Apparently all my investments in ergonomically sexy chairs and exotic dark matter standy mats were bullshit.

Well, this sucks. I just bought an ergonomic keyboard and before it even arrives the whole field of ergonomics is revealed to be a skeevy wangboozle as crooked as mouthful of Dickensian urchin teeth.

I don’t much care that companies and governments might be wasting hundreds of millions of dollars a year on dodgy “ergonomic chairs, keyboards and consultants”, as reported by Fairfax Media yesterday.

But I care heaps that I might have just wasted $39 on a discount Microsoft ergonomic keyboard from the Beast of Bezos and it may not immediately cure my crippling minor discomfort from typing too much.

Who'd a thunk it? Me, at Blunty.

From Blunty today:

I have had a horrible realisation. I don’t need a new iPhone. But it’s worse than that. I don’t need a new phone of any sort. If I was rocking a Samsung, or Pixel or any smart phone released in the last four or five years, as long as I could replace the battery … I wouldn’t need to upgrade.

This is an awful, shameful thing to know about yourself, but I had been creeping up on awareness for a while now.

The eye-watering price tag for the latest fondle slabs from the blessed fruit company did surely hurry me along to revelation, but it was an instance of calculated generosity that pushed me over.

I replaced the battery on my old iPhone 6S Plus a week ago. With nearly 750 charging cycles on the clock it was, as the iMinion from the Genius Bar told me, “about to be consumed”. They sounded both horrified and impressed by that. Apparently not many batteries survive in the wild long enough to be “consumed”.

On the upside though, it frees up some money to buy a new iPad Pro. My curent iPad is nearly seven years old. I figure to retire it to the kitchen.

From today's Blunty:

"I’m pretty sure the only reason I don’t have a perfect five star Uber rating is because sometimes people get me and Nick Earls mixed up and Nick is notorious for getting underpants-literally-on-his-head drunk and that Uber guy who gave me less than five stars must have had Nick in the back seat, drunk as a lord, undies on his bonce, and sweaty buttcheeks smearing up the leatherette interior."

You might probably not be surprised to learn that our lawyers insisted I get Nick's okeldokely for this.

Sharp-eyed punters will see a subtle difference between my original opening par for today's Blunty (below) and the published version after the link.

The draughty feeling between your legs? That’s a lack of pants down there, my friend. And the soft kiss of a gentle breeze wafting over your pink bits is a natural consequence of the sweet nothings being whispered into your arse by the executives at Seven and Foxtel, and their enablers in the Federal government who just let Cricket Australia drop the nation’s summer sport behind a pay wall.

Seven and Foxtel’s joint billion dollar deal for the broadcast rights to Test and limited overs cricket, is about as clear a breach of the anti-siphoning legislation as you could hope for… if you had a lazy billion dollars lying around and you wanted to spend the next six years gouging millions of punters for all they were worth.

Brisbane has been struggling through a crime wave. Even better it's a foreign crime wave. Even betterer again, the foreigners are Irish and they've mostly been scamming food and drink, and stuffing too many potatoes in the toilet.

I decided this was definitely a topic for The Instrument. Unfortunately the sensivity protocols at Fairfax didnt allow me to go competely to town. I had to change the phrase a 'slobber of skankapotamusses' to a 'slobber of mots', which is more cullturally appropropriate, and actually scans a lot smoother.

For too long now, or since January anyway, bar and cafe owners have lived in constant fear of brassy Irish scrubbers rolling into their establishments at all hours of the afternoon and demanding free drinks and sandwiches to make up for all the drinks and sandwiches they ate yesterday that were full of broken glass to hear them tell of it.

This same slobber of mots have routinely stuffed dozens of tubes of Pringles into the oversized nappy bags on their robbery prams while honest Brisbane shopkeepers have been distracted by the shenanigans of their tiny feckin snot-nosed barrow-wights.

The rest is at Blunty.

I was very sad to hear John Clarke passed away. A great loss to the nation. An even bigger loss to farnarkling. A tribute at Blunty:

Farnarkling lost a champion yesterday, with the passing of Mr John Clarke. The veteran broadcaster was not just the voice of the national sport, but a much-loved ambassador to the powerhouses of the perfect game as far away as Bad Odursburg and Middlefart.

Play at the 'G in Launceston, where Australia and Uzbekistan contended fiercely for a quarter-final slot in the Far Eastern Cup, was interrupted for the traditional 49 seconds of mumbled Celtic mourning chants in the original Old Icelandic.