The digital photography thing was meant to make life easier. Saying goodbye to easily damaged, temperature sensitive slide film that was readily lost in the post was supposed to be a good thing. It gave us control. No more relying on a lab to process it correctly and a repro house to scan things right. Photographers could now be master of their own destiny, you shoot it and supply your pics to the mags ready to roll… Unless, of course, the external hard drive you are storing the photos on decides to eat its self and your shots and chews them into the digital equivalent of a high-rise suicide pavement pizza. Not good. Double back up everything kids, unless you really want to know what despair is.
That’s right. You read it here. The big H. The insanely hard to spell- let alone admit to- haemorrhoids. There’s some truth in those old wives tales. The one about ‘sitting on a cold wall for any length of time bringing on an attack of the dangleberries’ is deadly accurate. It’s an unpleasant sensation, knowing something altogether untoward is going on with your chocolate starfish. Not wanting to be too graphic but it’s as if your aforementioned chocolate starfish has just coughed up its little lungs...
On the mend now (as in- things are heading north to the warm confines of my interior) thanks to the folk remedy of pressing a hot (but not boiling, holy shite that hurt) tea bag against the offending protrusion. Weird folk remedies are the go for this kind of deal as you can never bring yourself to go into Boots and take a tube of Anusol or Preparation H to the hot piece of ass behind the till. You’d have to walk round with a bag over your head for months to come. That would be as bad as writing about it in graphic detail on the globally available interweb… Oh poop.
X-Factor...Jedward. Need I say anymore?
