What the buggery is going on?

Meh...

2012-02-15T08:11:00.000-08:00

This image precisely sums up my general feelings at the moment. Can't shake it. Need some positive news. It can be about monkeys, flapjacks, erosion rates along the Nile delta, popular sports brand Gola, infra-red technology or even damp-proofing single-story outhouses, so long as it's positive. Of course I'd prefer if it was about a substantial sum of money I'm about to receive, a dream job opportunity I'm about to be offered or the promise of a train carriage to myself every morning and evening, but beggars simply can't be choosers...

Image source: unknown.

Worrywart

2012-01-09T14:27:00.000-08:00

It's about this time of year that people tend to promise to do things that they will probably never stick to, all because it's a new year. The sentiment is great, I guess, but really it's a massive bag of arse. Don't give up or start doing something because it's January, do it because you want to, no matter what time of year it is. I mean, if I was to be serious about giving something up, I should really give up worrying. But that's never going to happen...

Those of you who know me well enough will know that I tend to worry about stuff. A lot. All the time. Needlessly in most cases. Either I'm too darn considerate or, more likely, I'm just a colossal fretting idiot. People say worrying will give you wrinkles. Not true. Next time someone says that to you, take their words, roll them up into a tight little package and jam them forcibly back down their rotten mouth canal. I'm living proof. I may have the odd wrinkle here or there, but if they were in any way correlated I would have the outward appearance of a 90-year old man's frozen bollock bag. I hope that's not quite the case...

Anyway, now we all know I'm a worrier, it's time to run through the things currently making my mind's metaphorical buttocks quiver. Then you can all laugh at me like gassed-up hyenas because I'm a fully grown adult tit.

1) My trainers. Yeah. Most people don't worry about their trainers because, essentially, they're just less leathery shoes. What's to worry about? Well, mine are a bit hard at the back an give me blisters. I worry about the amount of extra time I have to spend in the morning preparing plasters to prevent the kind of injuries a famous warrior from Greek mythology would also worry about.

2) My beard and hair. I literally have no idea when I'll next get the chance to shave. In my world, quite terrifying.

3) I'm running a marathon in April. I have to run roughly 26 miles. In one day. It's now January. This thought will haunt my every waking hour until I cross the finish line. Then I'll be worried about the fact that my hips have relocated themselves to my armpits.

4) This blog. It's probably a right crock of shit.

5) Other people. Yeah, my worrying isn't just confined to me. I constantly worry about other people. Anyone close to me, if you're having a rough time, know that I constantly worry about you. You're probably just fine. I should probably be eating cheese or selling dogs on ebay or something. Instead I'm worrying. About you.

6) My music. It's probably way too loud right? Sorry about that. I can barely hear it myself and I'm pretty sure it just got drowned out by a couple of ants having a fist fight, but I bet the Bulgarians next door are fucking livid with me. Maybe I should just stop playing it altogether. Better safe than sorry...

7) Text messages. If I sent one and haven't had a reply within half a second, I instantly conclude that it's because I've done something terrible and you hate every fibre of my shitty guts. Similarly, if I forget to reply to one, I take myself to the local vets and ask to be humanely put to sleep. Fortunately they have quite strict rules (laws?) about that, even if you're dressed like a lamb.

8) Smells. I have an OCD-like approach to personal hygiene. Seriously. I'm like a freak. But if there's a funny smell I instantly worry it's me and that everyone else thinks it's me too. Even though it's definitely not. I could sit next to a grizzly bear, fresh from a kill, with blood, insides, shit and arse all over his fur. I'd be convinced I was the smelly one and that I was in some way offending him. And the last thing I need to do right now is offend a massive bear.

There's loads more, but I'm starting to worry that I might be boring you. Or giving too much away. Or annoying the Bulgarians again with my key tapping...

I'm sorry, I'm really, really sorry...

2011-10-16T13:17:00.000-07:00

I know I should just ignore it and not give it any airtime in my own life, but I hate X-Factor so much I just can't help it. Living in a one-bed flat with someone who is addicted to it makes it very difficult to avoid. So, at roughly this time every Sunday until Christmas I'm going to be a rattling flesh sack of putrid rage. I live in rented accommodation, so smashing shit up isn't going to help. As I result, my only release is to write a list of all the things I would enjoy more than an episode of Simon Cowell's bastard brain filth.

1) Instead of having the X-Factor on my screen, I would prefer it if Peter Sutcliffe came to my house, sat on my sofa, continuously filled his pants with an enormous, runny, brown puddle, then proceeded to sling it at my TV like a misbehaving chimpanzee with spoons for hands for three full hours.

