Tuesday, 6 October 2009


We’ve all seen them. Chances are, each and every one of us has a close encounter with one every single working day. The dictionary calls them ‘pigeons’. Others call them ‘flying rats’. Some refer to them as ‘grey feather buggers’, ‘swooping doom shits’, or ‘evil beaky helmets’. They’re everywhere. They watch us with their beady little eyes, scuttling around like big ruddy ants. They wait until the very last second, scampering quicker and quicker until finally – WHOOMPH – they flap their feathery little arms in your face. They’re a bunch of unsettling gits and they know it.

The comparison with rats is not far wrong. Both wander the city streets searching for scraps of food, both look decidedly dirty if left to their own devices and both are usually unwelcome guests. The difference is that pigeons rub our faces in it. They don’t have the common courtesy to skulk in the shadows, using stealth and cunning to keep alarm at bay. No, they like the look of terror on our faces as they swarm around our dropped buns and discarded beef patties. Sit still long enough and one is almost guaranteed to try punching you. What’s more – perhaps their most potent weapon in this assault on humanity – they are capable of defecating on our faces from great heights. Next time you’re uttering a sentence that requires you to open your mouth wide for an extended period of time (such as “I haaave the powerrrr”) just bear in mind that an opportunistic pigeon could bullseye your epiglottis with a bum-flavoured torpedo. Savage.

There once was a tale that pigeons can’t pass wind. They are entirely unable to emit a pant ripper. “Pop a water-soluble aspirin in a chunk of bread and watch the plumed goon explode!” they said. “It’s the next logical step in our war on flappers.” Such claims fell on deaf ears. The mere suggestion that such wicked creatures cannot fart is desperate optimism. More likely their anal expulsions are the very poison destroying our ozone.

Most terrifying is their wanton disregard for their own health in this attack on mankind. Through a combination of cuts, grazes, disease and faeces, pigeons often lose toes or even whole feet. Quite simply, they are willing to shit their own feet off to win this war.

There is little we can do in the face of such extremism.

Monday, 14 September 2009


Two things:

1) Either my blog has recently received a lot more traffic, or the counter's gone nut-nut. I want to believe the first, but I'm fairly certain it's the latter.

2) I've finally decided how best to deal with annoying pikey shits who play rubbish music out loud through their phone. Approach in a pleasant, non-threatening manner and say, "Excuse me, I couldn't help but notice, either your phone is ringing or you're a c**t." Should do the trick. Now all I've got to do is buy a stab-proof vest and a gun. Should be fine.

Monday, 20 July 2009

Wasps vs. Bees

Yeah, like there's really any competition. Let's face it, wasps are the evil scum of the insect world. If they were human beings they'd be evil dictators or serial killers. I'm serious. You check out a wasps nest. They've probably got dead ants hidden under the floorboards. I'm 73% confident I've seen a wasp trying to buy a gun outside Kings Cross station.

Bees, on the other hand, are the Jean Claude Van Dammes of the insect world. They're happy to go about their business, collecting pollen in the sacs on the back of their legs (admittedly, I can't confirm JVCD does that...) without harming a soul. But step into their back yard with some unnecessary attitude and they will be prepared to open a sweet can of sting face. What's even more admirable is that once they've dealt their pointy brand of justice, they fall on their sword and bite the bullet. Such honour. JCVD has the same code of honour, albeit he only promises not to cheat, and doesn't actually go so far as to die after dishing out a series of improbable roundhouse kicks straight into his enemy's neck.

Such a shame then, that wasps are built like missiles. When they spot their prey, there is virtually no stopping them. A well-aimed chop can knock their nasty little faces off, but you need the speed and accuracy of a seasoned lumberjack. A colleague of mine bore the brunt of a stripy-tailed bugger just the other day. We were happily strolling to the Tesco garage to purchase some lunch (classy) when one of the little winged bastards swooped down and stung him right on the ear! No warning, apparently no motive and certainly no need. Rotten.

So there you have it. Wasps are ruthless shits, whereas bees are gentle, but hard as nails Belgians.

