these witless ululating*** baffoons are trying to use up the remaining time I have on this planet even more quickly?  A plague on them!  A pair of plagues on them!  May their life end up being run by First Bus!  Actually no, that's a bit harsh, run by ex-KGB hardliners with bad digestion and gout.

Oops.  Over 1,000 words.  And I had so much more to give!  Maybe tomorrow.

Chin chin!

* Which are of decidedly lower quality.
** Conrad deeply commiserates with you and hopes at least your climate is good, as things are already looking bad for you.
*** Noisy howling <translation from Pseud by Mister Hand>