2) Instead of watching the X-Factor, I would rather visit a dreadful karaoke bar in a run-down part of town and, after every act has performed, have them vomit powerfully on my chest until the sound of retching gets so loud that my ears fall right off the sides of my stupid head.

3) Instead of being subjected to the annual swinging X-Factor bollock bag, I'd rather have my fingernails punched silly until they turn an awful shade of blue and are so sore that I never, ever stop crying. Ever.

4) I'd rather French kiss a very, very angry polar bear, immediately after bathing in a paddling pool full of freshly clubbed baby seal faces. Yeah, that faces, not faeces.

******woah, woah... I interrupt this broadcast to reveal that I just heard Haddaway's chart-busting pop/dance classic 'What Is Love?' bursting out of my TV. Always a treat. On closer inspection, I discovered it was being used in a Next advert. I definitely did not expect to see that. Lovely to hear it, nonetheless...*******

5) I'd much prefer to order a pizza, eat the entire thing then find out that, in actual fact, I'd accidentally eaten a vast swarm of hornets with military training and loads of special guns.

6) I'd rather watch a clinically obese old man with dangerous skin issues thoroughly talc himself up after a hot bath. And maybe lend a hand.

7) I would rather attempt a backflip in front of a throbbing crowd, only to painfully land directly on my face. On gravel.

8) It would make me much happier if I stubbed my toe with shattering force every single time I took a step, until my feet resembled little more than a spilled pot of jellied eels.

9) I would rather walk to the shop with a hangover on a very hot day, only to be told upon my return that I have to go back because I forgot the flapjacks.

10) I'd prefer an ancient and fiery hot asteroid, roughly the size of a shoe, to fly through lightyears of endless space, punch through Earth's atmosphere, plummet through the sky, crash through my fragile ceiling and impact with the force of twenty charging bison directly into my exposed genital area.

Basically, I don't like it an awful lot. This list is by no means exhaustive. But it is factually correct.

If I were Prime Minister...

2011-09-09T13:43:00.000-07:00

OK, it's not a particularly likely scenario, but if everyone went brilliantly mental for long enough to make me Prime Minister, I'd have a selection of bills to pass as a matter of urgency. Sure, I'd probably have to sort out things like crime, war and other important stuff, but these would be the policies/laws/rules I'd push through when I wasn't bombing oil-rich countries...

1) Anyone spotted using a hands-free kit when they're not in a car will have their hands removed instantly. Especially if they're holding the phone to their ruddy mouths anyway. Off with their hands. Now who's hands-free, bucko?

2) Women's magazines are hereby banned from making things up, then ridiculously 'proving' they're true by writing "sources close to Brad and Ange confirmed this." Grazia is perhaps the main culprit of this shit-smearing brand of journalism. Well guess what? I just spoke to sources close to Grazia and, apparently, everyone in the office smells of bums and wee.

3) Driving more than 2mph below the speed limit will be as punishable as driving 2mph over the limit. Anyone caught doing 40mph in a 60mph zone will have their license and car taken away, only to be replaced by a push bike and a snazzy set of lights.

4) Rom-coms will be banned. This might seem harsh, but it's for the greater good. Ask yourself this: have you ever watched a rom-com then, as the credits roll, thought "ha ha, well, that sure was amusing as well as being a realistic portrayal of how relationships usually work out. Good on them!" If your answer is 'yes', then you're banned too. Jennifer Aniston will just have to carve out a new niche.

5) Stupidity in public is a criminal offence. Sure, be an idiot in your own home, but don't inflict your barren mind-bastardry on the rest of us.

6) Anyone sporting a beard with no moustache will only be allowed outside during Halloween.

7) I shouldn't be allowed near a keyboard when I'm this tired.

8) This is little more than a collection of words slipping out of my baggy mind onto a page now.

9) I'm going to stop. This has all been rather silly.

10) If anyone really wants a hug they should just be able to ask a stranger without it seeming weird. But you're not allowed to be insulted if they say no. Yeah. I see no way in which that wouldn't improve the world.

11) Can I have a dishwasher?

12) I think I can see a fox outside. Hmm.

It's a sign...

2011-07-31T02:19:00.000-07:00

It really is a sign. I saw it the other day and it blew me away. So specific. At least I know what to do next time someone's genitals catch fire. Perhaps this is where the Kings of Leon got the idea for that song? You know the one... Use Somebody's Sexy Fire? Something like that.

As for the bit about discarding after use, I can't be sure at the moment if that is referring to the blanket or your friend's fire-ravaged weenus/tuppence. I guess you should make a judgement call at the time. Seems a shame to throw a blanket away, but what are you going to do with barbecued babymakers?

It sure is a jungle out there.

