Tag: cat

7 Reasons to Wear a CAT Cap When Borrowing a Flat Flap (For Fat Cats)

The CAT cap, that iconic piece of American headgear is, despite what you may have read yesterday, the ideal piece of millinery to wear when borrowing a large cat flap. Here’s why.

1. You’re Lost. On the way to see your flat flap (for fat cats) lender you get lost and you don’t have a map. Normally, you couldn’t ask for directions at all but, with your CAT cap as a disguise, you can. By pretending to be an American. It’s a well known fact that 94% of lost American tourists that you encounter in the UK are actually fat, badly dressed British people putting on a funny accent. You can be one too!

2. Whippets. You might not own a fat cat at all, you might own a whippet; those mid-sized runts from greyhound litters. But what if you want to borrow a cat flap for a whippet and don’t want it to be known that your greyhound is inadequate? You can’t wear a flat cap, they’ll assume you’re a whippet owner. You can, however, wear a CAT cap and pretend that you’re borrowing one for a cat. And that your caps lock is stuck.

3. Escape. You’re on the run. They’re after you. It’s your own fault really, you fell into bad company and were led astray. When one of your friends suggested that you should brilliantine your hair and don clothes from the 1920s to go out for a night on the town, you acquiesce. Unfortunately, your gang’s – having consumed several too many Tom Collins and Manhattans – behaviour has become indecorous and has descended into committing acts of japery and tomfoolery. Soon, you and your friends are filming each other with your portable telephones as you grab total strangers on the night bus and forcibly dance the Charleston with them. After one happy flapping incident too many, you find you have become separated from your chums and are being chased by an angry, powerful looking man called Matt whose only desire for the evening was to enjoy a quiet meal out with friends, and transport his large cat flap (for his fat cat, Pat) home. And boy is he fast. As you tear round the corner of Crash Street you find that he is tiring though, and you begin to pull away from him until, eventually, he is out of sight altogether. Then, with creeping horror, you realise that something is blocking your path. That’s right, it’s the Crash Street wall: You’ve run into a dead end. Desperately scanning the surrounding area for some means of escape, you spot a yellow CAT cap protruding from a bin bag. You dust it off and put it on just as Matt bounds into view. “He went in there” you shout while pointing at a padlocked door to your right, “here let me hold that for you”. He hands you the large cat flap and furiously heads toward the door. While his back is turned, you rapidly attach the cat flap to the wall and make your escape through it. If it weren’t for the CAT cap, this might not have ended so well.

4. Baldness. Have you ever lent a cat flap to a bald person? No. No one ever does. They need to cover their heads to get cat flaps. A CAT cap will achieve this.

5. Fame. You’re Guy Ritchie. You need to go out and borrow a prop. It’s a flat cat flap for a fat cat (the film’s in plain old 2D, so you only need a flat one). But you’re being papped, so you can’t wear a flat cap (as you’re a recognisable chap who they’ll try to snap) so you slap on a CAT cap to borrow your flat flap (for a fat cat), which you’re able to borrow without incident.

6. When Abroad. You’re in America. In the American mid-west, in movies from the eighties, where most people wear plaid shirts and mesh CAT caps. And you’re on holiday. Being the sort of person who likes to be prepared (and has a suitcase full of baked beans, ginger biscuits, tea and beige trousers), you have remembered to pack your fat cat and your door, but have unaccountably forgotten your cat flap. Your cat won’t be able to get through the door so you’ll need to borrow one. And how better to approach the locals and showing them you’re not a stranger than by donning a CAT cap, and driving over to their place in a pick-up truck. With Michael J. Fox or Kevin Bacon in the passenger seat. It’ll put them at their ease and they’ll be happy to let you take their cat flap. And these broken wings.

7. Donning. Perhaps you’re already the wearer of a CAT cap. And already own a fat cat, for whom you have a cat flap. But what if your fat cat has had some sort of cat flap mishap that caused it to snap (the cat flap, not the fat cat) while you were having a nap? Well in that case, you’d need to don your CAT cap and pop out to borrow a flat fat cat cat flap to replace the one that snapped. Self-evident, really.

