Oh frabjous day, calloo callay! Glad tidings come from Rikki from Dunfermline:
On episode 173 you mentioned Homebase was out of Easter Island heads.
Thought I’d give you the heads up that we have them in stock now. Enjoy.
Praise Jesus, Buddha, Xenu and all the Middletons!
These would look great next to my recycling bins
Welcome to zoology corner. Find a seat quickly, because we’ve got a lot of questions to get through:
1. Kyra: can turtles really breathe from their butts?
2. Claudia from Australia: do horses spit? My friend thinks they do but I think she is WRONG.
3. James: I was recently told that elephants have 3 vaginas, 1 real one and 2 fake ones, is any of this at all true?
I tried to google it but only found a detailed description on how to make an origami vagina!
I don’t want to google any of these – after doing this podcast for nearly 5 years, my search history is already dodgy enough. I really can’t run the risk of adding origami to the mix.
Readers, step up to the plate, and provide your knowledge of fauna in the comments. Good luck to you, and remember to clear your caches afterwards.
You surely remember young Owl City fan Rachel from Dudley from AMT186:
Just wanted to say that the Owl City gig was incredible and we had a fantastic time! We managed to get on the front row through going down the side, so thank you for the advice. We also threw the owl and it landed next to Adam, but he didn’t pick it up.
Sidenote: Owl City fans are called the ‘Hoot Owls’.
Useful to know, in the event that someday I become one.
On Saturday 8th October, something very thrilling will be happening in Oxford, even more exciting than when the Harry Potter film crew rolled into town*, or when Inspector Morse completed the crossword, or when I saw Chelsea Clinton telling a photographer to leave her alone as she walked to the library.
Oh dear, perhaps I have built it up too much. But we are nonetheless tremendously excited that at 2.30pm we will be doing a reading from the Answer Me This! book at Waterstone’s Oxford, and temporarily dragging down the tone of the august seat of learning with our juvenile bullshit.
Even more excitingly, Martin the Sound Man will be joining us, to perform a few jingles and ditties.
EVEN MORE EXCITINGLY, Waterstone’s have told us that there will be free burritos for earlycomers!
So, this post could instead have read: Come to Waterstone’s for a free burrito. Then sit back and digest, lulled by the sound of us reading to you Jackanory-wise.
*by which I don’t mean THIS. Although at the time we did cause a similar-sized stir.
Here’s a genuinely delicate question from Shaun, which describes a scenario that I think is considerably more commonplace than our bawdy modern society would admit:
For years, I dealt with crippling social anxiety. But now after dealing with it and finding medication that fixes it, I’m forcing myself out into the world.
Part of this involves dating. I’m in my late twenties and have never had a girlfriend or any sexual experiences. I remain hopeful, since I’m moderately attractive, hygienic, and not a (complete) asshole. I’ve just never been able to handle it socially until now.
So my question is this: how do I tell my date that I’ve no experience at all? I figured I would just mention it when it came up, but on the few dates I’ve had, it hasn’t. I’m not going to lie about it, and from what I’m told if I ever manage to have sex with someone my lack of experience will be pretty obvious.
So what do I do? “I won’t know what to do with you” isn’t really much of a pickup line.
I don’t know who you take me to be, Shaun, but I’m not much of a pickup artist either. However, readers, you’re a bunch of lady-magnets, so I look to you to provide useful advice for Shaun in the comments. Hurry! He’s been waiting long enough already.
One of the most enjoyable things about doing this podcast is being privy to all sorts of fascinating foibles that lurk in the dusty crevices of our listeners’ personalities. Take a look into the seething mind of Chris from Milton Keynes, aged 37:
Answer me this: do you have any pet peeves, things that annoy you out of all proportion, almost to a ridiculous level whereby really you are giving too much of yourself getting annoyed about it but can’t help it.
For example: When a movie poster or ad uses printing block letterforms but has them ‘the right way round’ i.e. readable. Rather than reversed which would be correct. I get very annoyed.
An example is below. Gahhhh!
I thought some of my manifold pet peeves* were marginal, but well done, Chris! Of all the things in this world to be angry about, you have definitely found the most important one, bar none. The only reason why the government has been sending the nation on a ride on the economic log flume is to divert our attention from the real menace to society.
*An uncountable number of linguistic ones, smart shoes with jeans, decorative sprinkles of paprika around the edges of plates, and people chewing gum on television.