This happened. Was Great.

2011-06-25T09:46:00.000-07:00

Take a moment to look at this image. Really drink it in. If you feel the need to weep, please do. I know I did.

I went to a place and asked a man for some pies and this happened. That's right. All I asked for was some pies. What I received was a gift from the heavens so awesome in its majesty that I'm finding it hard to look at any other plates of food with anything other than utter contempt. I was ready to get down on one knee and marry the pies there and then, but animal instinct took over and I shoved them all inside my gob instead. I would attempt to describe the joy I experienced whilst eating the pies, but our language isn't advanced enough to fully convey such wonderful splendour. So I will simply leave you with this image. Thankfully, my first mouthful took my breath away to such an extent that I was able to fire off a quick shot before I continued smashing it right down my face. Come join me as I pray at the pie altar...

Yeah, I'm still going with this...

2011-06-18T02:46:00.000-07:00

First off, let me tell you that as I write this I'm in that uneasy place the morning after a big night where I'm treading the fine line between still being drunk and embarking on a full-blown hangover. So I make no apologies about the spelling/punctuation/grammar mistakes that creep into this entry. Right now I would probably weep tears of pure joy if someone offered to drive to MacDonald's for me and deliver a steaming hot patty of delicious reconstituted beef to my mouth. Shreddies just aren't going to cut it today I fear.

Anyway, my unpleasant feeling aside, it turns out getting hold of that Bieber photo is harder than I'd imagined. The fact that the person who owns it is on a two-week holiday doesn't help. And obviously it's really important... Remind me, why the fuck did I start down this path?! It seemed like a good idea at the time. Now it just feels like a bad joke that wasn't funny in the first place and now I'm having to explain it to someone, thus making it even less funny. Poo.

Nonetheless, I did find two much older photos that hint at what's to come, so I thought I'd share them anyway.

Exhibit A:

Just take a moment to drink this image in. That's me, footloose and fancy free, dashing along a beach somewhere without a care in the world. And a head covered in blonde, Beiber-esque, smashing hair. And let me just clear something up; yes, those are jelly shoes, and yes, I am essentially sprinting along the shoreline in pants and a t-shirt. Maverick. That's not the kind of thing I'd get away with these days. That woman in the sea fell over with shock and admiration.

Exhibit B:

More glorious hair. I wish it was still that colour. It's like a shining, glossy helmet. Andy yes, that is a terry towelling vest and short combo. And yes, I am wielding a rock in an intimidating manner. I might be a small child here, but you can tell I'm ready to dash you upside the head in an instant. "Criticize my attire and you can wave goodbye to your front teeth, bucko." That's my late grandfather on the right. You can tell he's impressed.

It's 11:12 on Saturday morning, I feel like two pounds of shit in a one-pound bag. I have no idea why I've just written a blog entry. I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S GOING ON.

Still Beliebing...

2011-06-10T04:39:00.001-07:00

Apologies for the wait, it turns out getting hold of the pics and finding time to put them on here is a lot more tricky than I'd anticipated. Trickier than a bag of monkeys, certainly. Hopefully the weekend will prove fruitful, because I know at least one person (me) is dying to see them on this page.

On a different note, I just took a swig from a full cup of coffee and it was stone cold. That was one of the most unpleasant experiences I've had. Right up there with walking barefoot through a dog's dirty protest last summer.

Belieb me when I say...

2011-06-03T04:19:00.000-07:00

Brace yourselves, dear reader (someone reads this, right?), for I have some surprising news. Having shuffled through some (very) old photographs recently, I have come to the conclusion that I might need to have Justin Bieber arrested... He stole my style! Yes, it turns out that when I was 13 I rocked something of a Bieber 'do'. Where did it all go so wrong...?!

Anyway, I'll get the pic scanned and present it here in the next few days/weeks for you all to have a darn good gander at.

I'll be watching you, Bieber. Any hint that you're sliding towards a mid-teen breakdown of spots, poor clothes, goofiness, shocking hair and all-out lady repelling and I'll be onto you like a giant, swooping hornet's nest built by the law. Perhaps.