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March 17, 2011
7 Reasons to Borrow a Flat Cap
Yesterday, my colleague Jonathan Lee wrote 7 Reasons to Borrow a Cat Flap. As sometimes happens at 7 Reasons, I found myself in disagreement with some of his reasoning and decided to write an answer post. I sat down. Before I had accomplished anything, my wife asked me what I was writing. An answer post to “7 Reasons to Borrow a Flat Cap…Flat Cap…Flat Cap………Flat Cap! Fuck it. I’m writing 7 Reasons to Borrow a Flat Cap.” So there it is. Today’s post is brought to you courtesy of my inability to say the phrase cat flap.

This is not a flat cap.

1. DNA. If you borrow a flat cap you might find that there are fragments of DNA in it that you can use to clone the lender. And what better birthday surprise is there for a flat cap owner than to be presented with the gift of themself? Then they’ll be able to see how daft they look in a flat cap. And pretend to be in the dining room when they’re not.

2. Yorkshire. Yorkshiremen are notable for two things. Their wearing of flat caps and their fiscal prudence/utter meanness. While a purchased flat cap satisfies one of these criteria; a borrowed flat cap fulfils both. Nothing screams Yorkshire like a borrowed flat cap (except for a drunken ruddy-faced cricket spectator screaming “Yorkshire” at a whippet). Real Yorkshiremen borrow hats. I’m certain of it.

3. Versatility. Flat caps aren’t just headgear. They can be used for other purposes too. Imagine you find yourself at the beach without a Frisbee. You can borrow a flat cap and use it as one. Always remember to remove the owner first and include them in the game though. Otherwise you’re just bullying them.

4. Disguise. You’re on the run. They’re after you. They’re after you! You’re like Richard Hannay in The Thirty-Nine Steps (except that in this example I have thoughtfully provided an escalator). As you flee through the fog, the whistle-blowing rozzers are hot on your heels. You round a corner and almost collide with an old man in a flat cap. Thinking quickly, you tear the hat from his head and place it on your own. You spin round, stoop, and shuffle in the direction from which you have come, while the police tear past you round the corner and continue running into the fog. You breathe deeply, fleetingly experiencing the sweet serenity of relief. Then the old man – a retired escalator salesman – sets about you with his walking stick, hitting you thirty-nine times, as you repeatedly yell “Stop!”

5. Finance. A borrowed flat cap has an approximate annual maintenance cost per annum of £0.00. This represents great value. If worn all the time this could – in my case – mean an annual saving of £120 on haircuts. So borrowing a flat cap makes great fiscal sense. You could use the money you’ve saved by not getting your hair cut (highlighted/dyed (you might be a girl or a pillock)) to buy some sort of larger over-hat to hide your flat cap. Perhaps a pirate hat. Then you’ll have saved yourself money and you’ll look like a pirate. I really should have been a financial adviser.

6. Comedy. Why, you might reasonably ask, would someone wear a hat which makes their head look like they’ve had an unfortunate accident involving both gravity and an anvil? The answer is comedy. Borrow a flat cap and you can:
- Convince a small child that your head is flat.
- Wear it backwards and pretend to be a git.
- Impersonate Norman Wisdom (this is only funny in Albania)
- No, that’s about it.
- For comedy you’re actually better off borrowing a custard pie.
- Or a plank.
7. Benevolence. By borrowing a flat cap, you provide a valuable service to the flat cap owner. I, for example, am the owner of two flat caps. If someone borrowed one of them I’d feel less like Guy Ritchie. I’d like that.

Coming tomorrow: 7 Reasons to Borrow a Flat Cat*

*or 7 Reasons to Borrow a Cap Flap
March 15, 2011
7 Reasons To Borrow A Cat Flap

Last night, upon viewing a Felix advert, my girlfriend – not for the first time – announced she wanted a cat. Upon enquiring as to why she didn’t get one, I was told that we don’t have a cat flap. (To be honest, I had noticed this before). Sensing my girlfriend’s disappointed I then suggested that perhaps we could borrow our next door neighbour’s cat flap. I didn’t share the seven reasons as to why this is a great idea then, because I wanted to share them with everyone who has a cat flap problem now. (And, I didn’t have seven reasons on me at the time). Here they are:

One flap, half a cat

1. Collection Service. It won’t make any difference to the cat whose flap they enter. The reason a cat enters the home is because they have had enough of being outside. At least that’s my logical conclusion. As a result, all you need is an arrangement with your neighbours. Whenever the cat enters their flap they get on the phone, you whip round, pick it up and bring it home. Then, the next day, you just take the cat round to your neighbours and let it make its own mind up on when it wants to leave the house via the flap.

