Bum war

We're a bad influence on children, me and Emma; we've taught a stupendously daft game to various young 'uns in our family.

It's called bum war, the name being a play on thumb war - and like that battle of opposable digits, our shenanigans begin with a declaration: "One, two, three, four! I declare a bum war!" (The original call was, "Bum war! It's a bum war!")

The two combatants, standing back-to-back and bending slightly at the waist, then attempt to push the each other over using only the power of their rumps. This involves much slamming together of arse cheeks, staggering and giggling.

It's a sort of buttocky sumo, which often ends in one or more people toppling over in worring proximity to sharply cornered or easily breakable objects/furniture.

Number of injuries so far: zero.

Potential for injuries in the future: massive.

Change of plan

Phil from sales and I met this morning in the office kitchenette, where we discussed our plans for the weekend.

His involved little more than drinking with mates: the sort of thing I used to do most Saturdays when, like Phil, I was in my 20s.

"Now I'm older and married," I said, "and I go to relatives' 50th birthday parties".

"It's like you're already dead," he mock-snarled.

Wee encounter

I was in a Madison Avenue diner last week, waiting to use the single cubicle reserved for gents.

The door opened and a small, middle-aged woman emerged. She saw me glance at the little sign indicating that this was the bog for blokes.

"I know!" she squawked in a thick Noo Yawk accent. "Don't even go there!"

Perhaps I should've raised a fuss, just to see if she'd say, "Talk to the hand".

Come again

During my days as a reporter in Sheffield, I palmed off a couple of no-longer-wanted grumble mags on to my friend and colleague Andrew.

He was particularly taken with a photo set of a saucy minx stripping off her maid's outfit.

"I've been getting the cleaner in quite a lot," he admitted on the bus one afternoon. "But..."

I guessed what he was gonna say, so I was already chortling as he finished, "...she always leaves a mess behind".

Strapping approach

The Daily Mirror, as its regular readers will know, features one-word straplines above its shorter stories and NIBs.

Take this morning's edition for instance: "arrest" appears over the headline "Brit OAP in flat murder"; "troops" accompanies "Obama: no Afghan exit".

I first noticed this house style a couple of years ago, one fantastic day when the straps were things like "crime", "epidemic", "rescue", "war", "death" - and then, several pages in, "milk".

Beer, blood and urine

I was having a few beers with a couple of lads from the ad sales department, Al and Phil. We were sharing tales of drunken shenanigans.

Phil related an incident of a night out in which, much the worse for wear, he returned to his drink after a trip to the bog and then noticed that the front of his strides were wet.

Has someone spilt their beer on me, he wondered, before realising that his crotch was soaked with his own urine. Naturally, he was mortified (at the time).

"Look on the bright side," I said. "Better it were piss than blood."

"Hey! Steady on!" exclaimed Al.