Snotty Bugger

2011-05-22T12:27:00.000-07:00

As I was strolling from Canada Water tube station to my little office last week, I glanced upon a small boy walking alongside his mother. Suddenly, something caught my eye. Instantly, my gaze was drawn towards a silvery trail running half the length of his sleeve, as though a daredevil slug had conducted its own X-Games on his forearm. Clearly this young lad was still at that carefree, joyful age when wiping a runny nose on his clothing was still totally acceptable, nay encouraged. Occasionally I smell something that takes me back to my childhood – the smell of rain after a particularly hot spell, cut grass – but rarely have I seen something that reminds me of being a young whippersnapper quite like this. How unfortunate that in this instance it was a small boy’s grubby sleeve. Groceio, as some might say…

Anyway, it got me thinking about other stuff that was once entirely acceptable or enjoyable, that we gradually grow out of as we get older. I mean, come on, when was the last time you remedied a dripping shnoz with brisk rub from your favourite sweater? And does anyone really have a favourite sweater anymore? So here you go, a brief rundown of other stuff I used to do, but gave up as time took its toll…

1) Be honest, when was the last time you pointed to various relevant parts of your anatomy whilst singing “Milk, milk, lemonade, round the corner chocolate’s made”? Once a playground mainstay; now relegated to occasional wistful thoughts over several alcoholic beverages. As a youngster, there was no situation where that rhyme wasn’t perfectly appropriate. As an adult? Next time you’re asked to give a presentation in work, deliver that and see how it goes down. Maybe wink and tap your nose before doing the bit about chocolate/poo. Let me know how that goes down.

2) A couple of weeks ago I saw a little boy standing on his seat on the train, banging on the windows with excitement at the sights whizzing past outside. I no longer have that excitement about Berrylands rail station. And even if I did, standing on my seat and screaming would see me swiftly arrested upon arrival at Waterloo. Shame.

3) Once upon a time, a little boy called Andrew John Durrant had the sweetest fucking mauve tracksuit you’ve ever seen in your life. What’s more, it had MY INITIALS ON THE CHEST. I strolled around, knee-high to a fully-grown adult human, earning nothing but respect and praise for my outfit. Nowadays, I’d be routinely shouted at in the street, mocked, laughed at and maybe even physically assaulted. Who’s in the wrong? I don’t make the rules.

4) When I was at school, maybe up to the age of about 12, I would head out for lunch, play football for an hour and return to afternoon classes a sweaty, sweaty, red-faced, sweaty mess. I didn’t feel self conscious, nobody minded, everybody did it; it was fine. If I went back into the office after lunch, covered in sweat and smelling like an alpaca’s genital rucksack, I’d be called into a meeting about personal hygiene quicker than James Corden could eat a Gregg’s steak bake.

Anyway, it’s Sunday, I’m tired and no one is paying me to do this, so that’s your lot. Cheers for now, see you again soon.

Signs

2011-04-05T14:55:00.001-07:00

Just thought I'd do this quickly. Look at this road sign...

I'm assuming anyone who holds a current UK driving license will be aware that this sign signals that you can drive at the National Speed Limit. Therefore, on roads where you see this, the limit is 60mph, or 70mph for dual carriageways.

Anyone driving at 40mph past these signs deserves to have their bum stitched to their own mouth, thus completing the vile circle of detritus that they already represent in my eyes. I've thought about it and it turns out I'm not over-reacting.

Thanks.

Joy Sad Joy Sad

2011-03-25T08:49:00.000-07:00

All too often, it has to be said, I take to these digital pages to grumble about something that’s irked me in the past few days/weeks/months/since I was born. For those of you who don’t see me all that often, you probably think I’m a right miserable old bludger. That’s only 99% true, so in order to show that I am genuinely content at least some of the time, I hereby vow to balance every moany statement of displeasure with a statement of inversely proportional floaty joy. I guarantee this will last for at least one post. So let’s kick this off with a passage of unbridled ecstasy. I’ll even do my best to end on a high too…

Reason to smile
Hooray! The clocks go forward this weekend! Lighter evenings! Summer’s on its way! A sneaky suspicion that the unremitting ruddy bleakness of winter is finally over! And who cares if we technically lose an hour of sleep? It’s a Sunday for Christ’s sake (literally), it’s not like I’ve got to be up for work; I’ll just stay in bed an extra hour! Delicious!

Reason to moan
Jim Carrey was wrong when he suggested in Dumb & Dumber that a loud, shrieking guttural sound was the world’s most annoying noise. Clearly it’s actually selfish people on the train (surprise, surprise…). This morning I was treated to a cacophony of clicking, whirring, beeping, tapping and general fuck-facedness. General rule: if you can hear the cunty sounds your phone is making, then so can everyone else in this cramped, enclosed space! Please either turn your phone to silent when in close proximity to hordes of potentially violent strangers, or LEAVE THE FUCKING THING ALONE FOR FIVE FUCKING MINUTES! FUCK!

Reason to smile
In just over a month I will be going to La Manga with three fantastic human beings for a week of sun, fun and no doubt lots of great chat. Who knows, if the weather’s decent I might even come back a slightly darker shade of translucent! It’s been 10 years since the four of us last went on holiday together, so this will be a real pleasure. Looking forward to it massively.