It may be too late for Texan inmates, but the rest of us may consider the following hypothetical (we hope! Especially after this post) question from Paul in Newcastle:
If you were on Death Row, what would you pick as your last ever meal?
Like many Death Row residents, we might find that our usual appetite deserts us at such a time. Also, we understand that the famous Last Meals are ordered from unhealthy takeaway joints, and we wouldn’t want our last words to be, “Ouch, heartburn!” Not even as an ironic comment upon the efficacy of the electric chair.
Readers, what would you order? Click here if you need inspiration.
A fellow who dubs himself ‘Most certainly not a serial killer’ from Brooklyn, New York has a question that is PURELY THEORETICAL:
Answer me this: what is the ideal way for a serial killer to go about his/her work?
I’ve developed a system of sorts, but it is rather lengthy [as behoves something which is 100% PURELY THEORETICAL, ALRIGHT?].
1. The Location
Ideally an area that has high traffic during the day but virtually none at night and sans CCTV cameras, for example an alleyway or side street which many traverse, allowing for any evidence left at the scene to be contaminated with the residue of hundreds of others.
2. The Means
Anything that would leave residue at the scene is not viable, such as firearms; blades are acceptable as long as slashing is kept to a minimum, reducing blood loss of the victim. Ideally a fast acting poison, ricin or cyanide, leaving virtually no evidence of the actual means at the scene.
3. The Act
As quick as possible obviously, without alerting the victim so as to avoid shouts &c, have a means of travel (car) nearby but not too nearby and in a location where there are no CCTV cameras between the location of the car and the location of the murder.
4. Disposal
Multiple sacks of powdered concrete are needed for this step. First chop up limbs into segments that would fit in 25cm by 15 cm by 10cm blocks of concrete (standard cinderblock size, prepare concrete beforehand to expedite this step). The head can go whole in a block of its own not bigger than 30cm by 15cm by 15cm. The remaining torso shall go in a shallow slab, 60-70cm by 30-40cm by 20cm. These blocks, once set, can be disposed of inconspicuously at a derelict building site, or if one lives near a port, in a pile of ballast, which would allow the body to be disposed of rather efficiently as the body parts would be scattered across the world by boats, making it extremely unlikely that the body would ever be found.
It’s a very sensible method, I’ll give you that; but where’s the fun? If you pay heed to the modi operandi of some of the world’s most notorious serial killers, efficiency and/or a clean getaway weren’t necessarily trademarks.
Readers, perhaps you’d like to take this opportunity to regale everybody in the comments with your own ideal serial killer routine. Don’t be shy. I bet you’ve thought of one.
We’d like to reiterate our ceaseless gratitude to all of you who have ever bought any of our archived episodes, like Carl from Morecambe here:
After thoroughly enjoying over a hundred free episodes of your podcast I’ve just invested in the first eighty. Getting people hooked on the free stuff so they can’t resist buying the rest has been a tried and tested strategy of many a drug-pusher, I just hope that you don’t take it further and force your listeners into prostitution or petty crime to fund their habit.
Whilst I’m very happy to support your joyous enterprise, the purchase of all eighty episodes at once did give rise to a small pause for thought. Imagine my delight when I simultaneously discovered that I’d picked four correct lottery numbers the night before and won enough to pay for them all and still have change for a slap-up meal and a good bottle of wine, instant karma!
See? Lending your financial support to our feckless choice of lifestyles brings you good luck. FACT.
We’ve got a schoolboy moral dilemma to tackle, from somebody who, for his own good, had better remain nameless:
I have a confession to make.
This child – shall we call him “Fred” – he had his book of The Tempest which our teacher says we are required to bring every lesson on pain of detention, sadly I had forgotten mine.
So this boy “Fred” left his bag unattended with his copy of The Tempest in it; so I ripped it out of his bag and rubbed out his name, then I put mine in.
He returned and whilst looking through his bag he panicked and said he couldn’t find it. He received a detention and the teacher told him he needed to bring it or he would get another detention.
I felt as if I could not just laugh it off and say sorry then take the hit and get into major trouble, so I went home with the copy.
The next day our teacher told us that they were dealing with a theft and if anyone got caught with the book they would have detention for the rest of the week and the following week, so on the way home I threw his copy of The Tempest into someone’s garden.
Should I keep this as a dark secret, never to be revealed to anyone but AMT? Or do you think I will get caught as it is just a matter of time before they piece it together, as they have CCTV in our classrooms?