2. Annoying. As with humans, I imagine a proportion of cats are very indecisive. They’re not sure whether they want to be in or out which means a lot of cat flap exit and entry. Thankfully, it’s your neighbours who will have to put up with the constant opening and shutting of the flap. You, quite frankly, couldn’t care less.

3. Maintenance. Due to the fact that you have an indecisive cat, the wear and tear on your neighbours cat flap is going to be acelerated. Not your problem though is it? They are the ones who will have to invest in WD40.

4. Hole In The Wall. The idea of knocking a hole in the wall to let a cat in or out scares me. What happens if a fox tries to get in? Or a rat? Or an alligator? That’s not the kind of thing I want to meet in the kitchen at 6.30am. Especially as I don’t have my eyes in at that time and as such can’t see a bloody thing. I’ll probably think my girlfriend has brought some crocodile skin boots. Which means we’ll end up having an argument. Firstly, about her choice of footwear attire and, secondly, about why I’ve bought an alligator to bed. I’ll win though. I’ll just tell her we should have borrowed next door’s cat flap. As I had recommended.

5. Community. The chances are that if your neighbours have a cat flap they also have a cat. As with your typical cat-based film, the two cats will argue and fight at first before slowly beginning to accept each other and like each other. They will then set out to patrol the neighbourhood together, fighting the invasion of mice and pigeons. And then presenting them on your neighbour’s carpet.

6. Worry. Now, despite never having had a cat myself, I know that owners start worrying when their feline friends don’t come home for a couple of months. If you are relying on your neighbours to tell you when your cat has returned from a day of adventure, you don’t have to worry so much. So they haven’t been in touch for a few days. That’s easily explained. They might not be in, they might be asleep or they might have moved. The cat it probably fine in Salisbury. Relax!

7. Feeding. With any luck your cat will eat the food that was supposed to be for your neighbours cat. Saving both your money and your nostrils.*

*Having recently fed a cat, I came to the conclusion that to own a cat you must have a permanently blocked nose.

March 14, 2011
Guest Post: 7 Reasons I am Better Than You

Hi there, it’s Saturday, so here’s a guest post. Curling up on the 7 Reasons sofa today is Horatio Pyewackett Caractacus Fearns who – when he wakes up – wants to explain why he’s better than you. And us, probably.

1. Fur. Ever tried to wear fur? No, of course you haven’t you timorous numpty, you timid wretch, you cowardy, cowardy custard. Because you’re fearful. You’re afraid of PETA. You think that if you don a fur coat you’ll be attacked by a mob of militant lefties who object to your sartorial decisions. But I’m not scared, PETA aren’t going to object to me wearing fur, because I’m better than you; wearing fur is my birthright, and I wear it as if to the manor born, without fear of reproachment. Because I’m awesome! Because I’m a cat!

2. Benevolence. I’m kind to my minions. Very kind. And I’m uber-agile, in fact, I can bend over backwards and lick my own bottom. But you can’t. You have to scrape bits from trees and roll them up into a ball in order to clean your own fetid arses. This is because you’re pathetic and incapable of washing yourself properly. But I’m not, I’m wondrous and supple and can cleanse my own ring with my tongue. Which, let’s face it, saves you a job, so I’m benevolent too.

3. Competition. So who’s the most awesome human that there is? That’s right, Superman. He can leap twenty times his own height; he can hear things that are going on miles away and he can’t be snuck up on while he’s sleeping. Well, me too. Superman, however, can be defeated by kryptonite. But I can’t, I can do all of those things with no fear of kryptonite or of looking like a dweeb at the fortress of solitude. Because I’m magnificent, and because I’m still rocking my fur coat while Superman’s attired in a thin, shiny number with his pants outside outside his lycra leggings. He looks like the world’s worst-dressed cyclist ever, and I just look amazing. Look at ME!

4. Night. You blundering dunderheads can’t even see in the dark. Want to know how many times I’ve fallen over a human when the lights are off? None. When oversized, underbalanced simpletons like you wander around without burning electricity, however, you’re endlessly falling over me (especially the tall one with the ginger beard). Because I’m abso-fucking-beauteously wonderful, and because I like to hang around in the hallway. To mock you. Because I can.