Reason to moan
Service providers – you know, those companies supposedly in existence to provide us with services – are being a bunch of throbbing arseholes again. Given that Barclays has just paid the head honcho a reported £6million bonus, you’d have thought dealing with my credit card application would be a stroll in the park. I mean, any company dishing out bonuses like that must be well-oiled, ruthlessly efficient machines that constantly surpass expectations of excellence, no? Apparently not. 1 month, 2 letters and a host of pointless, confused and utterly rancid phone conversations later, I’m still no closer to getting said card. Given that I’ve held a current account with them since I was about 4, you’d have thought it would be pretty simple. Elsewhere, I recently discovered that Vodafone have been charging me 83p every day for the past two-and-a-half months for accessing the Internet on my phone. Actual number of times I’ve accessed the Internet on my phone = zero. Cool.

Reason to smile
Two of the greatest couples in the world have recently announced that they are expecting! I’m absolutely over the moon for them and can’t wait for the mini humans to arrive later this year. Great day for the club! To top it all off, I’m even going to be Godfather to one of them! Wowaweewa! From now on I will only respond when addressed as The Godfocker. What’s that? Andy? I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.

Reason to moan
I’m not sure if it’s my newfound interest in coffee, the almost tracing paper-thin nature of my bedroom curtains or the close proximity of the railway station, but I honestly don’t think I’ve had a full night’s sleep in about two months. Pretty annoying really. I even tried sleeping in an eye mask last night to cut out the light. Turns out it’s about as comfortable as being teabagged ALL NIGHT.

Reason to smile
Ummm… lambs… lambs and all that? Daffodils.

Bi-monthly review

2011-02-25T08:30:00.000-08:00

Incidentally, that heading has nothing to do with people who have a broad field of sexual preferences. That'll come up in future though possibly? Who knows...

Well, it’s now February 25th and Christmas seems like an absolute age ago. It’s at roughly this time of year that I realise I’m thoroughly bored of cold weather and thoughts turn to the upcoming summer. Like some kind of brainwashed idiot bastard, I still think of summer as being a few months of dazzling sunshine and warmth, even though the last time that happened was sometime in the 1970s. I blame Wimbledon. And ants. Sneaky. Let's face it, we're probably going to get 2-3 hours of direct sunlight sometime in June and that'll be it.

Anyway, as I reach this temperature-based watershed, I thought it might be a good opportunity to look back at the things I’ve achieved so far in 2011…

1. I went to the dentist for the first time in about 5 years. You might think that’s an extreme length of time to go without having the nashers checked, and you’d be right. The thing is, last time I went to dentist he charged me £60 just to look at the bastard things, then told me he’d be needing in the region of £300 to sort them out. I spat in his general direction – he asked me to, it was that mouthwash stuff, not an act of defiance – then ran away crying into my wallet and never went back. So imagine my surprise recently when I finally found an NHS dentist, had a check up for 16 reasonable English pounds, and was told that my teeth are in great condition and the only work I needed was to replace my one and only filling because it was a bit old. So there you go, apparently I’m a great brusher and have exemplary oral hygiene. But it all begs the question: what the fuck was the previous thieving tooth shit going on about?! Was he some kind of tooth fairy crime lord? Arses.

2. I finally investigated Spotify. Very rewarding. I can now listen to tracks like Don Henley’s Boys Of Summer and Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing without ever having to pay for them. There’s no downside to that arrangement. Still can't get the brigging Facebook friends’ playslists thing working though…

3. I pulled a hamstring. Standard. It’s my once-a-season ritual. Thankfully it didn’t tear this time. That would have been a proper bugger.

4. Last week I wrote the final ever issue of the Buffy & Angel magazine. Sadface. It is no longer part of my job to watch episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel in the office. Genuinely upset.

5. Perhaps my greatest achievement so far this year is commuting into London every day without punching anyone’s face. I walk a tightrope every day. Fall one way and the result is a train carriage full of violence and rude words. Fall the other way and I slowly curl up into a ball of frustration so tight that I eventually disappear under my own field of gravity.

What a start to the year I’ve had. It sure puts Colin Firth to shame! Loser.

2011? Already?

