A classic stupid menu from Angelos!

They spell Angelos correctly four times, before getting finally it wrong on the essential "how to contact us" section.

Brilliant!

Where I used to work, in Manchester centre, there was a tall, camp-sounding man. After working with him for 6 months, I found out that he was straight. 6 months down the line, this came as a bit of a shock. I'd assumed he was gay for the previous 6 months, based purely on a conversation I'd overheard the week he started.

He was in the queue in front of me as the local cafe. At his turn, he asked the lady for "A cappucino aaaaand a cherry muffin please."

From that moment on, I assumed he was gay.

Is it just me, or are muffins classed as a gay food?

I like eating cakes. I eat them as often as I can, and I especially like muffins. But every time I go to the shop and ask for a "chocolate chip muffin" I feel like I'm asking for gay food.

Continuing on from my previous post, of compulsary spelling mistakes in takeout menus, this one was hand deliviered today. When I say hand delivered, I actually mean hand crumpled into an unwilling letterbox, unwilling to receive such badlyspelled (sic) leaflets.

This time, the food was all spelt correctly. It was the explanation of the offer that read a bit wonky.

Exluding.

They've excluded the C from excluding.

It's SO almost onomatopoeic, but..... not quite.

So well done to the almost onomatopoeic, almost oxymoronic Lancashire-based Miami Pizza.

I get 2 or 3 takeout menus pushed through my door every week. They're usually pizza ones, which I don't mind because I love pizza.

But here is an interesting fact.......

On EVERY menu that I receive, there is ALWAYS one spelling mistake. ALWAYS. One item, or one offer, or one description containing an error. Something is spelt incorrectly on every single menu. But it's never the same thing. It isn't as if there is a common misconception, and everyone always spells the same word wrong. They all get one different word wrong each time.

Captain Cook, for example, cannot consistently spell "Kebab"

Yeeeeah, lets just slip another B in there. I wouldn't mind, but they've spelt it correctly twice directly above the mistake.

So next time you get a menu pop through your door, read it, find the mistake, then ring them up to tell them they're stupid.

At work, we have a communal container of butter in the fridge. It is for use by anyone in our department, should they wish to smother any of their food in its buttery goodness.

My boss went to get the butter, and was disappointed that someone had "stabbed" it with their knife. They hadn't just scraped their knife across the top like a normal person would, but they had dug the knife into the butter, and pulled out a buttery wedge.

"Who has stabbed the butter?" he asked, quite upset, showing everyone the devastation in the pack.

There soon ensued a big discussion about butter etiquette, or buttiquette as it shall now be known. "It should be spread, not dipped into." "Just slide your knife across the top, don't dig in." The discussion was quite thorough, considering it was only for butter.

"Why does it bother you so much?" I asked.

"Because... It takes so long to repair" he confessed.

"You REPAIR it..........? Really?"

I'd never really appreciated how deep my Bosses butter obsession was until that moment.

At work, one of the ladies had developed a limp over the weekend. We asked her if she had had a sore leg for a while, and she said she hadn't.

We asked if she had a history of sore limbs, and she didn't.

Finally, we asked her if she had maybe bumped into something, causing the pain, and she replied...

"Well, according to me, no."

Just made me laugh that she had actually asked herself the same question. Literally, asked herself.

The ace powers that be at work, or Allan as we all call him, decided everyone who works here should go on work-related courses.

In order to establish whether these courses would be of benefit, we had to all sit a brief exam.

Calculators were not allowed. Phones were not allowed either. If I had an abacus, then THAT would have been allowed apparently, but I didn't have one.

So it came to my turn to sit the exam. I took my exam paper into the test room, sat down, and started to panic.

I know it was against the rules, but I decided to call a very clever friend on my mobile. Who could I ring? Who would know the answers to all the questions on this test? Only one person sprang to mind. The most intelligent man on the planet, Stephen Hawkins.

I rang him, he picked up, and I blurted out:

"Hi Stephen, it's Craig, listen, I'm doing a 30 minute test at work and I need to borrow some of your intellect, I need help with a few maths questions, a few grammar things and some spelling. Any chance you can give me some help?!?"

And he replied,

























OK. Fire away.

Librarians..... they really don't like people who aren't librarians, do they?

Went to the library today and I felt a little unwelcome. There was a trolley full of 10p "sale" books. They were all either really old, battered books, or incredibly unpopular ones. One caught my fancy, so I made my way to the counter with it.

"Hi, how much is this book? It was on the sale trolley." (I actually knew how much the book was. It was 10p. All the sale books were 10p. Asking the price was just an ice breaker.)

Now, to me, I had asked quite a concise question. But the amount of discussion that it invoked was immense.

Where did I get it from, which aisle, was it from the childrens trolley or an adult trolley, did I know how much it was, would I mind waiting because although I told her how much it was she still had to check with someone else how much the "10p books" were....

At the end of the interrogation, I felt hot and clammy. I handed over 10p, and made my way to the exit. As I left, she watched me, presumably to ensure I didn't sneakily pick up any other 10p books on the way out.

They are so scary!

Think about all the knowledge that they have access to in that building... Librarians know everything that there is to know... If there is something that they don't know, all they have to do is order a book about it... They can do that, you know... they can order books just like that...

Don't annoy librarians...

Years ago, when I was 13-ish, my mum was listening to the radio. There was a male opera singer on, who was famed for having a vocal range of 3 full octaves.

His voice could go from incredibly low, all the way up to the same equivalent note 3 octaves higher.

She was WELL impressed with his voice!

I said "I can do that too!" and demonstrated, with my newly broken voice, the deepest note I could do. Then I did the same note three octaves up, demonstrating that my range was the same as his.

"Don't be silly!" she laughed, and walked off, over to the kitchen.

Always amused me that conclusive proof was never quite enough evidence to make my mum believe in things that she didn't want to believe in.

At work, we have a man who comes in every Monday, and leaves a box of food and cans of drink. There is usually a massive selection of chocolate and around 20 cans.

These 20-or-so cans are all just sat there, all mixed up. There are usually a few cokes and diet cokes, a few tangos, a few dr. peppers...

I had an idea for a game!

1) When no-one else is in the food room, approach the cans of pop.
2) pick up a random one
3) shake it vigorously
4) replace the can
5) mix up all the cans
6) walk away and tell no-one

It's a game of chance in which people, unknowingly admittedly, open a can and MAY get a face full of fizzy pop.

I called my new game "Rush-can Roulette."