Saturday, 11 July 2009

Not old, just stupid?

I've got this thing where I can never remember if I've just locked a door or turned something off. Strange. If I had a pound for every time I've walked back to my front door to check I've locked it... well I'd be a rich man. Not crazy rich, but I could probably afford to get a front door that locks itself automatically.

It's the same with my car. Get out, lock door, walk five steps away, turn back and check I locked the door. Sometimes I even check I've put the handbrake on too. Which I always have done because, well, why wouldn't you?!

I also check my pockets about five times before I leave somewhere. "Hmm, phone, wallet, keys... good..... now, have I got my phone...?"

Some people say it's because I'm getting old. I'm 28. In the grand scheme of things that's not really very old. I think a cat lived longer than that once.

Therefore, I can only assume I'm an idiot. Now please excuse me while I go check I turned the oven off.

Monday, 22 June 2009

Lazy Bastard

It's come to my attention (i.e, I remembered) that I haven't written a blog in ages. Though that is in part because I couldn't be arsed, it's also because I've been rather busy, what with all the work, holidaying, footballing, burning my face lots of times in the sun, sitting, watching films, eating, pointlessly doing other stuff and generally just not bothering to write anything outside of work. Since I last wrote I've driven nearly 2,000 miles in a foreign country and eaten approximately 7 croissants. That could well be a conservative estimate. So, just to bring you up to date with what I've been up to, here is a list of facts and figures detailing my life since my last blog:

+ Driven 1,900 miles to the South of France. If anyone has ever done something similar, you'll know that French motorways are something of a double-edged sword. Yes, the sheer lack of other cars makes them a joy to drive on between cities, but their road signs are so shit-smearingly awful that you could easily find yourself flying helplessly past your exit and ending up in the centre of Paris going round and round on the busiest road in the world. Cretins.

+ Eaten lots of croissanty type goodies. They might be rubbish at signposts, but they know a thing or two about building pastries.

+ Visited Barclays Bank twice to use their coin deposit machine without managing to deposit any coins. I finally got round to emptying my Bell's Whisky jar of coppers and silvers and quite simply would like to pay them into my account. By my reckoning I must have about £100-worth just sitting there. Weighs an absolute ton, let me tell you. But, much to my annoyance, both times I've gone to the branch the machine has been full. WELL BLOODY EMPTY IT THEN!!! On sensing my annoyance, the kind staff suggested I go to Morrison's, where I will have the pleasure of paying a supermarket to put my own money into my own account. They should have just slapped my face and kicked me in the shin.

+ Seen roughly four naked people that weren't me or my girlfriend. Turns out folk like to tan their genitals in the South of France. But hey, with a ratio of three slender twenty-something ladies to one baggy old codger, it could have been far more unpleasant.

+ Burnt my face three times. Will I never learn? Massive globe of furiously burning gasses in sky + one pasty-faced Englishman = idiot with a head the same colour as a freshly skinned salmon. With my track record of facial burning, it's a good thing I don't subscribe to the French 'sans pants' sunbathing technique.

+ Killed something close to 1 million flies. No shit. I was driving home along the M3 last night and must've gone through a swarm of midges or something. I honestly thought it was raining at first because of the amount of splodges on the windscreen. I now have a car that looks like a giant bogey from the front.

+ Watched one film that genuinely made me laugh out loud. The Hangover is great. Especially the hairy guy.

I'm gonna stop now. To be frank, I wasn't jotting down the amounts of everything I did over the last few weeks and my memory is far too poor to recall any more. I'll try not to leave it so long next time. Adieu.

Wednesday, 20 May 2009

View From Not On The Sill

Well, it's been a while since I was last on the sill, but don't think for a second that I've stopped learning valuable life lessons. Here's what I've learned lately from not on the sill...

+ You are NOT what you eat. But, if you eat several pounds of meat on a Monday night, you will inevitably have to deal with the substantial consequences on Tuesday.

+ Despite the fact that advertisements are supposed to encourage you to buy a product, it is possible to produce an advert that is so abhorrent people will actually promise not to buy that product ever, ever again. With that in mind, I shall not buy another Pot Noodle as long as I live. That's at least £3.79 they've lost out on each year. Gutted.

