There have been some interesting developments recently in my otherwise irksome job. First of all, and not really on the more interesting developments, my computer has crashed beyond repair. So, where there once were several hours of uninterrupted, glassy-eyed web-surfing, there was now a gaping void. After some initially worrying minutes of thumb twiddling, the abyss was filled by reading an entire novel, something which I hadn't managed to do in one day at work before. Granted, it was an Maigret detective novel of less than 200 pages, but it left me with an immense sense of satisfaction for some skiving well done.

A little more interestingly, I was also presented with a stack of my very own business cards yesterday. I had been vaguely aware that some of my colleagues had them, but never imagined my position would warrant such a lucrative status symbol (in fact, it doesn't). So, now I have a pack of cards in a nifty little plastic holder to distribute at leisure. I immediately had reveries of nonchalantly slipping my card to models at decadent cocktail parties. Sadly though, they would all look bemused and said, "What the hell's a Contact Centre Distributor"? Whereupon I would mumble incoherently, and sheepishly return to the bar.

Perhaps most interestingly, though, a video-conferencing unit has been installed in my office. This will allow the manager to converse in person with colleagues in London, Brussels and Amsterdam, without having to go to the bother of getting on a plane in order to do so (when did telephones suddenly become redundant?) However, due to wires being too short, and the calamitous positioning of plug sockets, the equipment is now standing in front of my desk, instead of in the boardroom next door. Surely not a major problem, one would think. However, this equipment is constantly left on, with the camera pointing directly at me. Which means that anyone in this office, or London, Brussels or Amsterdam, can in an idle moment raise a few chuckles by having a look at what I'm doing. I'm told that this is just a temporary position for the equipment, but until a new location is found, I am potentially at the mercy of about 300 pairs of eyes in some horrible Big Brotheresque simulacrum. Gone are the days when I sit pantsless at my desk...

I was recently speaking to someone about the wonderful game of my youth, Top Trumps. Sadly, their own childhood was devoid of this splendid game, not to mention that particularly nifty Astronomical edition that I had. Nerdy indeed, you might say, but do you know the names of Neptune's moon, and the killing power of the fictional monsters that live thereon?

Anyway, imagine my surprise and delight when I happened upon Cunt Trumps, a game where the annoying are pitted against each other in a fight to the death. I was particularly pleased to see Ronan Keating in there, and surprised at the leniency with which Gazza is dealt.

So, would you rather loose the ability to speak, or be fitted with a colostomy bag? It's not really a decision you'll have to make every day, but if you feel you're up to challenges like this, click here.

Apparently, several thousand copies of the new Harry Potter book have been stolen from their top secret, impenetrable location - the back of a trailer in a warehouse car park somewhere near Liverpool. Boo fucking hoo. I'm sure it's all a marketing ruse, seeing as it goes on sale on Saturday. In terms of actual losses, it's probably the equivalent of me dropping a spoon down the back of the fridge. Nonetheless, I hope Philip Pullman turns out to be the perpetrator.

Christ! Myself and Eoghan's brushes with fame were upstaged in a most impressive manner last night by my friend Jim, who had just returned to Dublin from London. He was picked up at the airport by his mother, who told him that she had just seen Martin Sheen come through arrivals. Getting into their car, who should they see waiting for a taxi, but Sheen himself. Jim's mother then went over to him to ask if he would like a lift, but he politely declined, with an excuse about staying in an incredibly expensive hotel nearby.

All well and good, but old Mrs. G then compounds her achievement, by announcing that she is now looking forward to the Special Olympics, at which she claims she will be responsible for looking after Arnold Schwarzenneger.

Huh?!?!?!?!?

This morning on the bus, a woman who was rather rotund of belly stood beside my seat, there being nowhere else to sit. A quick glance towards this paunch, and I was undecided as to whether she was in fact pregnant, or just, em, fat. For a couple of minutes, I debated whether or not to offer her my seat, but eventually decided that staying in my seat would spare embarrassment on both sides that would result if said bulge turned out to be excess lipids. Also, nobody else seemed to be in any rush to her assistance. So, I spent the remainder of the journey staring out the window. Nice morning it was too.