5. Temperature. You mewling, simpering feckless nonentities can’t even regulate your own body temperatures, but I can; I’m the master of my own temperature. The nearest you feeble people come to accomplishing that is the human inhabitants of the North-East of England: Geordies. But they lack my sonorous voice and natural grace. Also, despite their bravura, many of them die of hypothermia on their way home in the winter. But I haven’t. Ever. It would be a waste of one of my nine lives (eight better than you) if I were to do so, and I’m not prepared to do it.

6. Size Is Important. Just look at the size of yourself, you lumbering bioped. Look at the amount of space that your unwieldy, bloated, overstuffed body takes up. Where human designers prattle on about space efficiency as some sort of ideal, I live it. I am space efficiency. Because I take up less space than you. I can curl up into a tiny-weeny ball. Can you? No. Not at all. But I can. I’m fantastic.

7. Nature. I’m just naturally better than you. I am. When you poo, does anyone scurry around to scoop it up? No, of course not. You have to dispose of it yourself. But when I shit, one of my underlings comes and disposes of it for me. Every time. Because I’m a cat, and they’re not. In fact, everything revolves around me, abso-fucking-lutely-everything. Dinner is served at the regular hour at which I require it. Tradesmen come to repair the home in which I dwell and the humans who live here to serve me pay for it themselves. And, when they’re not feeding me or opening doors for me, they even let me use them as chairs. Would they do that for you? No, of course not. But they do it for me, because I’m better than you.

November 27, 2010
7 Reasons I Ended Up Appearing Quite Mad Yesterday (Even Though I’m Not)

Sometimes, when you’re sitting around, minding your own business, an event occurs. An event to which you are compelled to react. And, while your reaction is brilliantly conceived and perfectly rational, a chain of events ensues that eventually makes you appear irredeemably, unutterably, stupendously mad. Like yesterday.

This is not my neighbour's cat, nor is it my cat, nor is it my wall. This cat on a wall is from the internet.

While I was writing, a cat appeared on the six foot high wall at the bottom of my garden. One of next door’s cats. Now, I don’t want any of next door’s cats in my garden, because it’s where my cat lives. I want him to be able spend his time in the garden sleeping, licking, and staring at the gate unmolested by other cats. So I had to let the other cat know that he wasn’t welcome in our garden. Now I know how to scare a cat; it’s easy. But going outside and hissing and shouting at this cat wasn’t going to convey the right message. I needed to let the interloper know he was in another cat’s territory, and that he should stay away.

1. Plan A. I went and fetched my dozing cat from the sofa. My cat didn’t want to know. I showed him the intruder through the dining room window. He saw the other cat and ignored him. This was disappointing. This isn’t going to scare anyone I thought, as my cat fell asleep on the windowsill. This wouldn’t even scare mice. Nervous mice.

2. Plan B. Right, I thought. If the sight of my cat asleep on the windowsill isn’t enough to strike the fear of god into the intruder, I’ll have to escalate things. I’ll have to send my cat out to deal with him. I woke him up, reminded him of the presence of the other cat and carried him into the utility room. I placed him on the floor, next to his cat-flap; I delivered a rousing speech to him and then opened it so that he could sally forth to dispatch his foe. He didn’t move. He sat and purred at me. I tried to usher him through his flap, but he clearly wasn’t going to go. My cat, I thought, is a disappointment.

3. Plan C. I know, I’ll open the back door really loudly. If I can’t scare him away with a cat, then at least opening the door loudly will make the intruder run; and my cat might conceivably think that he’s the one causing him to flee in terror and emerge with feline dignity intact and be that bit braver next time. As loudly as I could, I unlocked the door and, with as much speed and force as I could muster, I heaved the door open. I was rewarded with the sight of a terror-stricken cat, fleeing for its life. Bugger, I thought, as I went to retrieve him from behind the sofa. This isn’t going well.

4. Plan D. I picked him up, returned to the utility room and carried him through the back door. “Look”, I said to the other cat, “I have a cat here and I’m not afraid to use him”. The other cat was not as moved by our presence as I had hoped that he would be. Impassively, he licked his paw and turned his head away.

