8416/21335 = 0.3944691820951488
The kids broke up from school at midday (hardly seems worth going in) and my daughter is now just two terms away from secondary school (insane).
I did my last job for the Can I Have My Ball Back? DVD kickstarter, which was to sign and number 67 DVD sleeves for the people who were kind enough to donate a big enough wedge. The DVD is already a collector's item as we have printed a very limited run. There will be a few extra available for sale, but not many (though you will be able to buy the download). The packages of signed hands, testicle autobiographies, video messages and whatever other shit we offered you should be with you by Christmas (if you're out of the UK it should be with you before next Christmas).
As always I really appreciate the backing of the crowdfunder and I continue to attempt to become successful enough that your pretty exclusive items one day become worth more than you paid for them. Maybe not the signed hands though. But who knows?
Hopefully it will all provide enough entertainment value to have been worth it. It's a lot of extra work for us (mainly to be fair, for Chris Evans (not that one)), but it's great that we can have a product exist in just the right numbers for demand. Also with a few hundred actual DVDs going out to people there is a genuine chance that Can I Have My Ball Back? is the biggest selling Christmas DVD of 2025,
Prove me wrong HMV.
I went into town to post the sleeves back to Chris Evans (not that one) and had lunch in Gails which is full of babies that are obsessed with me. They all stare at me, even if I don't give them some professional grade face pulling. I have to do the face pulls because they are looking at me waiting for it. But they never seem to laugh. Just stare at me like Midwich Cuckoos. Fascinated and confused but not entertained. Maybe they just haven't seen a dirty, hairy man in their whole lunch at Gails lives.
Babies either can't take their eyes off me or are scared and upset by me. No middle ground. And rarely venturing into laughter or joy. Perhaps they see me and recognise that I was once a baby like them and are made to wonder about what life choices led someone to look like this. And yet still be able to afford to lunch alone at Gails up to four times a year. When they realise that all the big humans were once babies too, they will lose their shit. But like dogs recognise dogs, no matter the breed and comedians recognise comedians (and often behave more badly than dogs), babies know a fucking baby when they see one. Even if the baby is hairy and dirty and smells of their own piss and faeces (actually that might be how they recognise babies in general).
