Heartening news from America, as the woman who held the world record for the longest fingernails lost them following a motor accident. The nails are, it seems, beyond repair (why would you want to repair a fingernail?) but the manky woman they are attached to will seemingly make a complete recovery.
The fingernails were older than me, it seems, having been last cut in 1979. All of this pales rather against the sheer, unmitigated, mankiness of the whole thing. Aside from the fact the mere sight of a photo of them gives me the heeby-jeebies, I find their mere existence offensive to my way of life. World records are important to me. I'm a statistics-obsessed lunatic. I honestly feel that the whole concept is sullied by someone deliberately deciding to break one by the simple expedient of neglecting personal hygeine. I could, should I wish, stop wiping my bottom from my next poo onwards and break the world record for the filthiest rear end. I choose not to, on account of the fact we're trying to have a society here. This is before we even get to the thorny issue of how she went about wiping her bumhole herself.
Fingernails (and their cousins, the toenails) perplex me. Principally because I don't know how our ancestors went about cutting them. All I know is that they must have cut them. Because not cutting them makes you a manky titwitch. Further more, the Renaissance couldn't have happened if Leonardo da Vinci had 4-foot long nails. But mainly the manky titwitch thing.
Just to stress again, anyone with really long fingernails, cut your fingernails. We live in an enlightened age with wonderful tools. You manky titwitches.