Weh mir, oh weh

That's German, that. You can have that nugget of linguistic marvel for FREE, motherfucker. A little bit of polyglot self-pity, just for you, and you, and yooooo-hoooo-ooooo. Sorry, turned into Jim'll Fix It, there. Hopefully your head is as full of jewelry-bedecked old duffers in tracksuits bouncing nippers on their knees and leering at them as mine is. It would only be fair.

See, that's why I could never call this blogging. It's also why I could never write anything of any actual note. A cheap quip waves cheekily at me from across the textual way, I go steaming right in. I can't resist. Thomas Hardy's Return of the Native would have been a HELL of a lot funnier if I've written it. It would also have never have been published.

Anyway, I realised I hadn't stained the internet with any of my brain juice this year (well, I have, just not here), so I thought I should rectify it. And now I have.

Weh mir, oh weh indeed.