+ Computers will, whenever possible, violate you by any orifice available given half a chance. Digital rapists.

+ Buffy the Vampire Slayer and spinoff series Angel are the best TV programmes ever made. It's strange, but I'm convinced it's true.

+ When asked "What do you miss most about your childhood?" the correct answer for an 80s child is "The sound of concorde."

+ If you go to Staines town centre on a Sunday afternoon, you are guaranteed to see at least two 14-year old girls dressed as whores.

+ Magpies eat other birds. Especially little fluffy chicks that were minding their own business.

And that is all. For now.

Thursday, 16 April 2009

Really high

I flew to New York over the Easter weekend. It was lovely, but I won't bang on about the exceptional time I had in the Big Apple. Instead, I'd like to discuss the matter of flying.

Now, on the way from Heathrow to JFK, I had the choice of about thirty films to watch on my own little screen. I watched three movies in total. One was an Oscar winner, one was a mildly humorous buddy movie, the other I can't remember. Oh, wait, it was the first half of a movie I'd read the book of. I love movies, so this whole setup was a dream. Furthermore, there were quizzes, games, great TV programs to watch and recent albums to listen to, all at the press of a button. Entertainment-wise, I was the equivalent of a christmas turkey. I was being fattened up on entertainment until I was a wobbly, entertained mass, ripe for the digital oven.

But it didn't end there. Within an hour of taking off, I was given a warm ham, cheese and egg wrap to shove in my gob, complete with refreshing beverage. I like ham, I like cheese, I'm a fan of warmth and I even like eggs. It was like a perfect welcome in a floury tortilla.

I barely had time to digest my last meal, when the main course arrived. Pasta, bread, cheese, crackers, chocolate. All served with a cool beer. Was this some kind of sick joke? I was being treated like a king! Food on tap, free beer at the click of my fingers, moviefilms being beamed directly into my eyeballs and some kind of special, not altogether comfy chair. I felt like an over indulgent Stephen Hawking.

More beer soon followed, and all I had to do was ask politely! In fact, I probably could have asked slightly impolitely and I'd still have got it! Crazy fools! I was even given a choc-ice before the flight was through! I didn't even know they still existed.

Before I knew it, I was in New York, fully fed, suitably quenched and utterly entertained. Planes eh?! Faaantastic!

Well, that is, they would be if they weren't essentially a hollow tube of steel, hurtling through the air at hundreds of miles an hour, thousands of feet off the ground, with my squashy pink body rattling around inside it. And in that respect, they're immeasurably fucking horrible. Can't win 'em all I guess.

Monday, 6 April 2009

Man's best friend

Dogs rule. I'm pretty sure that's just a fact. I've done extensive research into it, made pie charts, produced Power Point presentations and drawn pictures with a pencil. All the results said "Yes". That's as conclusive as it gets in my book.

You really can't beat chilling out with a dog. They're always around for a bit of companionship, they're always happy to see you (and not just because they're hungry), they scare off intruders and they're just really bloody great.

Admittedly, little rat dogs like chihuahuas are rubbish. If you want something that small and pointless, buy a guinea pig. At least guinea pigs don't look like their eyes are about to do a runner.

And don't get me started on cats. I'll be honest, I've not taken the time to meet every cat in the world, but those that I have met have all been sly little buggers with three things on their mind: 1) food, 2) scratching something/one, and 3) more food or I'm fucking out of here. Seriously. Spiteful, selfish little buggers. There's a reason they're always mean in Disney films. Big Walt knows his shit.

I've just spent much of this evening hanging out with a Great Dane called Megan. Lovely, well-behaved, gentle animal, despite being 6ft tall on her hind legs and probably capable of destroying and small town if she wanted to. Just a smashing young lady.

Yeah, I'm a dog person. It's official.

++Update++ I forgot, I do actually know one nice cat. Misty. Seems remarkably docile and even owns a cocktail bar in Hove.

