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...

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!

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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

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.