Day Forty: The Last Giraffe

As this is the last post, I wanted to end on a really exciting topic, and dazzle anyone reading this with my punning prowess so you could see just how far I’ve come.  I wanted to create some kind of amalgamation of all the puns I’ve so far written, like in the last task of the Triwizard Tournament when Harry has to utilise all the skills he’s gained, coming up against both old enemies and new challenges.  I couldn’t, however, think of a way of doing this, so we’ll end how we started – on  a low.

I can’t honestly say I’ve enjoyed writing every entry, and the general response from friends and family who have read this blog has been a kind of despairing half-laugh, half-sob.  Overall, I’ve written about 16,000 words which, incidentally, is twice the length of my still incomplete dissertation.  The response to this blog has also confirmed that I am the only person in the world that will ever laugh at my jokes. But I do laugh at them a lot.  It’s been a long journey, and next year I think I will just give up chocolate instead.

To anybody that read any of the entries, thanks for taking a bit of time out your day to indulge me – whether it was through a sick desire to torture yourself, or because of the threatening emails I’ve been sending to your family members, I really appreciate it.

Though I’d say 80% of the puns featured in this blog were my own, I’d be lion if I didn’t admit I’d sought the occasional bit of help from the internet.  I hope this doesn’t make me a cheetah, I just didn’t want this blog to be boaring, and without any inspiration it would have been such haard vark to mink of enough puns – maybe even impossumble.  I don’t think of it as fowl play, and I never said everything was entirely original, so I’m not a hippocrite.  It’s good to get that birden off my chest. 

Telling jokes is an hawkward thing to do, there have been several times that, by sharing my favourite one liner, I’ve just made myself look pretty sealy.  Bat I believe that, although obviously not poultry in motion, jokes are an important part of being British.  I’m not saying I feel particularly parrotriotic when I tell one, but owl admit that I think a dry sense of humour otter count for something. 

There were days when this blog was rushed and dingo to plan, when I thought it was a load of bull and that if I had to write anymare puns I might just end it all.   But, although at times it was unbearable, and I can hardly put it on a job application as a ‘relephant koalaification’ , I’m still glad I did it, and I at least found it vaguely emusing.  I think all I needed was a bit of determination – I just had to keep telling myself ‘toucan do it!’.  It’s mice to know I saw it through.

Okay, that was the last pun, I promise shrew.  Sorry, that one was – I seriously apeologize.

Joke.  My favourite of all time:

Two cows in a field.  

One cow says to the other cow:  ‘Are you worried about that mad cow disease?’

The other cow shrugs and says: ‘Why should I care?  I’m a chicken.’

Hahahaha ha ha ha.  Ha. 



Day Thirty-Nine: High Spirits

Happy Easter!  I thought that I’d blog today so I wasn’t finishing too long after lent. I’m writing this whilst playing a game of scrabble (second one of the day).  I’ve genuinely been forbidden from leaving the room until it’s completed.  Currently my dad is trying to argue that ‘onk’ is a word.  According to him, it’s the noise aristocratic pigs make.  Earlier, we went to church, which is what I shall be punning about today:

This game is pretty intense, organ I phrase it another way, my family are making this game more intense than it needs to be.  My mum has a system where she tells us to ‘saviour best letters til last’ which is apostleble way of playing the game, but you need a lot of disciplen. I noah better way for me is to just passover my go as quickly as possible by just altaring other people’s words.  My mum’s getting cross at my dad, as all this mental exorcise is exhausting hymn, and my grandma (who thinks she is pastor best but definitively isn’t) is beating us all.  I’ve got sweaty psalms from the pressure and am so close to having a temple tantrum – this game israelly hard!  I know that if I don’t win I’m hardly going to parish and die, but nun of my words are getting very high scores, even when my mum lent me some extra vowels.  I’m also having a hard job thinking of anything more than three letters, while my grandma has revelation after revelation – she’s seriously ruthless. I’m also getting told to go spel check everything I try and put down. It’s fine because however badly this goes, I’ll be up and adam this eve when I meet my friends at the pub.  Right, my Dad has found an escape route, on the premise of making everyone a cup of tea – I’m going to go and ‘help’ him while hebrews it.


