I spent at least some of Sunday poking mild fun at the Pope via the hashtag #popefacts. I had hoped to get some new (fun) followers for my nonsense — which I did. And I also got some less-fun followers. People taking it all a little too seriously.
Which is a shame, as they would surely have enjoyed the karma (not that they would believe in karma if they are bosom buddies with the pope, it’s all about the zeros and ones, see blog passim) of me giving a ketchup bottle a good old shake down our local gastropub, only for it to explode once the cap was loosened and shower us in glucose-enhanced lycopene. Tomato syrup can travel surprisingly far. And fast. Funnily enough, my dinner companion was not impressed as she tried to sponge it out of her hair with a paper napkin.
As a boy, and therefore fully paid-up moron, my initial reaction (having established that I would not be dealing with irate men with sunstroke and cider-moustaches at the next table — not that such people really exist in Chiswick, although we do have our fair share of muscle-marys) was ‘cool! Let’s do that again,’ as unlike the exploding donuts this was clearly not a life-threatening explosive substance.
Although I guess if you wander down the street covered in ketchup you are more likely to end up at the bottom of a heap of killer bee-ants.
And in honour of #towelday yesterday, I must remember not to panic. Don’t. Panic. Even when the red goo hits the fan. Ok, ok, dramatisation there, there was no fan. Or killer bee-ants. But there was an additives and sunlight explosion.
