We all know that first week back after Christmas and New Year can be a lonely and desperate time. Just ask Jasper. Many’s the time he can be seen skulking in the steel racks for hours on end when it’s quiet with nary a peep out of him.

I sincerely hope he’s not up to what this geezer in a Southampton fabrication shop has been up to:

A MAN who got his genitalia stuck in a steel pipe had to be cut free by eight firefighters using an industrial grinder. The heavy duty cutting gear had to be used to remove the three-inch long hollow pipe after medics were unable to release it. The painstaking operation, which involved eight firefighters, took around an hour.

The drama began after the man took himself to the accident and emergency department of Southampton General Hospital.

Restricted blood flow had left the man in a state of arousal, and unable to remove the pipe.

Staff there were so concerned that they phoned the emergency services and a crew from Redbridge Fire Station were initially dispatched. But they had to bring in backup from St Mary’s station which has a fire truck equipped with specialist cutting gear. A disc gutter cutter, with a four-and-a-half-inch blade, was used to slice open the stainless steel pipe.

The man, in his 30s, offered no explanation for his predicament but was said to be “quite concerned and anxious”. He had been given an anaesthetic to prepare for the procedure.

St Mary’s crew manager Adrian Johnson said: “It was a very delicate operation. We did not want anything heating up.

The person who did it deserves a commendation for his nerve and steady hand.”

Meanwhile, watch manager Greg Garrett from Redbridge station added: “I’ve only come across this type of thing three or four times in my 17 years as a firefighter. It’s not a daily occurrence.”

The man’s private parts were left bruised and swollen.

I’m generally fairly reluctant to post entire articles seeming it goes against Rupert Murdoch’s grain, but I really didn’t know which bits to cut out (as the fireman said to the bloke with his knob stuck in a steel tube). I mean, this is why you’d love to be a local journalist. Maybe a fireman as well, but not the guy doing the angle grinding or holding the pipe steady.

However, feel free to go and enjoy yourselves in the comments to the article.

Yes, wrap your motor in Duck tape.

How could I not venture to the Avon Duct Tape Festival this past weekend? Avon happens to be one of the two (there may be more) duct tape capitals of the world – the other being Sarah Palin’s home village of Wasilla. And yes, it’s kind of what you expect – an excuse to plonk a few fair rides on an uneven part of a field, get tipsy listening to 80s cover bands and take part in a parade with floats held together by the stuff.

It’s in no way tacky – well I suppose the tape is (ho-hum).

With it being a fair, my good lady was determined for me to display my undying whatever by winning her some kind of fair prize – a partially paralyzed goldfish or some stuffed toy made by Chinese orphans that would be more mobile than any goldfish.

It’s not that I’m a curmudgeon so much that I understand these things are rigged. Whether you’re talking about basketball games that have spring-loaded backboards to ensure the b-ball flies off into an adjacent county, or doctored darts that have you seeking the nearest specialist to check for the early signs of Parkinson’s, the fix is in.

Balloon Darts

We hadn’t made half a circuit of the festival before I heard a redneck trying to tempt me into throwing darts at a wall of balloons. I was doing my best to ignore him, but with Steph having her heart set on something stuffed and ignoring anything I ever have to say, she’d already engaged the bugger in conversation and was shouting for me to stop.

Marvellous – some crap banter ensued between the hillbilly Barnum and myself about him not wanting to shout (even though he was turned way past 11) and me explaining there was no chance him understanding a word I was saying – which he obviously didn’t understand a word of.

He then thrust a dart into my paw and told me that whatever happened Steph would win a prize and that the dart was free. So, with my wife pleading with me via the medium of puppy peepers, and some hick blabbering nonsense, I cracked. I took a couple of steps towards the stall and languidly lobbed the dart in the general direction of the balloon board fully expecting it to explode mid-flight or drop to the floor three inches from the latex as if it’d hit an invisible sheet of Perspex. Or merely bounce off one of the balloons and do a King Harold.

No, I happened to pop two of the blighters.