Monday, 30 March 2009

It's come to this

I used to quite like television. You could pretty much guarantee there'd be something on worth watching. Now you're lucky to get a handful of David Attenborough documentaries a year. Even Match of the Day is on when you're either out for the night, or, in the case of the early morning repeat, out for the count. And you can't even watch that on iPlayer. What an enormous load of rubbish. Maybe Sky+ is the way forward. Who knows? I'd probably only ever record the footie and Harry Hill's face anyway.

All I do know is that tonight I watched various blooper reels on YouTube as an alternative to TV. Shocking. It's come to this. Scrap the license fee I say. Load of chuff.

(Incidentally, if you've got a few minutes to spare, I can heartily recommend the bloopers from 'Step Brothers' starring Will Ferrell, and the UK version of The Office. Gervais laughing is pure gold...).

Monday, 23 March 2009

Irrational fear of photographs

Google Street View was launched in the UK last week and has been all over the news ever since. Sadly, it's been hogging column inches for all the wrong reasons. No, it hasn't been there because it's a genuinely useful and bizarrely interesting tool. It's not clogging up the front page of the Metro because people are applauding all the hard work and effort that has gone into making it possible, nor is it attracting comment after comment on internet 'Have Your Say' forums because of it's clever use of technology, bringing mapping storming into the 21st century.

No, it's making headlines because, it would seem, there are an awful lot of mumbling buffoons out there.

It's become apparent that vast swathes of the British public are somehow of the opinion that Google Street View is an infringement of their civil rights. A dastardly breach of their privacy! Another weapon in Big Brother's ever-growing arsenal against poor old Joe Public. A giant, map-shaped probe, ready to bum the bejesus out of all and sundry. A big special digi-paedo, waiting to pounce on innocent children like a rubbish, electric tiger. Or maybe it's the latest tool by which those terror folks will torment our brains.

Of course, if you've got the slightest hint of intelligence, you'll realise it's none of the above. In fact, it's just a load of photos of stuff that anyone could go and look at whenever they like at any time of day. Public stuff. You know, stuff that's in public. Stuff that anyone with fully-functioning eyes can look at as much as they like. Stuff that anyone can take a photo of whenever they like. And that's all it is; photos. It's not a live feed. It's not like CCTV. No, that kind of coverage would require millions of large spherical cameras to be permanently placed at five-metre intervals in the middle of every road in every major city in Britain. And last time I checked, that wasn't the case. They'd get in the way of cars and stuff.

So if you think Google Street View should be banned or shut down, you must logically also believe that human beings with eyes should also be banned, just in case they look at stuff. In fact, better safe than sorry, we'd better wipe out the animal kingdom too. They've got eyes and you never know what the shifty fuckers are thinking. They look at stuff all the time. They probably even bloody remember it too!!! Burn them all at the stake, then ban fire incase anyone took a photo of it. Then ban cameras. Sod, it, nuke the planet, there's no telling what people might have casually glanced at and not given a second thought to!

People have complained that images of themselves in compromising situations are available to the general public, even though their faces are blurred out and the only people who will recognise them are the friends and family who already know what a cretin they are. Here are some simple rules: if you don't want people to see you being sick in the street, don't be fucking sick in the street. If you don't want people to see you going into a sex shop, don't go into a fucking sex shop. That's what the internet's for! And if you don't want people to see the front, public-facing wall of your house, go and live in a fucking cave in the middle of nowhere.

And, most importantly, if you really must complain about something, make sure you at least have the tiniest shred of a clue what it actually is that you're moronically whining about. One guy actually complained that criminals would now be able to watch his house continuously, learn his patterns and know when he's out so they can rob his house. Quite apart from the fact that no-one gives a shit about his "patterns", apparently they can tell all that from a single photo taken almost a year ago. My contempt for that person can not be put into words. Instead, I'll leave you to make a deeply angry guttural noise of your choice.

I'm going to have a lie down...