5. Plan E. Okay, I clearly wasn’t being terrifying enough. I raised our cat above my head so that he was higher up than the cat on our wall. This will do it, I thought, there are only two things that can possibly go through the other cat’s mind. One: “Blimey! What the hell is that hideous giant cat/man hybrid creature over there, I’d better run for it”. Or two: “ Blimey! Look what that man’s doing to that feckless fat-cat from next door. I’m probably next. I’d better run for it.” But if these things went through his mind, he didn’t show it; unless this cat instinctively displays abject terror by blinking slowly, that is. I was going to have to get nearer.

6. Plan F. With my arms fully outstretched, cat held aloft, above my head; I charged toward the other cat. It didn’t move. I was closing quickly and when I got to within eight feet it still hadn’t moved.

7. Plan G. Realising that my charge wasn’t unnerving enough, I decided that I needed a war cry, and I began to roar (at a volume which surprised even me) as I charged through the garden. But the other cat still hadn’t moved, and I was almost upon it. I realised it needed a little more time to realise the desperate situation it was in, so I pulled away at the last moment to run a lap of my garden, still roaring and, as my cat and I rounded the top of the garden and turned to face the enemy once more I saw him react, startled, jump down from the wall and run. My jubilation was short lived. I also saw…

…My neighbour emerge from her back door, the sound of which had presumably – unbeknownst to her, as she couldn’t possibly have seen it – scared the other cat away. I slowed to a halt and stopped roaring. “Hi”, I said, breezily, realising I still had the cat above my head, and that I probably looked quite foolish.

“Er…Hi”, she replied.

I felt self-conscious, and it occurred to me that some sort of explanation of my behaviour was required. “I was just scaring the cat”.

“I’m not surprised”, she replied.

November 11, 2010
7 Reasons a Komodo Dragon is the Ideal Pet

The Komodo dragon: A carnivorous lizard that can grow up to 9.8 feet in length might, to the uninformed layman, seem like a poor choice of pet. But it isn’t. The Komodo dragon is, in fact, the ideal domestic animal for many people. And here are seven reasons why.

1. They’re Cool. Just look at it! It’s a veritable behemoth of a dinosaur/land-crocodile/lumbering monster. It’s got a forked tongue and a pointy tail! It makes next door’s dog look rubbish in comparison. In fact, it will probably eat next door’s dog. Then you won’t have to put up with the damned thing barking at aeroplanes and at your bicycle all night. You’ll be the envy of your neighbourhood because being the owner of a Komodo dragon is cool, and being the owner of a missing dog is not cool. Even if you do a very good job on the posters.

2. Health. For elderly people, a pet can be most advantageous to their health. A small dog can keep them company and provide them with stimulation in the form of exercise. But, for young, active people, a small dog doesn’t go far enough. You need larger, more demanding pet. The physical and mental challenge of getting past a Komodo dragon in your hallway every morning will leave you feeling alive, alert and invigorated. If you are successful, that is. If you’re not successful then at least you may have lost some weight. And you’ll be better motivated the next time. And how many limbs do you really need anyway?

3. Eggs. Komodo dragons lay eggs. This is beneficial as the conventional method of getting fresh eggs is to keep chickens, which are scary creatures with cruel, unblinking eyes and alarmingly pointed beaks that make clucking noises and peck you when you’re not expecting it. But if you keep a Komodo dragon as a pet, you can have fresh eggs for breakfast without ever having to suffer the presence of a chicken again.

4. Return To A Simpler, Bygone Age. “It was much better in my day”, we’re often told by nostalgic elders, wistfully pining for a return to the society of their youth; “we could go out all day and leave our doors unlocked”. And with a Komodo dragon as your pet, you too will be able to go out all day and leave your doors unlocked. Hell, if your Komodo dragon grows big enough, you won’t even need doors. And if the elderly are to be believed, this will be bloody marvellous. In the fullness of time, you’ll be able to bore your grandkids senseless about how nice it was in your day without keys/locks/doors/bolts/alarms or any other security paraphernalia, just good old Tufty guarding the house and the odd bobby on the beat strolling by. That’s if your grandchildren haven’t been eaten by Tufty, of course. And even if they have been, that’s all the more Werther’s Original and Jamaica ginger cake for you. There is literally no downside to Komodo dragon ownership.

