A Reader's Letter

OK, I’ve had about enough of this. For years, hhn has been a positive place, somewhere where gentle reflection and playful comment held sway, where thoughtful conversations, built upon respect and garlanded with wit have been the norm. It seems that is at an end. And I want to protest.
Many Eastern philosophies are built on the idea of an antithesis between objects or phenomena, combining to create a unity of opposites. This means, roughly, that there are two sides to everything. And so it proves in the case of hhn. Because I am the dark side of hhn, Evil HHN, the bad-tempered, intolerant rule-nazi, the cruel, plain-speaking avenging fist of righteous truth.
So I’m not going to mince my words. This blog is fucked.
It may be fucked beyond repair. I don’t know. But any chance it has of survival, this sylvan glade of happy discourse, lies in your hands, you, the reader. We may be able to tempt the Good hhn back, to share with us his thoughts on fridges and honey badgers and sandwiches and godsons and swimming pool etiquette and brown paint and Prince and weddings and Scotland and iPods and the banality of the quotidian, but only if you stupid fuckers stop being stupid fuckers.
So we need some new rules. And here they are:

Madam B
We want to love you, really we do. But you keep being horribly crude, and you don’t need to be. You seem feisty and highly entertaining; please join in the conversation without showing us your knickers – you’re not three years old.
RULE: Don’t mention your (*&^

Blokewho
There seem to be several of you. Can you sort this out? And the whole anti-celtic to-and-fro? Nobody gives a fuck.
RULE: Don’t argue about how shit Irish people are

The Waunch
Tough. Please stop being right about everything. I was listening to Santana the other day, and you know what? You were right. And about the Tragically Hip. I’m sorry I ever doubted you. You rock!
RULE: Don’t take a minute off from being yourself!

Styx
What the fuck happened to you? Surely you can’t be too busy to check in a bit more frequently? We value your input.
RULE: Don’t order that third bottle

Mrs hhn
Look, I have to tell the truth, my love. I’ve been decieving you for what seems like an age. It is, I’m afraid, a wig. And I’m gay.
RULE: Don’t believe anything I say, ever

Blokewho (again)
Look, let’s face it: Carlos Santana is pretty cool. We don’t really have a leg to stand on. Let’s just give it up, eh?
RULE: Carlos Santana…just is… Ok?

Honeybadgers
Look, we’re big fans. But we’re not getting that reciprocal vibe. You get a bad press almost universally – “piebald nutsack-ripping mini badgers of death” – but do we get a word of thanks for our support? No, we do fucking not. Get with the fucking program, you ungrateful (*&^s.
RULE: Someone else’s scrotum, please…

I can’t remember who else reads this blog; to be honest, I can barely remember why I started it in the first place. Oh, yeah, I was unemployed. And this kept me writing. Nowadays I’m employed up the yin-yang. And I’ve become shit at my own blog. But if you try harder, then I’ll try harder. If not, I just won’t either. So let me know if you think I should carry on with it, or if we’ve all come to a natural crossroads. And if so, you can all just fuck off…

Heroin Or Haggis?

Although most of it appears to have been from Madame B - aka Madame Don't Have Enough To Do At Work Or At Home - there is something vaguely satisfying about watching comments ticking in to hhn. Maybe I really don't need to be writing any new content, and I can just let the six of you get on with it within the hhn arena...oh God, I've turned into a moderator.

I have news. mrs househusbandnot has bought a groovy silver scooter. So if you see a hot brunette on a silver scooter with a red helmet in and around London, there is a slight possibility that it could be mrs hhn. If you are in need of stalking me (or her), I'd suggest that you follow her, and she will eventually lead you to hhn HQ. All roads lead to and all that.


In other news, mrs hhn and I are getting excited about our Kenya holiday in December/January. (mrs hhn sent me a fantastic youtube clip of a honey badger killing a cobra yesterday. I could almost smell the Serengeti earth.) I made a tit of myself with Jeremy Clarkeson on Saturday. Robert Wyatt wheeled past me the other morning when I was listening to one of his songs on my isquad. And I finished Lost Planet on the Xbox the other night. It is approx the second or third ever game I have finished on PS2 or Xbox. (Had a go on a Weii the other night btw. Amusing, for three seconds, although Styx assures me that a quick round of golf on the Weii is great when you are twatted.)



And had a good discussion with mrss hhn the other night about what we would have for our last ever meal if we were on death row. We eventually decided on fish finger sandwiches, a bottle of vodka and some heroin. (I voted for a haggis starter too.) We got a bit carried away at one stage, thinking it could be a whole day of meals and not just one in the evening before they come and shave your head and ask if you want to have a final chat with the priest. Not sure how it works. I guess it varies from prison to prison. (I imagine the request for class A drugs would be met with differing responses from prison to prison too.)


Recent overheards/comments/observations:

mrs hhn: "I hate rules, unless I am in charge"

Styx: "But hhn, does Zanzibar really exist?"

And recent news.

PEACE hhn