Wednesday, 18 March 2009


Last night I made my long-awaited return to the football pitch after three months laid up with an ankle injury. To cut a long story short, during a match last December I was involved in a tackle that basically resulted in my foot going from a standard twelve o'clock position, to the rather more uncommon quarter to five stance. In other words, my ankle was molested very publicly by a complete stranger in broad daylight. Yes, I screamed like a flimsy lamb, but, thankfully, the pain was so bad I couldn't have managed "embarrassed" if I'd tried.

Over the course of the next 24 hours, I went from having two fully-functioning ankles to having one standard ankle and one life-size replica of Joseph Merrick's head at the end of my leg. Pretty annoying really. Not only did it cause considerable discomfort, but it also earned me the nicknames "Simple Jack" and "Full Retard".

Several physio sessions and just over three months later, I was ready to test it out and get back on the pitch again. Cue an hour-and-a-half of high tempo five-a-side football on a spangly next generation artificial pitch. Lovely, glorious and wonderful to be back.

Today, I'm glad to report, my ankle seems to be holding up just fine. Sadly, however, the rest of my body feels like I've been attacked by an overly hostile clan of barbarians, intent on working over all of my major muscle groups with wooden clubs. That's what happens when you sit on your arse for quarter of a year I guess.

It's great to be back.

Thursday, 12 March 2009

View from the sill

Two of my friends have a flat overlooking a busy(ish) street in a small Surrey town. In their lounge they have a large bay window with a similarly large, filled in window seat/sill. I've taken it upon myself to sit in this window seat and watch the world go by, recounting the events that unfold before my eyes. If I don't learn something new each time I sit there, I'm at least reminded of important lessons I've learned in the past. Here is what I have observed recently:

+ Some people, no matter how simple it is, can not drive a car into an area at the side of the road that's big enough for a tugboat. My girlfriend tells me she can't parallel park. Nonsense. Compared to the people I've seen from my watching-sill lately, she is Lewis Hamilton's more talented sister.

+ Despite the appetite-suppressing and growth-stunting qualities of smoking, it is still possible for heavy smokers to grow larger than Richard Branson's hot air balloon. That is a sign of sheer determination in the face of adversity.

+ Neighbours on the opposite side of the road will eventually close their curtains if you sit on your window sill/chair for long enough.

+ After 8:00pm, kebab shops are the epicentre of British society. Even in rural Surrey. What, what.

+ Having a strong dog, sovereign rings and a two-piece tracksuit does not make you hard. It makes you the poorly-dressed owner of a strong dog. Key fact: only the dog comes out of it with any credibility. And he only hangs around with you because you feed him and have him tied to the end of a rope.

I will return to my watch-sill in due time and report on my further learnings subsequently.

Tuesday, 3 March 2009

Bathing with Palmer

Has anyone seen that advert where a couple are sitting in the bath together? The lady slips under the water suggestively... and out pops Carlton Palmer!

Surprising, confusing, alarming, amusing and titillating, all in equal measure. Lovely.

Wednesday, 25 February 2009

Oral buggery

The latest Walkers Crisps promotion has created an abomination.

The idea was that the general public would suggest lots of new flavours of crisps and six would be chosen for countryside consumption. The public will vote for their favourite, which will then be added to the standard Walkers repertoire, earning the creator a tidy sum of money. All good and well you'd think. But, having nearly discharged the contents of my stomach out of my mouth onto my keyboard at lunchtime today, I can safely say that all is not good and well.

Here is my warning: please, for the love of not puking, steer clear of the fish & chip flavored crisps. I'll give it to them, they've absolutely nailed the smell and flavour. Congratulations. But if there's one thing I don't want a thin slice of potato to taste like, it's fish. The shock and disgust I experienced as I slid one into my mouth was quite incredible. Similar, one can only imagine, to falling on a large pile of dog poo with your mouth open.

Try them if you must, but don't say I didn't warn you...

Tuesday, 24 February 2009

OK, so I'm a bit late with this one...

I read something the other day that really struck a chord with me. I can’t remember where I read it, or who it was that wrote it, but it was a real winner. The basic gist of it was that “offence isn’t given, it’s taken.” It got me thinking how very true that statement actually is, and how well it relates to recent high-profile stories in the press. It also got me thinking, yet again, how a vast number of the general public are complete bloody idiots.

