HNT: clhb

I'm genuinely surprised and pleased with how this one came out.

It's an HNT because I'm in it. You just can't see me that well because I'm concealed behind a misted-up mirror. But be well aware that I was fully naked when I took this - hooray nudity!



I'm back on holiday tomorrow. I'm not expecting this one to be as fun, but it should have its fun moments. Mostly when I'm on Twitter. And I'll be on Twitter a lot more, because I'll actually have an impetus for being antisocial if my family get too much. But at least this one should be cheap. And my camera will get another workout!



So... see you later!

HNT: Cooling off

You want anything from the shop?


[Yeah, so... not really much nudity. Apart from my head and hands. But at least you get to see me rock turquoise.]

HNT: Trouser Trouble

Yes, that is a rip in my trousers. No, it's not terribly exciting.

I have this problem with trousers - I don't know what it is. They just keep ripping. Usually in the crotch. I don't know whether this is just dumb bad luck or the result of having an UNUSUALLY LARGE PENIS. It just happens.

The most extreme example of this happened at camp in 2004. I was having fun on the necessary bouncy castle, and I squatted and heard an enormous ripping, tearing sound from my crotch. As my genitalia isn't really disposed to make that sound, that could mean only one thing, and sure enough, when I looked down, my trousers were ruined. There was more than a small tear - it was a huge rip, with bits of trouser flapping in the breeze, and my underpants on display for all to see. The only option, other than to spend the rest of the week looking like Plastic Man, was to use my spare trousers. These were the same design, except they had rips and tears all over, because that was artistic, apparently. Still, it was better than gaining a reputation as "ripped crotch boy".

This tradition carried on for a while. I'd be doing something totally normal, and then my trousers would rip. It happened again just as I was about to go on stage to play at a rock festival, although fortunately, my friend and keyboardist had a spare pair. It happened in my first year at uni to a pair of blue tracksuits just as I was boarding a bus heading straight into town, necessitating a stop-off at Wilkinson to buy the cheapest sewing kit I could find (and stitching up the tear in the exact same colour while in the dressing room, which I did quite well, go me!). By the time third year had rolled around, practically all my trousers had suffered the same fate, and - as a cheaper alternative to buying new ones - I had resorted to patching them. One of my favourites was a pair of dark green trousers with a huge black patch over the crotch, complete with pink stitching - my explanation? I was an arts student, I was allowed.

I stitched up one of my favourite pair of trousers recently - it had a rip in the crotch that I wasn't aware of until I sat cross-legged to read a book and noticed a huge hole where there shouldn't have been one - so I grabbed the remnants of the sewing kit (the same one) and stitched the hole together. Unfortunately I also managed to stitch my underpants to the trousers at the same time - cue a "LOL why do I DO this to myself????!!!!!!11one" moment. I cut the rogue strands (with scissors), fixed the sewing... and then proceeded to rip them again, lower down! What a crazy world this is.

The rip on the trousers that I'm wearing at the moment (see above) is relatively minor, in comparison - a couple of centimetres in length - and from a quick look through my wardrobe I can see only one more pair that's not a part of a suit, three-quarter-length shorts, or ripped. I may need to buy some more. Problem is, I don't have any money.

I wonder if the 99p store in town has trousers... if I'm going to continue my trend, that's probably all they're going to be worth!

HNT: Suits you, sir!

OK, so not really HNT as no part of me is naked, unless I go by that "we're all naked under our clothes" bit, and that line it's ever appropriate. Anywhere. Ever. But I tried to take a picture of myself with a suit on. It didn't come out as well as I hoped.

If you want to imagine I'm naked from the waist down, you can. If that helps. I don't mind. Anyway.

This sort of thing's more suited to James. Still. I thought it looked okay. In an odd way. An odd, really quite confused way.

HNT: Thigh-L-B

Don't particularly like this one, but I just can't disagree with a sexy girl too much. And she liked it.

Things I don't like about this photo:
- The angle makes my thighs look fat. They're fat anyway, but this one in particular. The one on the left is a more accurate representation.
- Red spots. Yuck.
- Do I need that much hair? It's manly, apparently, but still...
- Yellow T-shirt and blue dotted Y-fronts don't go too well together.

Still, you get to see my bulge a bit. And if you scroll down, you don't have to look any more. So there's the silver lining, I guess!

HNT: Face it

Does this scare you? It should do. It scares me.


I decided my teeth needed a lot of attention last night, because I saw a scary advert about gum disease. So I brushed consistently for a while until my mouth bled, quite profusely. I think I've wounded the inside of my mouth somehow - there's a very sore patch just inside my left cheek and it hurts to have any hot drinks.