5. Feeding. Now I know what you’re thinking and stop that right now: He will not find you less attractive if you wear the shoes with the smaller heels, and she will not notice that the browsing history’s disappeared from the laptop again. Well, she will now, I should never have mentioned it. Sorry. Anyway, I also know that you’re thinking: A Komodo dragon will eat me out of house and home; surely I’d be better off getting a cat. But you’re wrong. Because cats need feeding twice a day, and Komodo dragons can eat on as few as twelve occasions per year, which is 718 less feeds per annum than a cat requires. Admittedly your Komodo dragon will probably need something more substantial than a bowl of Whiskas; a couple of kilograms of mince, perhaps. Or a goat. But that still seems like less food than a cat would consume. In fact, you may never need to feed it at all as, if you let your Komodo dragon out of the house, it will happily forage for pedestrians all by itself.

6. Reproduction. Now I’m not an expert on the reproductive systems of Komodo dragons but, at 7 Reasons (.org) we are nothing if not well-researched.* And, during the initial minute of my study into fauna native to the island of Komodo, I unearthed this amazing fact: The Komodo dragon does not have a diaphragm. This is great for the Komodo dragon owner, as it means that they’ll be fantastically easy to breed: The female won’t have to disappear to the bathroom for ages beforehand, and the male won’t get bored waiting and begin to think about chips. You can’t argue with science like that. A little knowledge truly does go a long way.

7. Home Movies. Many owners film their pets and then show the movies to their friends. But other people’s pets are really dull (unless they have a Komodo dragon, of course). And friends and family can only stand to watch a film of your hamster chewing some string or your cat staring at a gate so many times before their thoughts begin to turn to murder. But if you had a Komodo dragon, built a small set, and filmed in a B-movie style, your pet-movies would be like Godzilla. And that would be beyond amazing. That would be so awesome that we’d need to invent a new word for it: Preferably one that will survive predictive text and is easy to type with the odd missing digit/hand, and while running down a hallway.

I have finished writing now, so go forth to your pet shops and purchase Komodo dragons.**

*The words nothing and if are entirely superfluous.

**7 Reasons (.org) is not legally responsible for anything. At all.

September 24, 2010
7 Reasons I Can’t Converse With The Cat

No doubt you will have read the title of this piece and automatically assumed it was going to be Marc talking about Horatio Pyewackett Caractacus Fearns. Sadly, it’s not. It’s me. Jon. And I’m talking about next door’s cat. Ginger. Though that might not be his real name. He might not even be a he. But anyway, this story starts on Tuesday morning. I have just finished writing Tuesday’s 7 Reasons post and I am walking into the garden with the day’s laundry. I pass Ginger on the way. Two minutes later I am attacking the washing line. Suddenly there is a ‘meow’ from behind me. It’s Ginger. He wants to talk. I don’t.

1. How To Address A Cat. ‘Hello Cat,’ seems somewhat rude. I don’t start interaction with a person by saying, ‘Hello Person’ or ‘Hello Human’. Unless he actually is called Hugh Mann, in which case I probably would. But given that I don’t know any Hugh Mann’s, I don’t. So basically, what I’m trying to say, is that addressing a cat as ‘Cat’ is rude. And I would also feel a prat.

2. The Neighbours. I don’t know what it’s like where you live, but in Kent, our neighbours live next door. And I note that they are in. Either that or Jeremy Kyle has popped round to open the windows. I can’t help but feel that if I can hear Jeremy, then he can hear me. And the last thing I want is for Jez Kyle to hear me talking with the cat he is supposed to be looking after. No, actually that’s the second last thing I want. The last thing I want is for the neighbours to hear me talking to their cat.

3. Subject Matter. Even if I could bring myself to indulge in a little reparte with the ginger one, I am not at all sure what one should reparte about. Whiskers? The location of Felix? How to trap a dog in a bucket? Some of these things I don’t even know much about. Though I do think giving the bucket holes for legs is the way to go.

4. Other Cats. Two months ago, I unbeknowingly moved into a cat hotspot. Which, I am delighted to say, sounds a lot more disturbing than the RSPCA would initially think. I just mean there are a lot of cats around. And by a lot, I mean at least seventy-three thousand. I imagine that Ginger has been sent out by his other feline mates to track down some unsuspecting humanoid who will gladly entertain them with stories of cat food in Tesco before they go off and have a scratch for the rest of the day. I am not that humanoid.

5. Commitment. Just say I do talk with the cat. Then what? Is he/she going to expect it to be a daily occurrence? Will he/she expect us to go for walks together? Will he/she start leaving me Snickers bars outside and expect me to return the favour with dead mice? When he/she goes a bit grey, will I be expected to re-dye their hair? Am I going to have to read a eulogy at their funeral?