There can be no greater example of late than the whole Jonathan Ross/Russell Brand/Andrew Sachs saga. Now, if you came up to me and said, “Two guys did a prank phone call on someone and swore” I wouldn’t be the least bit interested, let alone offended. Likewise, if someone told me about an incident where a complete stranger had approached another complete stranger and called him an ugly, bulbous scrotum, I would feel entirely indifferent. Strangers insulting strangers really has no bearing on my life.

Does this make me weird? Surely not. So why is it then, that so many people reacted with sheer horror to the whole Ross/Brand/Sachs episode? My bewilderment was only enhanced when I found out that thousands of people who hadn’t even heard the broadcast felt the need to complain. To put it plainly, they didn’t even hear two people they don’t know swear at someone else they don’t know. And they’re up in arms about it! That is a prime example of people TAKING offence to something that really has no effect on their lives at all!

Fair enough, if you’re related to Andrew Sachs or are one of his close friends, you are entitled to feel some grievance towards the folk who badmouthed him. You have BEEN offended. If someone approaches your grandfather and calls him an absolute ruddy-faced shit, you have every right to be offended. But you can’t imagine Bruce, 41, from South Mims will be overly concerned.

So please, I beg of you, general public, please stop taking offence to things that really shouldn’t worry your fleshy, pink brains. I’m not saying I love the Ross/Brand camp and dislike the Sachs camp; I’m merely calling for a return of collective sanity and a touch of perspective.

Saturday, 14 February 2009

Magic Beauty

Just a quick one today. Touch wood, I'm back in the digital game. A magician tickled my Mac, did a bit of jiggery, a bit of pokery and now it appears to be working again. Sweet, sweet magician.

That is all.

Tuesday, 10 February 2009

Power Bastard

It turns out I don't have an awful lot of luck. We had a power cut in my area on Sunday. Not so bad, you'd be entitled to think. However, when the power came back on there was a bit of a surge... and it electrically raped my Mac. The poor thing won't even turn on now. Buggered by electricity. Photos, music, work - potentially all lost forever. And Macs aren't cheap. You can quote me on that. "How Much?" "Not Cheap."

So thank you, Mr. Power Company, for shitting all over my Sunday lunch and, indeed, all my digital requirements for quite some time. 

Wednesday, 4 February 2009

Walking? Nonsense.

I hate walking. It's really rubbish. This isn't something I've just decided, I've harboured this hatred for some time. Let me be specific though; I don't hate walking per se. That is, if I'm walking around a zoo, or having a pleasant stroll around scenic countryside, ambling up a local hill, or even just shimmying around the block so man's best friend can poo out of his bottom-hole, I'm all for it. Yeah, that's when walking really pays off. 

But walking as a method of getting somewhere... well, it's bollocks isn't it? It's basically the slowest way to get somewhere. "Hmmm, I need to get to from A to B... I wonder if there's any way I could make that journey take much longer than necessary?" It's just not a question that ever enters my mind.

Yet despite the painfully slow progress, stroll somewhere on a hot day and you'll almost certainly work up a minor sweat. So, not only will you take ages to get there, but you'll also be sweaty by the time you arrive. And that, my friends, is quite rubbish. If, instead, I could remove all of my sweat glands and wee my sweat out at a more appropriate time, I'd rather run everywhere. Much quicker.

Walking: it's officially rubbish. If there are no caged animals, no rolling hillsides or no furry mammals shitting at the end of a length of rope involved, then, frankly, I'm not interested.

Saturday, 31 January 2009

Rubbish Fight

So I was walking through Covent Garden recently at roughly 10:00 at night. I'd just had a few post-work drinks and was merry, but by no means drunk. Imagine my surprise then, when I saw two grown men having a fight in the tube station foyer. Imagine my further surprise when I saw that this was no ordinary fight. One of the guys had the other in some kind of wrestling arm-lock! I'm serious! He didn't have it up behind his back. Oh no! They were both writhing around on the floor like demented slugs, and the one guy was gripping the other guy's arm between his legs and yanking it up away from his body! I felt like I had a front row seat at a WWE match! I nearly ran in, flopped on the floor and gave the guy a 3-count! You're out of here!