Although I did not know the name of the boy who bumped his chin while playing a song in the church handbell choir, his face rang a bell.

Day Thirty-Eight: Flea For Your Lives

I’m fairly neutral when it comes to insects in general, but wasps I don’t like.  People that say ‘their sting really isn’t that bad’ are lying because they want to see you cry.   It’s really really bad and for a few minutes of your life you wish you were dead.  I think in general, I have quite a low-tolerance conscience that likes to nag me all the time, but when it comes to wasps, it turns a blind eye.  In fact, it laughs in cruel solidarity as we watch the little devils writhe and die.    The following story is true, and trust me, I remember it in vivid detail.

Right, I’m not beeing pathetic or anti-feminist, it’s nothing to do with man vs lady, ‘bird’ vs ‘lad’: if there’s a wasp in your room you get scared.  At the end of last year an injured wasp got into my room.  I thought I’d fly and be kind, and let it die a slow quiet death under a cup on my floor, but this did gnat go to plan.  It was really bugging me, knowing that it was there, so even though leaving it until the end of termite have been a better idea, I couldn’t wait that long.  I left it for four days, praying (man tis difficult to relive this experience) that it would be dead.  Lifting the cup was aphiddly process ant I did a pretty lousey job, managing to free the very alive wasp.  I tried to cricket into going out of the window, but it got wedged under a book I had about France (specifically Paris sites).  I decided then, that I had license to kill it.  After severing it into pieces with a hairspray can (possibly not the most humane way I could have done it), I spider bit of the wasp WALKING OFF – a bit that DIDN’T HAVE A HEAD.  Running to Alice’s room I broached the subject of what had happened, and she came to my aid declaring ‘Weevil defeat it!’.  Charging into the room she shouted ‘Ear wig go!’ and with one swift swipe, the bits of half-dead wasp were stilled forever.


I entered a swimming contest at the weekend and won the 100 metre butterfly.

Seriously, what am I going to do with an insect that big?

Day Thirty-Seven: A Ring To It

I know it’s not a matter of wife or death, but the dress is a pretty important part of a wedding.  We went to the shop today, for Sarah to try on hers again.  The women there don’t have the best manners but they were nice and polite today, and ushered her through to try it on.  Isle share with you a confettion, I was worried I was going to have to veil my true opinion, and tell her the dress looked bouquet when really it didn’t.  But I had nothing to bride, as it looked beautiful.  She gave me license to criticise her but I had no negative opinions, and we all left feeling rather marry. I wanted to send my Dad a photo of the dress from my sister’s phone, but there was no signal – don’t you find it annoying when you can’t get reception I do.  Sarah is the queen of messiness, and is cere mony when you try and get her to neaten up, but she vowed to us all that she would groom herself on the day, though we’ll have to wed and see if she actually does.


It was an emotional wedding. Even the cake was in tiers.

Day Thirty-Six: Lexis More

So I’m a proud member of the grammar police.  I enjoy a good capital letter and a well placed full stop.  I also think that there isn’t really an excuse for the their/there/they’re mix up.  This does not mean, however, that I need to be corrected when I say ‘can you pass it me’ instead of ‘can you pass it to me’.  This is just a life choice I’ve made, and in the same way that you wouldn’t point out food dribble on a stranger’s face, I’d like it if people stopped drawing attention to this slightly dodgy phrasing.  Also, if you wouldn’t mind not pointing out any typos in this entry, as through sod’s law, a blog on grammar and punctuation will definitely have errors.

Asterisk of sounding arrogant, with regards to writing essays, I feel I’m a bit of a pro noun I’ve done so many.  This doesn’t mean I’m particularly good at them, I just feel like I’ve been consonantly writing them for three years.  There will comma time when I no longer have to sit in UEA library, dashing between book shelves; I will be able to come to a full stop.  I won’t have to gerund asking my classmates for opinions on various critics, save my document loads of times, bracket up by sending it to my email, and sit feeling tense as it slowly uploads.  I’m quite proud that during my time at uni I’ve had no capostrophec grades, I haven’t let stress phrase me too much.  But I think after this term I’ll vowel to myself that I won’t write another one for at least a year beclause otherwise I will go insane.