6. Bullying. Whenever I find myself in a situation of awkward silence, I generally find myself making some stupid joke. Sometimes this stupid joke comes at the expense of whoever I am locked in awkward silence with. Sometimes this stupid joke is not seen as a joke. Sometimes this stupid joke is seen as an insult. Sometimes they walk off. Sometimes they slap me. Ginger is, as his/her name suggests, ginger. We are locked in awkward silence. Cats have claws. I can do the maths.

7. Language. This is a hypothetical situation as we have already established a conversation with the cat is not going to happen, but just suppose it was going to. On whose terms would the conversation take place? Would the cat reply to me in English or would I have to speak Catlish? Neither of us really own this garden so it’s not as if either of us could claim home advantage and insist on their own language. Yes, I hang up the garden owner’s laundry, but the cat keeps the garden owner’s soil warm by rolling all over it. We’re equals. And maybe that’s the way it should end? I go in and have a cup of tea. The cat has a scratch. Probably.

September 2, 2010
7 Reasons Marc Fearns Should Be Celebrated

Keeping with the fine tradition of 7 Reasons founders celebrating their birthdays in June, today it is Marc’s turn. Now, I wouldn’t be the great man that I am if I didn’t dedicate this post to my fellow reasoner. So Marc, this is for you. And actually everyone else. Because you need to celebrate the great man. This is why.

1. June 18th. It might be a day in June, but apart from that, there is very little going for it. Sure, Delia Smith was born on this day, but so was Jason McAteer.* It’s about time we made this day special. A celebration of Marc Fearns is the way to go. And, if we celebrate June 18th, the day will probably go quicker.

2. Mystery. There is certainly an air of mystery about Marc Fearns. No one is quite sure how tall he is. No one is quite sure how old he is. No one is quite sure why he named his cat Horatio Pyewackett Caractacus Fearns. No one is quite sure how his brain works. But that’s good. It makes him intriguing. The last thing we want is to celebrate someone who is 5’8, 30 years-old, has a cat called Tibbles and whose brain works like clockwork. That’s been done.

3. Intrepid Experimentalist. You can say what you like about Richard Bacon – and many people do – what you can’t accuse him of though, is having a bad taste in experimentalists. There is little doubt that when it comes to cats, foil and the ability to walk, Marc Fearns is on the tip of Richard Bacon’s tongue. All because of this.

4. Rumour-Mill. What with spending most of your days making your cat walk over tin foil, it leaves a lot of time to muck around. Generally at the expense of others. Including me. The whole thing about me fancying myself? Marc started that. (No, seriously, he did). You may think me recommending you celebrate Marc – because he makes me look narcissistic – is an odd thing to do? Well, it’s not. In fact it’s quite logical. Sometimes, you are told something so much, that eventually you begin to believe it. Marc is the reason I am who I am. He could do the same for you.

5. Emotional Blackmail. How could you not feel sorry celebrate someone who looks like this?

6. Library Builder. Getting the builders in, is one of those things that fills people with dread. If it’s not how much mud they are going to traipse across the carpet, it’s how many tea-bags are they going to get through. Which is where Marc comes in. He can build a library in 90 seconds. And he doesn’t drink tea. If you want him to come and build a library for you, send him an email: [email protected]

7. 7 Reasons. The 7 Reasons concept wouldn’t exist without Marc Fearns. I know there are two of us who supposedly founded it, but I have been pressing for it to become 1 Reason for a long time now. Marc is the one who keeps it ticking over. Who keeps driving it forward. So if you like the concept, then it is he who you should celebrate. If you would prefer to read 1 Reason on a daily basis, celebrate me again. Just like you did last week. You remember, that day you really enjoyed.

*I have just discovered today is also the birthday of Fabio Capello and Sir Paul McCartney. It’s okay though. We can celebrate them all. Especially if England win.

June 18, 2010
7 Reasons You Shouldn’t Use The Washing Machine

1. Odd socks. Wearing odd socks is not really the done thing. It looks strange and makes people avoid you. The problem is that it’s really not your fault. If the washing machine understood that eating a sock is not part of the deal when you use the machine, then you could walk around like a normal person. That sounds like fun, doesn’t it?