Which was all very nice, but what's wrong with just punching someone on the face? Crazy. You know you're in Covent Garden when a street fight involves arm locks. Bloody media types...

Sunday, 25 January 2009

Fancy that

It's not something that I'm overly proud of, nor is it something I'm ashamed of. It's just a fact. I thoroughly enjoy a well orchestrated fancy dress party. If everyone makes an effort, it's the absolute balls. In a good way. But is this normal for a 28-year-old adult human male? Is it acceptable that in the last month alone I have been to two fancy dress parties, seeing me saunter around dressed as Papa Smurf and, more recently, famous TV News anchor, Ron Burgundy? Quite frankly, I think it's a joy. So long as everyone goes all out, no one takes themselves too seriously and at least one outfit borders on public indecency, I think it's up there with the greatest fun ever. Dare I say it, almost as much fun as an hour of Aeroball at Woking leisure centre (who knew four people and a ball on a trampoline divided by netting could be so much fun?). If you'd told me a week ago that I'd spend Friday night in a local nightclub, wearing a second-hand M&S ladies mauve trouser suit, there's a fair chance I'd have thrown gravel at you. But that's exactly what happened, and I enjoyed every minute of it! So here it is, my salute to wearing ill-fitting clothes, face paint and wigs. 

Fancy dress - single handedly keeping the Addlestone branch of Oxfam open. Cheers!

Thursday, 22 January 2009

2012 here I come...

I love football. And not in an 'I love lamp' kind of way. I really do love it. Which makes my current predicament all the more unbearable. I've got a badly sprained ankle you see, which is effectively ruining my life. OK, so I can still do pretty much anything, so long as it doesn't involve running or kicking. But if you remember back to the beginning of this post, I love football, and that involves repeated running and kicking scenarios. As a result, I've been forced to dabble in other forms of entertainment. And it just so happens that I might have found the greatest sport on Earth.

Ping pong. Grace, mild athleticism, gurning, passion, a competitive edge, honour, mind-blowing rallies, checkside and buttocks; it's got them all in spades. I can guarantee it's the best fun you'll ever have in your friend's garage. Unless, that is, he has a dancing bear and some meat on the end of a pulley. But surprisingly, not too many people have that arrangement.

I'm absolutely serious. It's easy to pick up, but difficult to master. It's fun, it makes you sweat without actually moving very much and, most importantly of all, the ball makes a lovely noise when you hit it. Could ping pong be the only sport with an onomatopoeia for a name?! Beautiful. With a bit of training and some ill-fitting shorts, I reckon my friends and I could get a team out for the London Olympics. Are you listening Seb Coe? It's that bloody amazing! IT'S AMAZING!!

I'd still rather be playing football though. 

Wednesday, 21 January 2009

Ruddy magic

I realise I may have sounded a touch negative in my previous post. With that in mind, I'd like to share a gem of culinary information with you. I've discovered a rival to the humble Pot Noodle and it comes in the form of a little joy pot containing 'Go' noodles. Same drill; fill to the line with boiling water, stir, pause, stir again, shove in gob. 

It's the best mouth party I've ever had with my trousers still on.

More train terror

I don't want to come across as some kind of train racist, but I've discovered another aspect of my daily commute that baffles/irks/annoys the bejesus out of me. It involves leg room, short people and scampering little bastards.

So here's the deal; at 6'2" tall, I'm hardly a freak of nature. Nonetheless, on South West Trains the only seats I can comfortably fit my legs in are the special seats for disablised people and the elderly. They've got those little blue markers on them. The seats, not the people. Basically, what SWT is saying is that anybody 6'2" and above is disabled. Now, I've currently got a bit of a sore ankle, but I'll soldier on. Unsurprisingly, these seats are at a distinct premium. This bizarre conundrum puzzles me greatly. But even this wouldn't be a problem if it wasn't for some of the people that I share my commute with.