On an unrelated topic, those of you who are partial to tea and biscuits might do well to have a look at this site. It involves a trip to Ireland to look for the 'fabled' Kimberley Mikado biscuit. Fabled?

Too good a headline not to share:

'Knicker Nicker Nicked' – the Daily Star reports that a man in Limerick has been caught red handed on video stealing ladies underwear from his next door neighbours washing.

Prompted by Eoghan's dubious linking of himself and Samuel L Jackson, I feel I should tell my own tale of brushes with Hollywood royalty. On a number of occasions while drinking in Neary's on Chatham Street, I saw that scruffy little gent who played one of the henchmen to Tony Doyle's character in Ballykissangel (seen here on the left). Starring in the same series was none other than the Gaelic Gigolo himself, Colin Farrell. So, by the use of simple syllogism, I now stand to make millions of dollars, several dodgy movies, and hordes of illegitimate children with monobrows.

I was just having a flick through amazon.com in an idle moment, and happened upon a rather worrying recommendation. In the book section, they recommended that I would like What Not To Wear by those Trinny and Susannah bints off the tv. Admittedly, it was the fortieth-or-so recommendation, but the good folk at amazon had decided that I would prefer this book to the Roy Keane biography, which ambled along several places behind. I haven't been so galled since they advised me to buy that Paul McCartney album.

OK, you can now contact me with your comments, threats, gripes and hummus recipes by clicking on the link in the, well, Links section.

Just when my humble page gets moving, I am usurped by that damn science geek Conor Laver. For those of you who haven't seen it, his page is here and is very nice indeed, putting me to shame with his mountain climbing and what-not.

It appears that while moseying around one of Saddam Hussein's old palaces, some troops found "lava lamp standards in the shape of pneumatic women...they flanked a painting of a topless and coyly airbrushed blonde who was gazing admiringly at a strangely familiar moustached man wrestling a crocodile". This is the kind of war coverage we could use more of.

Yesterday evening's boredom was nicely punctuated by the appearance in my office of a deranged Englishwoman intent on denouncing the Irish race. Sadly, I missed it because I was downstairs, but I've been told that the interloper charged in and headed for my colleague Macca, shouting something about the Irish being a 'bunch of bastards', and that she was being constantly 'touched up' on Dublin's streets. She didn't seem to understand that our office wasn't really the place to make xenophobic complaints, and only left after further abuse prompted Macca to understandably lose the rag, and shout 'Get out' at her.

This kind of stuff only seems to happen when I'm not in the office, sadly. Like the man last week, who, after being told that we don't in fact have any information on Zambia, came back an hour later to ask if we had any information on Zambia. At least I'll always have the memory of the man who farted at me while I was giving him a train timetable...

Hmm, I seem to be advertising the Peace Corps and Habitat for Humanity at the top of the screen, and it'll cost me money to get rid of them, so I probably won't be doing that. However, if you do feel the need to donate your car to me instead of some faceless charity, by all means do so.

I will also be accepting tenders from anyone who wants to advertise their wares here, whether it be ear wax, defective rubber bands or large novelty animal costumes.

Still debating if this this site should be used for good or evil.

Alright, labouring under the delusion that anybody would ever want to read my nonsensical ramblings, I have created a blog for myself.

I came up with the idea during a particularly long period of sedentary inactivity at work today, and realising that this is a fairly regular feature of my job, I thought I might as well take advantage of it.

I don't really have any idea of what it'll involve yet (although we could always use an additional forum for slagging Bapr), and it'll probably take me several days/weeks to figure out how to use it, so bear with me if you can take the boredom.

Anyway, how many of you have websites? Huh? Bastards.