2011-01-28T08:25:00.000-08:00

So, it turns out my enthusiasm for this blogging lark has been on a downward trajectory since roughly 5 minutes after I wrote my very first one. It’s not that I don’t enjoy sitting on my own and typing a load of balderdash every now and then – quite the opposite – it’s just that as free time decreases, tiredness tends to increase. It’s an unavoidable vicious tangle of circular swords, wires and vipers. Something like that anyway. And, in all honesty, if I’m going to do any writing during my spare time, I should really be doing something that might actually benefit me in some way. Like writing that movie script/sit-com/book I’ve always dreamed about…

Nonetheless, in complete contrast to everything I’ve just said, I’m going to try writing a few blogs every now and then anyway. Because it’s fun. And who knows, maybe someone hugely influential will read them one day and decide to offer me an amazing job. Pigs do fly. Occasionally. But only if you involve an electric current or bombs.

I’m gonna kick off 2011 with a look back at 2010 and my awards to the great and good from the previous 365 days. So here goes…

2010 Man of the Year – He’s won it before, and with another exceptional showing this year the award simply had to go to ‘Papa’ John Schnatter. What a man. Truly. Throughout 2010 Papa John delivered high quality delicious pizza treats directly to my mouth at affordable prices and with a song in his heart. The introduction of ‘Papa’s Lounge’ and the fantastic money-saving offers it brought only made the whole experience that much more rewarding.

Machine of the Year – Without doubt, the Blue Disco – aka my old Peugeot 106. After nine wonderful years of service, the Disco finally shuffled off in search of new adventures. He’d become very ill and needed more attention than I could afford to give him. Now, with a new owner who can smother him with love, he looks set to enjoy the twilight of his life in rude health. One of the automobile world’s last remaining characters, the Blue Disco was one hell of a machine.

I’m going to have to stop there. Not because I’ve run out of time, but because I can’t remember much else from last year. Funniest moment? No idea. Best film? Was Flight of the Navigator released last year? I guess that’s the trouble with turning 30. Unless it’s written down, it’s gone…

‘Till next time…

Reality TV

2010-11-23T09:42:00.000-08:00

As a general rule of thumb I’m not an enormous fan of reality TV. Most of the shows are filled with vacuous imbeciles who clearly have a thoroughly overblown opinion of themselves. The worst part is that large sections of the general public lap these people up and celebrate them as if they’re actually worth celebrating. I just don’t get it. That’s more a comment on society than the contestants themselves, of course.

However, the one reality show I genuinely enjoy watching is I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here. Something about the format makes it infinitely better than the other festivals of reality shit that pour out of the telebox on a regular basis. Maybe it’s the consistently amusing quips of Ant & Dec that keep it moving along so brilliantly. Perhaps it’s the variety of familiar faces on offer that maintains interest. Or maybe it’s just the fact that it’s set in a jungle in a tropical location. I don’t know. What I do know is that I’m A Celeb offers up a far more entertaining slice of television than all of the other reality shows put together.

Let’s look at the facts: these are people probably accustomed to living in a fair degree of comfort, and here they are co-existing in some genuinely testing conditions with cameras pointing at them constantly. Bad performances in tasks deprive them of a decent meal, jungle creepy crawlies the size of a small dog wander through camp 24/7 and they’re sleeping on makeshift camp beds out in the open in a fucking jungle! I mean just look at the X-Factor – if some deluded fuckwit gets up and attempts Bryan Adams instead of Westlife, Louis Walsh will gush over them for performing outside their comfort zone. Seriously?! Throw the fucker in the jungle, make them eat rice and beans and shit in a bucket for three weeks, then we’ll see if they’re outside their ruddy comfort zone!

Even z-list celebrities who are only famous because they were once tag-teamed by a group of footballers gradually earn your respect on I’m A Celeb. It’s hard not to feel an ounce of admiration for someone willing to selflessly devour a marsupial’s anus just to provide meals for their fellow campers. Would you even do that for your mates, let alone a bunch of strangers you’ve only recently been thrown into a jungle with? Equally, if one of the contestants is a genuine cretin (cough, McKeith, cough), it’s impossible for them to hide it in such circumstances. People’s true colours will inevitably shine through in such testing conditions, for better or for worse.

As such, Big Brother, X-Factor, Britain’s Got Talent and The Only Way Is Essex can all go swivel if you ask me. Nothing more than sickly exercises in self-aggrandisement and disgustingly undeserved backslapping. Strictly Come Dancing can stay if it likes. It all seems very good natured and doesn’t do anyone any harm. Plus the female dancers are all very pretty. But I’m A Celeb continues to rule in my eyes. I’ll leave you with a brief list of facts to have been thrown up by the latest series:

1) Gillian McKeith has single-handedly earned her children at least a year’s worth of bullying. Cheers mum.

2) The combination of this year’s I’m A Celeb and Google Images has probably guaranteed at least an extra 10 million people have now seen Kayla Collins’ vagina.

3) Dom Joly should be referred to forever more as “The Voice Of The Nation”.