Why, why on God's green Earth, why oh why, why why why, do short people always dash, barge and harass their way onto the train first and head straight for the seats with the legroom?! Why, when they can fit perfectly comfortably in every other seat on this train?! Why, when they're borderline sufferers of primordial dwarfism?! Why, when they could probably pop themselves on the back of a sparrow and catch a ride into town instead of paying for the privilege of robbing me of any hint of comfort?

Why? I'll tell you why. Because they're bloody shits, that's why.

Tuesday, 20 January 2009

Ohhhhh no.

I made myself a cup of tea today. Squeezed the teabag just right, stirred in a lone spoonful of sugar, then added a dash of semi-skimmed milk. Perfect. I plonked it down on my desk and got back on with some work. And forgot all about it. It was cold by the time I noticed.

Without wanting to exaggerate, I was bitterly, bitterly disappointed.

Wednesday, 14 January 2009

Business failure

So I popped into my local Subway the other day for a tasty, sandwich-based meal. You know the drill with Subway; a host of fillings that you can mix and match and put in a sandwich. The emphasis here is on 'sandwich', because nobody wants a damp handful of chopped chicken, bacon, lettuce, tomatoes, olives and ranch dressing. 

So anyway, I left hungry because they didn't have any bread. In Subway.

There is absolutely nothing more I can possibly say about this.

Monday, 12 January 2009

I've found Hell

Yes. Yes it's true; I've found Hell. And you can get there in 40 short minutes on the 8:16 from West Byfleet. The Devil has cleverly named it Waterloo, probably so people don't realise they're about to walk into Lucifer's buggered playpen. Quite simply, it's horrific. Sadly, my job means I have to battle my way through the infested brick bollock-bag twice a day. 

Evil takes many forms in this twisted terminus. First there's the battle to leave the train. If, like me, you're not a complete rotten shit, you'll simply make your way off the train like a civilised human being. However, there are those who are seemingly convinced they will be publicly flagellated if they don't exit within five seconds of the doors opening. These people I like to call "idiots".

Then there are the escalator lurkers. People so oblivious to the fact that there are other living beings in the world that they come to a complete standstill at the top of the moving stairway, causing panic and mild crushing as people struggle to get past. They are ignorant to quite astounding degrees and will surely end their days pummeled by a rowdy, incensed mob.

Perhaps most puzzling are the folk who are convinced they are shapeshifters. I can only assume that this is their thought process: see gap, notice it's too small for any human to fit through, morph into a lithe young cat and simply snake in between the mass of bodies unnoticed. In fact, what actually happens is that they blunder their way through an impossibly small opening, stepping on, barging, generally pissing-off and wiping their offensive brand of stupidity on a handful of fellow commuters. I only hope they one day do it to a deeply angry body builder with a penchant for choke holds. That would make my day. 

As you can probably tell, it's Monday and I'm a bad commuter. Nonetheless, if you fancy visiting the big evil goat's private hell hole, you can get there on a pre-booked saver return ticket at ludicrous prices! There's even an Upper Crust! And it's 30p to have a wee! And the same rate for a poo, which, frankly, doesn't seem fair. That's the credit crunch for you. 

Be safe x

Saturday, 10 January 2009

Hello then

My name's Andy Durrant and this is my blog. I've not done one before so thought I'd have a dabble. I'm not sure what your average blog consists of, so I'm just going to prattle on about stuff I like, dislike and have no strong opinions on either way. You'll find that I like sport and hate the general public. It's a fact. Most people are rubbish. True story. The canal near me is frozen over at the moment. There's a whole pineapple resting on the ice beneath a bridge. Don't get me wrong, seeing a pineapple on the Basingstoke canal is mildly amusing, but it's the best evidence yet that society isn't quite right nowadays. I mean who throws a pineapple at the Basingstoke canal? This is what we face every day.

So, that's the first one out of the way. It was always going to be tough. Pop back sometime, perhaps you'll agree with my views of the world. Maybe you'll just want to physically assault me instead. Just leave the exotic fruit at home.