I could have sworn it was a Phonogram…

I think I’ve got ADD.  Either that or I just can’t concentrate on anything for longer than. SEE!  I was half way through that sentence and suddenly I’m scratching my neck and staring at that black plastic donut thing with the hole in it that you put on your turntable so you can play the records that only have the big hole and not the small hole, and thinking, “that was a good find. But I really should move it before it falls down the side of the dresser (I don’t own a dresser…but you get the idea) again because it definitely will, and I will definitely forget I ever had it, and next time I want to play one of those records that only has the big hole in the middle I’m going to have to faff about with bottle tops and blu-tac again.”

This NEVER works properly. Your best bet is to blu-tac the record on top of another record with a small hole in the middle. But make sure you only blu-tac the labels together. Do not blu-tac the vinyl together.  Only an idiot would do that.  And I speak from experience.  Also…never, ever try to play a modern 33rpm record on a 100 year old….

…oh for the love of christ, I’ve forgotten what it’s called.

Anyway…as I was saying. I think I’ve got ADD.  Either that or I just can’t concentrate on anything for longer than it takes me to see something I wasn’t expecting and go “WHOA!”.  If I don’t have ADD, I definitely suffer from SASS.  SASS sounds cooler, and it is.  For those of you not “in-the-know”, SASS stands for:

Stare At Space Syndrome

I probably don’t need to delve into too much detail….suffice to say it’s a by-product of ADD.  Technically it’s referred to as SISS….Stare INTO Space Syndrome….but I’m not having that.  It would only be a matter of time before some wide-o stuck a cheeky Y on the end, and then I’d be in all sorts of trouble. (Stare Into Space Syndrome – Yuk yuk!)

I made that last bit up.  As far as I’m aware the medical world has yet to acknowledge SASS (or SISSY for that matter) as an official acronym based affliction.  But they should, because I definitely have it.

ADD on the other hand.  Very popular!

(Excuse me a minute, I’ve just realised that my slippers really make my feet stink, and it’s putting me right off my flow.  I want to wash them, but they’ve got rubber soles and I just can’t see how that’s going to work in a washing machine. It’s like that time I put my Evil Kinevil in for a wash after one too many wipeouts in the “Mud Pit Of Doom”.  Let’s just say, that was the last time Ol’ Drippy Features had much luck with the ladies.)

So, as I was saying. I’ve begun to suspect that I might have ADD. Here’s a typical example that happened yesterday:

The phone rings. It’s Kat. She’s hungry AGAIN and wants to know what’s for dinner.

“Nothing”

“I fancy a dirty chinese. Sort it out”

I assume that she’s still talking about food and hang up.

I begin mentally preparing myself for the journey upstairs where I will need to locate the correct menu and use a telephone at the same time.  Then I check you tube and see part 2 of 3 of a documentary about sending an imaginary spaceship to an imaginary planet sometime in the distant future to look for signs of life and how amazing it will be….apart from the 6 year time-lapse in communication, which seems to take all the fun out of it.  So I forget about the food ordering and watch it.  Once it’s over, I am still none the wiser, but have remembered about the food.  I head upstairs.  Except I don’t.  I only make it to the bathroom. I don’t actually need to go to the bathroom, I have just wound up there.  And it is at this point that I inexplicably decided to give the bathroom a quick “Man Clean”.  This is odd for many reasons that Kat can tell you about.  Suffice to say it doesn’t generally happen by chance.

Having finished my  “Man Clean”, I hot foot it upstairs to order the food, but by the time I’ve got to the kitchen, I’ve become thirsty, so I head back downstairs to get my glass….and check my email….and my blog….and twitter….and nme.com….and the news….and my email again.

By now I’m beginning to get a sweat on.  It’s been half an hour since Kat phoned and I’m no closer to delivering the dirty chinese she’s requested.  Trouble is, now I need a number 2.  And it’s an angry one.  I can almost feel it punching its way out. But all I can think about is….BOOK!  I NEED A GOOD BOOK!

Now, what was I talking about again? Oh yeah…it’s called a GRAMOPHONE!

This thing kills vinyl

If you have recorded your very own vinyl album and think it will sound all cool and sexy if you play it on your Gramaphone. Don’t.

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