The Tempest is categorised amongst Shakespeare’s ‘problem plays’, so it is little wonder that his epic problem has raised some questions of my own, namely:
1. What did Fred do to deserve this?
2. Depending upon the smallness of your hometown and the astuteness of the mystery garden owner, won’t the retrieval of a copy of The Tempest with your name written inside be fairly incriminating?
3. Why didn’t you just sneak it back into his bag at the end of the first day?
4. I know that schoolbook loss/theft isn’t to be encouraged, but isn’t your teacher rather overreacting? Or is your school actually run like a police state? I can’t believe your teachers would in reality be planning to frisk everybody for contraband copies of The Tempest. I also can’t quite believe your classrooms have CCTV, and that it would really be worth the school’s while, for the price of an out-of-copyright book, to plough through the footage.
5. Is it just me, or is The Tempest (whisper it) a bit rubbish?
Readers, I can’t raise a great deal of sympathy for this young fool, so please do my job for me and head for the comments to offer your advice for him. I worry that if we leave him to deal with it on his own, the situation will escalate to the point where he has to kill every member of his school and burn all books to cover his tracks.
The infernal 90s revival is gathering pace, judging by the number of questions about Friends we’ve been getting. Yes, here’s another! It’s from Conor from Ireland, who I predict will write in next week to find out whether Elastica’s second album will be worth the wait and if Monica Lewinsky is lying. He says:
How many children would Joey from Friends statistically be likely to have, bearing in mind that condoms only work like 97% of the time?
Also bearing in mind that Joey and his assorted sexual partners might not be 100% mindful of contraception. But, on the other hand, his boxy 90s jeans may have inhibited his sperm production so he’s firing LeBlanks.
I’d estimate Joey’s average procreation rate to be halfway between Lil Wayne and Mick Jagger, at maybe one child per every 4-7 years of sexual activity. However, given how hard up they were for plot over the years, I’m sure that had Joey produced any children, they would have been dredged up for at least one two-episode arc. So I think we must assume that he did not. Remember too that Joey is subtly portrayed as Reeeeally Stoopid, so his much-boasted sexual encounters might merely involve him dry-humping the windowsill then falling asleep sucking his thumb whilst the ladies watch and take notes for the biannual reviews of his community care order.
Furthermore, recent research* suggests that Joey’s promiscuity is less great than one imagines. Take a look! There’s a table and everything.
* Of the MEGA-NERDY variety! Gosh, even I expend my spare time more productively. And I once made a fully inflatable giant Boggle set.
Everybody, whatever you do, don’t tell Darcy in Chase, British Columbia about what happened in the final episode of Sex and the City, as he’s currently finding series finales from 2004 rather upsetting:
I stopped watching broadcast TV about a decade ago, so I didn’t know how Friends ended until I finished watching the DVDs today. I was so mad that Ross and Rachel got back together that I’m seriously tempted to run all 40 DVDs through the shredder. Their whole romance was unbelievable and annoying enough as it was, but Rachel not going to Paris because of her “big realization” that she loves Ross was beyond absurd!* Really!? She loves Ross? We had no idea! She had only realized it – and told Ross – about a thousand times over the course of the series!
I gather lots of people feel the same way about the way Seinfeld ended and can’t watch reruns of it. So answer me this: what shows’ endings sucked so bad that it completely ruined all your past, present, and future enjoyment of the whole show?
Evidently I am more forgiving than Darcy, able to concentrate on the tranches of series that were still good (Michelle Dessler) and excise the terrible bits from memory (Kim Bauer). That said, my second viewing of Twin Peaks was approximately 60% less good than the first because by then I knew that the thirteen episodes following the Big Reveal (the effective climax of the series) were, at best, moderately diverting, and at worst a very vortex of shittery. There, as in many other cases, it’s not the ending alone, but the lengthy inexorable decline that precedes it which ruins it for me – and, presumably, commissioners.
Readers, by all means comfort Darcy by telling him in the comments which series’ conclusions left you mentally cancelling out all their preceding credits; but better yet, advise him of completed series which he can watch without fearing that they will take a turn for the craptacular. I’d hold up Spaced
*Too right it was: he’s so neurotic, shrill and underwritten that he is essentially unlovable; while one-dimensional narcissist Rachel is incapable of any depth of feeling. When you look at it like that, they really are a perfect match, just like everybody thought in 1996.
Answer Me This! Podcast 