I actually sent my friend ten different jokes with the hope that at least one of them would make them laugh. No pun in ten did.

Day Thirty-Five: Fork Goodness Sake

We’ve just had our kitchen redone, and though it looks very nice, it has been the cause of a rather large amount of stress.  This evening I, my dad and my sister attempted to move all the stuff back from its temporary home in the living room, to its permanent home in the new cupboards.  Two hours later we’re still going.  If you’ve ever been in my room, you’ll know I like to hoard things.  This is definitely hereditary.  The amount of ‘necessary’ things we have for the kitchen is ridiculous.  Amongst the items were eight tart dishes (I cannot remember anyone ever making anything resembling a tart), five boxes of matches and three lighters (nobody smokes, nobody lights candles), an egg slicer that resembled a medieval torture weapon (unopened in the packet, with a price label saying 10p – considering inflation, this has to be old), and a jar of cardamom pods from the year 2000.  There were also 50+ paper plates,  two boxes of plastic spoons, three boxes of plastic champagne flutes, five boxes of cocktail sticks and a giant wad of napkins, which must have all been left over from all the wild events we’ve never hosted.

I forkot how much stuff my family had until I came home for Easter.  Oven people seem to have a lot less junk than us, and when I walked into the living room and saw all of it, I felt my heart sink.  I cookerd at all the boxes, and whisked I was somewhere else.  I should have bin better at planning my holiday, racked my brains for an excuse to come back a week later, when the problem was scaled down.  But now it is too late.  And I am really frying, panicking is not going to help anyone, and I don’t want to be shelfish, so I may as well help to get it all done as quickly as possible.  There’s no need to kettle worked up about it.  Spoon we’ll be finished and this will all be over, I’ll or probably tell u ten silly stories about it on this blog tomorrow.


Why did the woman leave the kitchen?

She had just prepared her breakfast and was late for her full-time job as a firefighter.

Day Thirty-Four: Sticks And Stones

So earlier I watched Taken, which is one of two ‘classic’ action films I actually enjoy.  As a rule, I don’t watch films where men are wearing suits on the posters, as this generally indicates that the film will involve guns, cars and depressingly perfect looking women, none of which I like.  Fortunately in Taken, Liam Neeson doesn’t wear a tie, so he gets through my means test.  I still spend a lot of the film behind a cushion, and have a tactical loo break during the torture scene.  I’m not a massive fan of violence (unless it involves dinosaurs) and if things get too gory I do enjoy the occasional faint. but I was fine today.  And so, to celebrate, I’m punning about weapons.  I don’t like them, but it’s day thirty-four.  Desperate times etc.

I cannont express how rubbish I would be in a fight.  If I try and throw a punch, I’ll not only miss,ile probably end up somehow hitting myself.  When we were younger, my sister and I weren’t very knife to each other, we didn’t just axe each other politely to stop doing something annoying, like rifleing through a personal diary, we just went at each other.  It wasn’t simply cheap shots, I didn’t just taser all the time, cudgel have seen the level of violence you would have been horrified.  I always tried to dagger around by her hair whenever she took anything that was mine,  and one time she hit me in the face so hard that my nose bled, and I think there’s still bludgeon the carpet.   It surprising we don’t jave lingering psychological trauma.  One day, I’m gunna tank her for making me a stronger person, and for putting me on the straight and arrow.

Vaguely related joke:

Did you hear about the man who got his whole left side cut off?

He’s all right now. 

Day Thirty-Three: Pretty Penful

So it’s really nice to be home, relaxing and eating loads of chocolate and generally have a good time. HAHAHA.  I wish.  This morning, Sarah and I trudged through a foot of snow for half an hour to get to Solihull Library to work on our dissertations.  Seriously, living the dream.  But, on the positive side, unlike UEA this library does have the benefit of being adjacent to a big shopping centre, so I feel like there will be a fair few Topshop reward breaks to get me through the coming weeks.  There isn’t, however a ‘Solihull Library Fitfinder’  so it does take a bit of the fun out of staring around at the other people studying.  There was a rather attractive elderly gentleman brushing up on his local knowledge that I would definitely have posted on the site, were one to exist.