4) Stacey Solomon proves that all can be forgiven if you go on I’m A Celeb after X-Factor.

5) She also proves that hyperventilation needn’t interrupt speech.

6) Gillian McKeith is just one year older than Nigella Lawson. I’m not saying I’m particularly attracted to Lawson, but it makes me think I’d rather eat what she’s eating than what Gillian says we should eat.

7) I still don’t bother voting for anyone.

8) Having dated both Kara Tointen and Caroline Flack, it’s safe to assume that Joe Swash practises mind control.

Don't bother asking the butler...

2010-09-24T07:07:00.000-07:00

If, like me, your daily intake of the news consists largely of skimming over the important stories and concentrating instead on the tales of pigs with three testicles and trees that smell like Battenberg, you will probably have noticed that AskJeeves.com recently published a list of the top 10 “unanswerable” questions. I was intrigued to discover what these questions were and very much looked forward to rubbing my chin and exhaling loudly as I nodded in agreement with Jeeves. These questions really must be too hard, I confidently assumed. In many ways I was already feeling a little bit sorry for the chap, after all he’s just a butler and here he was expected to make sense of questions that are physically impossible to answer! The poor bastard. Imagine my surprise then, when the majority of them actually seemed positively ‘answerable’. Follow me down the garden path as I attempt to answer the top 10 unanswerables.

1. What is the meaning of life?
Honestly? There is no meaning of life. It just happened and now we’re here. Why does it have to have a meaning? Just enjoy it you overly analytical brain-bastard. I saw a poo on the pavement earlier. It didn’t have a meaning; it was just smelly.

2. Is there a God?
There are loads. And they’re all fictional. My personal favourite is Ate, the ancient Greek goddess of foolish actions. I mean, who doesn’t love You’ve Been Framed, right?!

3. Do blondes have more fun?
No. Fun people have more fun. I’m fairly sure it’s not hair colour dependent. Hugh Hefner had brown hair back in the day. You do the math.

4. What is the best way to lose weight?
Seriously? This question was deemed unanswerable?! Jeeves, pack your bags and get out. GET OUT. HOP IT! Obviously the best way to lose weight is to stop eating all that shit and do some fucking exercise.

5. Is there anybody out there?
OK, so this one is a bit tricky. Unless you just mean outside your house, in which case, yes, there is someone out there. If you mean out there in space, I’m going to go with “yes” here too. If the universe is infinite, I find it hard to believe there isn’t at least one other planet with the right conditions for life. We’ll probably never meet them though. Infinity is quite a large distance. Longer than a marathon, certainly.

6. Who is the most famous person in the world?
The correct answer to this is, “Who gives a ruddy arse?”

7. What is love?
To quote Owen Wilson in Wedding Crashers, “True love is the soul's recognition of its counterpoint in another.” That’s lovely, but it’s rubbish. I love Papa John’s XL Hawaiian, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t have a soul to reflect mine. I think it’s when you care for someone or something enough that the thought of them coming to harm makes your stomach go all scrunched up. And that’s why I personally believe pizza delivery men should all drive Volvos.

8. What is the secret to happiness?
Good health, good friends, good family, good times. Oh, and an endless pile of money. When I hear people say you can’t buy happiness, it makes me want to punch them really hard right on the bloody face. 90% of my day-to-day stress and worry stems from money or the lack thereof. Remove 90% of my stress and I guarantee I’ll be happier.

9. Did Tony Soprano die?
I’m afraid I genuinely can’t answer this one, as I never watched the show. If I had to guess, I’d say he survived, moved to Sheffield, built the world’s largest Laser Quest arena and grew an impressive, but not award-winning moustache.

10. How long will I live?
If you honestly think that an Internet search engine will be able to answer that, then there’s a good chance you’re already brain dead.

Weddings

2010-08-30T08:38:00.000-07:00

By and large, I love a good wedding I do. I've been to four so far this year and have another one coming up in September. Beyond that, I'm already signed up for two next year. It's not often I get to wear a suit and it's pretty rare these days that it's possible to get all your friends in one place at the same time for a big knees up. What's more, weddings present a great opportunity to revel in two of your friends being truly happy. Splendid. If there wasn't a clear and obvious man code to stick to, I might even shed a tear. A joyful one, of course. However, as a seasoned wedding guest, I've noticed a few things about the whole wedding scenario that can be slightly less enjoyable. They're minor and wholly irrelevant in all honesty, but this is a blog where I tend to moan about things, so here goes nothing...