*Sips his tea; curses.*

I do this thing every now and then called "The Face." I stretch my mouth as wide as it can go. The picture shown is not actually a demonstration of that; I just took a picture when I yawned and thought, "there, that'll do." I also tilt my head a bit to the right and roll my eyes upwards. My friends seem to like it, and I can't actually recall any gigs in which I haven't ended up doing The Face. Every musical comedian has to have a schtick, and I appear to have abandoned satire and cheekiness in favour of looking like a constipated zombie. Ah well, makes people laugh.

I'm quite proud of my mouth. I can do incredible things with it, like eating, or sipping hot drinks and cursing. There are, of course, other things one can do with one's mouth, but I'm far too innocent to mention those here. Oh, and talking. I do a lot of talking. Mostly to myself.

Plus, I can stretch it wide. When I die and they lay me to rest, I want them to arrange my facial features so it looks like I'm doing The Face. A final testament to a truly busy mouth.

HNT: Birthday Bristles

Do you like my new haircut?


Please believe me when I say that it's shorter than my old haircut. You can't really see the complex layers in this photo, nor can you understand how brutally short this actually is. I'd never go bald, but this is about as close as I'll ever get. My hair used to reach down to my shoulders, and up until about two hours ago, I had about as much hair as Boris Johnson. It wasn't long, but there was a lot of it. Thanks to the skilled fingers of my hairdresser (yes, a hairdresser - I'm too feminine to actually go to a barber), I now have less hair than before. And thanks to the electric shaver I have on my desk and some disposable razors I bought, I'm going to have less beard than before this evening too. Not no beard... just a tidier one.

Not that I have much to look nice for. I'm going for a pizza tonight with 47, H, Robinson, the young raver, and some others (and you're all invited, if any of you have deduced my real identity and are brazen enough to randomly appear in the place where we're going... and happy hunting, there are about 15 pizza places near here) - and possibly even a drink too - but these are all my friends. I'm not trying to pull any of them. Still, it's my birthday. It's not your birthday every day. And I'm 26 now, so I may as well make an effort.

It's better than the massive green hat I got given last year though. The irony of a teetotaller being born on Saint Patrick's Day wasn't lost on my sister, who provided me with said hat.

Which, of course, I would wear in the pizza place tonight...
...except that I've had my hair cut, and I want to show that off instead.

What a shame.

HNT: Eye-L-B

My eyes are my only physical feature I'm truly happy with. They're a lovely shade of blue, have the right eye/eyelid proportion, and shine when the right light is on them (in this picture, there's the glare of a studio light to help that, plus I was incredibly tired). They also have the ability to hold an incredible amount of tears, should the need arise. If I look happy, or sad, my eyes complement the rest of the physical mess nicely. Thank you, God.

A gay friend of mine who had a crush on me for a short while (although how short I've never been sure!) once told me that my eyes have the curious quality of being full of tears all the time, like I'm constantly weeping. "Oh, but I am," I replied. "I'm always crying... on the inside." I don't think he believed me. And besides, so what if they sometimes water a bit? It just makes them sparkle that little touch more!

Ah well. I had to post a positive HNT some time, though, right?

HNT: Pokémon Mini

Bizarre as it may seem, that is in fact a console with interchangeable cartridges. It's smaller than a Game Boy Micro - hell, it's less than half the size of a Game & Watch - and yet it's still one of the best pieces of hardware Nintendo ever made. It's extremely powerful - the resolution is light and sharp, and the music and sound are pretty good for a system that doesn't have any speakers. The cartridges are all the size of a postage stamp, and - despite the limitations of the franchise (they're all Pokémon themed, in line with the name of the console) - the games are ridiculously addictive. Mind you, I only have two. I've got about 20 for the SNES, so maybe I need to up my Pokémon Mini game collection.

Oh, and if you're after something more interesting than video games - well, that's difficult to find. But my girlfriend's first HNT works for me.

HNT - A good book

These are my hands. No, I don't like them much either.

The book in my right hand is The Ingoldsby Legends, which - according to the title page - is by R. H. Barham, but appears to me to be a collection of folk tales best read aloud in a Scots brogue. There are stories in it like The Babes In The Wood, in poetry form. Very odd.

I'm not even sure I'm meant to have it. I rescued it from my mother, who was going to throw it away "because it's fallen to pieces; look at it." Well, yes, yes it had. But I can't bear to see books thrown away. So I took it, hid it, and this afternoon I raided my mother's stationery drawer. Scissors, glue, Sellotape. I set to with reckless abandon (the task, not the Blink182 song) and repaired the poor book, and now I have a readable copy. That is to say, there is a readable copy in my possession. I think it was my grandmother's; it probably still is. But I'll read it before asking around.

Because that's what you do with books, naturally.

The closest we'll ever get to HNT

No, I don't like them either.