I resisted the urge to clap myself or perform a Tiger Woods fist pump, and expected Steph to be handed her prize and for us to pop off for a corn dog.

Instead I was handed another couple of darts and told to pay a couple of dollars for the privilege. I was being hoodwinked and having the hoodwinkery explained to me as I handed over a $20. However, it was hoodwinkery that I have no idea what was being said. Before I could throw the next two darts, I was asked if I wanted to pay a further $5 to try and win a ‘medium’ prize.

I was being up sold without having bought anything in the first place. I hadn’t a clue what was happening, but was strangely enjoying the swift-talking swindler’s patter. The guy was a pro.

At this rate I was fully expecting to be taken into a port-a-potty and robbed of cards, cash and kidney.

Steph was starting to look stern and interjected on my behalf that we’d take our prize and run. At which he whisked the two darts out of my hand that I thought I’d paid for and reached for Steph’s prize.

Of course it wasn’t something dangling off the stall itself but something he rustled from underneath the counter out of an old plastic bag:

It basically looked like they’d partially wrapped some sausage meat in duct tape and tossed it in some boiling water. Even the dollar store would’ve considered themselves shysters for charging for it.

At least Steph found out I was right. And at least I don’t have to do that for a living.

Well not yet.

Three minutes away you were from having the pleasure of me videoing myself doing a naked umbaba round my back garden in the snow.

But thankfully, Spurs put paid to that little escapade just as I was getting down to my underpants. They also put paid to any other thoughts of a gaggle of Dingles descending upon the capital for a cup final.

You can’t help but be impressed by it as an effort. Even a few Blackburn fans felt a bit sorry for all concerned. Though that might not last.

Anyway, in order to cheer us all up I’ve come across the 2009 Female Mechanics Calendar. No, it’s not pornographic, nor is it clad remotely scantily – it’s a calendar full of women who are mechanics.

Now I don’t want this to come across as patronising or snide. I wanted to highlight it for the same reason that the photographer who put the thing together did – to show that they are genuine Rosie the Riveter type role models out there, and maybe this will help render the necessity for calendars pointing such a fact out in the future worthless.

Lady Mechanics Calendar 2009

Click for full size centerfold.

What do you give that special welder in your life who’s in a festive funk and has a head shaped like a balloon?

Why, a Christmas welding cap, of course:

Merry Christmas…

Well I’m off up yonder to that there windy city tomorrow to partake in a Blogging for Business panel at SES Chicago. Thankfully it’s a Tinbasher case study so I theoretically should know what I’m talking about. But it’s certainly felt like a bit of a task trying to condense every single marvellous morsel of Tinbasher zen into fifteen minutes for an audience of American search engine types.

I spent at least three hours toying with various references to whippers, but then decided to drop ‘em (the references – not my whippers). As if my accent isn’t going to trouble them enough without weird Northern English slang mentions of underpants.

Any road, one of the main reasons I’ve never shown up for this kind of thing previously (and it’s not as if folks badger me constantly) is that it costs a bit to get there and put yourself up; and I’m obviously a bit tight.

That’s why my boss at Direct Online Marketing is a top man – sending me off on my merry way with an allowance nonetheless – cheers Justin. And his good lady, Kristin, did a sterling job sorting my flights and booking the hotel. I mean, if left to me I’d have booked myself in to see Chicago the musical. And then we had Deborah and the guys running round BSM HQ taking dubious photos and fixing balance sheets. Thank you.

But I really appreciate all the help from Steph, my dear lady – who’s been coughing and spluttering and hallucinating for most of the week with some flu-like condition – for being my audience and being a great little sounding board.

Still, maybe you shouldn’t trust the opinion of somebody off their face on Tylenol flu and Sudafed.

I’m very much looking forward to this. I hope everybody concerned gets a little something out of it.

So, if you want any slides of the presentation or have any questions, you only need to ask. That is if SES doesn’t have them for some reason.

Although, it’s probably best to ask me over at my day job.