- by Owen Morton
All right. I was sitting here at the computer, wondering what I should write about for this evening’s website article, and I was thinking about successful articles in the past. I don’t actually know how I can define a successful article - it’s certainly not in terms of how much money they make, since I make nothing off this website (I’m doing it for free, for you, so be grateful), so it’s probably more in terms of how little time it wastes. Therefore, I suppose by those standards, a successful article would be the one that takes the least time to write.
Anyway, I’m not entirely sure how relevant this little discussion is, considering the fact that one of the few things I don’t have statistics about is how long it took me to write various articles, so I can’t really tell how successful any articles are, by those standards, anyway. What I’m trying to say is that for some reason - when thinking about past successful articles - I thought of that article I wrote nearly three years ago about Sylvanian Families. I vaguely recalled that I started that article by stating that I didn’t have any particular axe to grind about the subject.
And this - as some of you will probably have guessed by the rather vibrantly coloured title up there - has led me to write an article about grinding axes. I was thinking how strange an expression it is. I’d wager that more than fifty percent of the people who use the expression ‘grinding an axe’ don’t actually have any idea what it means. I certainly don’t. I suppose if I thought about it, I’d theorise that it’s got something to do with making an axe sharp by grinding it, though why that should be related in any way to harping on at someone about something, I really don’t know.
Unfortunately, I’ve now got little else to write about grinding axes, which would probably - if I were to stop here - make this one of the shortest (and consequently, most successful) articles ever to grace this website. Sadly for you poor fools who are stuck reading this, I’m not going to do that. I’m going to tell you a little story about an axe which is not in any way true, but I’m pretending it is, because it makes me seem dead hard.
Last week, I was walking down the street in Nottingham, the fair city in which I am currently residing, when I suddenly noticed a shop which I’d never seen before. It was on St James Street, next to that well nice fish and chips shop (note to Trev: is this advertising good enough to earn my promised £5m?), and it’s called The Great Big Axe Shop. (Note from Trev: no, it is not. Try harder.)
So I went into The Great Big Axe Shop, conveniently located next to that delightful establishment, the well nice fish and chips shop (note to Trev: how’s that?), thinking how useful it was that The Great Big Axe Shop was next to the well nice fish and chips shop, so I could look at axes till my heart was content, then go and have some well nice fish and chips without having to go any distance at all! (Note from Trev: getting better! Keep this up and you’ll have that £4m in no time!)
I have to confess to the fact that I had some curiosity as to whether The Great Big Axe Shop was a place that sold great big axes, or was a great big shop selling normal sized axes. (Note to Trev: I thought we said £5m.) It is one of those rather curious statements that can be interpreted in more than one way, you see. I suppose another meaning could be that it’s a really, really good axe shop, though in all fairness that possibility didn’t actually occur to me at the time. (Note from Trev: no, we definitely said £3m.)
So in I went to The Great Big Axe Shop and I found a really big axe, suggesting to me that the preferred interpretation of the shop’s name was in fact that it was a shop that sold really big axes. (Note to Trev: I am convinced we said £5m. Check your records again, please.) The axe was so big it was actually too heavy for me to pick up, though NOT because I’m a weakling or anything - I’m definitely not that, it’s just that the axe was really, really big and heavy. (Note from Trev: I’ve checked, and discovered that we actually said £2m.)
Well, I’ve always been fairly partial to axes. Call me strange if you like, but I just suddenly realised right there and then that I simply HAD to have this axe. It was as simple as that. (Note to Trev: you are a filthy rotten stinking lying cheating ratbag, and I would like to abandon this advertising contract, please.) I bent down and tried with all my might to lift the axe, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t! I simply couldn’t lift it, and I didn’t understand why not. (Note from Trev: no, please, I need that advertising. Tell you what, I’ll double the money I promised you. I’ll pay you £1m for it. Okay?)
Then, a sales assistant wandered by, and informed me that the axe I was trying to lift was made of stone, and had only been intended for display purposes. (Note to Trev: no, that is not okay. Get stuffed.) He showed me to where the real axes were. It took about sixteen hours to get there, and I realised that the second interpretation of the shop’s name - that it was a very big shop selling axes - was true after all. (Note from Trev: fine. Leave. Just like all the others did. You’ll regret it. Just like the others did…)
Finally, however, the sales assistant brought me to a display cabinet, with a magnificent golden, jewel-encrusted axe inside it. He told me that it was the axe that King Wayne the Profane had used to cut out his brain, and quoted me a mere £42m for it. (Note to Trev: I don’t respond well to threats. Get out of my life and stay out. I don’t like you.) Well, naturally, I was transfixed. Such a beautiful specimen of axery, and at such a low price! I had to have the axe, but I didn’t have the cash on me. (Note from Trev: well, I don’t like you either. You’re a horrible person and I fully intend to kill you.)
I explained the situation to the sales assistant, and he was very nice and understanding, and he told me I could have the axe now, so long as I absolutely promised to come back later and pay for it. (Note to Trev: get lost, you silly little man. I’ve seen albatrosses that look more dangerous than you.) Well, of course, I promised, and the sales assistant gave me the axe. I was very pleased with it, and I went straight round to the well nice fish and chips shop next door, and I used the axe to kill the owner, because he was wilfully and persistently annoying. (Note from Trev: aaaaaarrrrrrrgggggggghhhhhhh!!!!!!!)
And that is the end of my story. After that, I put the axe on the ground. Thus I had ground my axe.