Next to us there is a girl with blue tacky hair.  I don’t want to rubber up the wrong way, but I can’t stop staring.  I’m not doing it to highlighter flaws, it’s just so bright.  Earlier, Sarah asked if she could biro some paper off her, and while doing so, told her that her hair was really nice.  I didn’t really know what was happening, and feel there’s a fine liner between being nice and being creepy.  Perhaps Sarah needs to sharpener technique of compliment giving, because I think she’s letting her heart ruler head at the moment.  I felt tipically grumpy after about two hours of work (hence why I’m writing this) and although I really need to crayon with my dissertation, rather than undertaking my staple activity of facebook stalking.  There’s a hole punchy conclusion I’ve got to write and I’ve pin working on this for too long. 


Pencils could be made with erasers at both ends, but what would be the point?

Day Thirty-Two: Up In The Heir

So I’m home and back with the fam, which is always entertaining.  We just popped round to my Nana’s, who was playing ‘The Angry Birds’ on her ‘Iped’ while I attempted to make my flip phone (circa 1999) send a text.  She’s also tried Temple Run, but she felt claustrophobic, and it made her motion sick.  Fear of a power cut has also led her to set up a small shrine of candles, should the falling snow lead to an apocalyptic scenario.  Nana, I hope that these are not my last words to you, and hopefully the snow will stop soon and we will be together again.

So, on the theme of family, I’m trying to get Sarah to help me write this blog.  I daughter fresh mind might be helpful becousin the last few weeks I’ve used all my best jokes.  I believed husbanding together would create something magical.  She can’t resister amother chance to get her voice out on the web, but it turns out the ability to pun dadn’t run in the family.  What she thinks of as puns, just aunt.  She’s mumbling some incoherent and unclear non-words, ancestor integrate ‘mumbledore’ which clearly isn’t a pun.  I’m really glad I get sonday off this blog, because clearly I’m not going to get any help here.  Sorry, that’s not very niece, she’s doing her best, and she came up with nephew of the ones I’ve already written, which were relatively good.  I feel like she’s getting father away from what I’m looking for with her suggestions though.  It’s descendenting into madness, so we’ll end here.


After 50 years of wondering why he didn’t look like his younger sister or brother, a man finally got up the nerve to ask his mother if he was adopted.

“Yes, you were son,” his mother said as she started to cry softly. “but it didn’t work out and they brought you back.”

Day Thirty-One: Rather Tri – ing

At the beginning of the year, in what can only be described as a desperate bid to make friends,  Rosie, Alice and I decided to join the Badminton club. We thought it seemed like one of the easier sports, as a shuttlecock moves a lot slower than a ball.  We were still tragically terrible.  I spent the entire first session attempting to learn how to actually make contact with the racket and shuttlecock.  Since then, I wouldn’t say we have improved vastly, but we have stoically attended every social.  Last night was the Tri-Racket Ball:

Yesterday, I went to my first and last university ball.  We sat in tables of eight, which is just right as six is too few and tennis too many.  Nadal the tables were filled, but it was still a good turnout.  The food was really nice, with Rosie I federer chicken as she was struggling to eat it all.  The drinks were a bit expensive though, and this year I’ve had my fair sharapova-ty so I didn’t buy any.  Aftewards, we went to Tau; we had to murray from the venue to get there before the guest list closed.  In the end we wished we hadn’t gone as the music was making such a loud racket, and everyone was getting continually squashed against everyone else.  To start with, they shuttle the rooms apart from the upstairs bar so it took ages to get served.  Everyone was piled on top of each other, and it was too easy to get court up in the crowd going the wrong way.  I kept losing everyone which was really net fun, and somebody I vaguely knew told me I looked ‘better tonight’ which was a bit of a backhanded compliment.  In the end, we didn’t love it, but still managed a good dance.

I can’t remember if I’ve used this joke yet, but it’s so good that I’m okay with it appearing twice:

My dog Minton ate my favourite shuttlecock .

Bad Minton.