2. Communication Destroyer. They are loud and clanky bits of machinery are washing machines, so much so that you may struggle to hear the wife when she asks, ‘Have you seen the cat?’

3. Vision Depletor. It doesn’t take much, just a dodgy washing machine door and too much soap powder. Before you know it, the suds have built up to uncontainable levels, pushed the door open and filled the room with white floaty stuff. As fun as it is to play around in, it won’t be long before you’ve collided with the blender.

4. Back Injury Hazard. The majority of duvets are light. In weight I mean, not colour. Though some are light in weight and colour – which is to be applauded I suppose. But when you’ve stopped applauding, let’s get back to my point. Duvets are light. They can be tossed into the machine and one does not need to adhere to correct tossing procedures. However, upon washing machine cycle completion, something has happened. The once light duvet, is now heavy. Not only is it wet, it has also eaten everything else in the machine. To remove said duvet, one should adhere to heavy object lifting protocol. But does one? No one does not. Silliness.

5. DIY Fail. I am convinced the traditional washing machine is made out of parts of a space-shuttle. How else can you explain it’s complete disregard for gravity? When I switch my washing machine on, I expect it to stay next to the sink, not head off down the kitchen towards the oven. Nor do I expect it to chip away at the tiling on the way.

6. Administration Fail. I have a filing system for receipts. It’s called the back pocket of my jeans. Usually I find these much easier to read when they are dry. Not when they have been reduced to little bits of paper and apparently superglued to every other item of clothing I have just pulled from the machine.

7. Not Every Day Is Valentine’s Day. Presenting your girlfriend/wife with pink lingerie may be seen as a romantic gesture one day a year, but it gets a bit repetitive if it happens everytime you use the washing machine. The secret is to make sure there is no red sock in with the whites. Apparently.

May 11, 2010
7 Reasons to get your Children a Cat.

1. Cleanliness. Cats are self-cleaning. They fastidiously preen themselves with their Velcro-textured tongues and consequently, unlike dogs, never require bathing. In fact, cats are much cleaner than children and therefore set a good example to them. They also bury their own excrement so you don’t have to worry about that either. If you’re really lucky, they’ll bury it in a neighbour’s garden. This is probably something you shouldn’t teach your children to do.

2. Ninja. Children are loud and noisy; cats are silent and alert. You can use the cat to demonstrate silence and awareness to your children. There is no better stealth training than attempting to sneak up on a cat. Your children will learn to tread carefully and to watch out for the cat’s ever-alert swivelling ears. Who knows, they may eventually become domestic-ninjas. Like me.

3. Exotic. You want a sensible, low-maintenance, low-risk animal, but your children don’t. Children never want sensible pets. They always want something terrifying and dangerous like a tarantula, a piranha or a crocodile. A cat is an ideal compromise. Cats come with a free snake. It’s at the back.

4. Porn-Star-Name. The name of your first pet is the first part of your porn-star-name so your choice of a first pet for your children is important. Tortoises are called things like George and Simon; dogs are called things like Pip and Rover; cats, on the other hand, have cool names like Horatio or Socks. If you need to know how important the right pet is in determining your childrens’ future porn-star-name you should ask my wife, Fred Townsend. Or you could ask my friend whose first pet was a cat, Lucifer Jordan.

5. Independence. Cats come and go as they please through a little hole in the door. They go out to stare at the garden gate and sit under cars for reasons that we don’t understand. The important thing though, is that they do it unaided. Unlike dogs, there’s no endless walking and throwing sticks to distract your children from their homework. Besides, they’ll eventually tire of walking a dog and you’ll end up doing it yourself.

6. Biscuits. Cats don’t have biscuits and chocolate drops, unlike dogs. This means that your children will have less opportunity to play pet food related practical jokes on you or unsuspecting house-guests. They will still substitute salt for sugar and gravy granules for instant coffee, but being served dog biscuits with your cup of tea is one less thing you’ll have to worry about if you get a cat. This is what eating a dog biscuit did to Jennifer Aniston’s face. Poor, poor Jennifer.

7. Respect. Cats are cute and cuddly, soft and furry, content and purry – until angered. When you anger a cat it turns from a docile, supine teddy bear of an animal into a hissing, spitting, furious mass of teeth and claws. Nothing teaches children to respect others like being bitten on the hand or losing an eye. If they survive cat-ownership, they will be equipped for life.

January 11, 2010