1) Hotel Pillows
Attending weddings usually involves staying at a hotel for the night. Generally speaking, I absolutely love staying in hotels. Something about them makes me happy. Hotel pillows, however, are the biggest can of stinking arse I've ever come across. Seriously, is it that hard to make a comfy pillow that suits the anatomy of the average human being? They're either harder than a steroid abuser's quadricep, or so big that they simply don't work as something to rest your head on. I was recently confronted by a pillow that required the possession of a neck three feet long in order to comfortably lie down and simultaneously rest your head atop the foamy monstrosity. I know some African tribeswomen stretch their necks with rings and all that business, but last time I checked they don't visit Travelodges all that often. I'm fairly certain that a pillow shouldn't require the removal of one's head in order to sleep soundly.

2) Obesity
With all the delicious food, canapes and booze on offer, abstinence is impossible. Add to the equation the fact that I've probably missed 75% of my football preseason this year through various Stag Dos and weddings, and it's not hard to see why I'm currently morbidly obese. OK, ok, that's possibly a bit of an exaggeration, but I'm way over my fighting weight and the big KO is next weekend. Could be interesting, in a breathless and horrifyingly rubbish kind of way. A bit like my first ever sexual experience I guess...

3) Suffering
Now that I'm *cough* 30 *cough cough*, it's taking me longer to get over a heavy drinking session. Weddings usually involve pre-dinner champers, table wine, then beer and spirits for the rest of the night. It's little wonder that I spend most of the next week feeling like I've been strapped to the bumper of a dodgem and ridden around by an angry squadron of gypsies.

4) Hymns
The lyrics are stupid, I don't know the tune and I hate singing. Other than that they're great.

Actually, do you know what? As I write this, I realise that none of these problems are really wedding specific at all. I was simply trying to find a suitable theme to hang them on. I love weddings and I'm hugely grateful to all my friends for inviting me along to share their most special day. You're all amazing and I'm truly happy for you.

In hindsight, I really should've called this blog post "I'm an unfit old c**t with serious self-control issues who can't handle booze anymore, but appreciates how it helps him sleep on even the most uncomfortable hotel pillows. Plus religion blows."

Not quite as catchy though eh?

Me - Factfile

2010-07-20T12:59:00.000-07:00

July – it’s been a bad month for this blog. Most of my ramblings have been inspired by annoyances, hatred and contempt. Unfortunately, save for the usual gripes, July has been a joyous month so far. Bugger. I won’t bore you with any of that. Instead, I’ll offer up a quick factfile about myself, your blogger.

• Until the age of twelve I believed that Siamese twins were conjoined cats.

• Sex Education at the age of 10 messed me up pretty bad.

• Turning 30 in just over a month terrifies me.

• If I could only eat one genre of food for the rest of my life it would be Italian. No doubt. Pasta and pizza rule my world. Sure, I’d miss curries and Chinese, but I probably couldn’t live without pasta.

• Seeing people get hit in the face by balls (of the sporting variety) will always be funny. So long as they’re all right afterwards, of course. Even if they weren’t it would probably warrant a laugh until I realised the severity of the situation.

• My second toe in is longer than my big toe. I see this as a strength. Others see it as a mutation. I can pick up stuff with my feet. They can’t. You do the math.

• I get overly embarrassed when a rubbish song comes on my iPod on the train. Not that I ever listen to it loudly on public transport. But there’s still always the outside chance that someone will hear me listening to ‘Call the Shots’ by Girls Aloud, and that won’t do anything for my public profile.

• I would probably do just about anything for a good payday right now. Make me an offer. Let’s test this shit out.

• I’d like to live in a foreign country. England is waaaay too aggro for my liking. I appreciate that’s a sweeping generalisation, but I’ve just got back from Madrid where hundreds of thousands of people were celebrating a football game by getting extremely drunk in the street. I didn’t see one bit of trouble, and you hardly knew the police were even there. That could never happen in London.

• I can’t sleep on my back. And I can’t sleep on planes without medication.

• If I could have any super power, it would be the ability to stop time still yet be able to move around freely whilst everything else was frozen. I wouldn’t age at all during these periods. That would be awesome. The possibilities are endless.

• I’ve always been a dog man, but cats are definitely growing on me. Not literally. If only they didn’t have to shit in a box in your house. That’s a definite mark against them.

And once again I am spent. Maybe I’ll hit you with some more hot facts soon. Any questions/comments, fire away. Much love.

The Rucksack Conundrum

2010-06-02T09:15:00.000-07:00

There I was, minding my own business, when a complete stranger strolled up to me and put my life in very real danger. He didn’t have a knife, nor did he threaten to nudge me into the flow of oncoming traffic. He did something far, far worse. Quite simply, he uttered the dreadful words no sane person ever wants to hear: “Sorry, would you mind watching my bag for me whilst I pop to the loo?”

What a c**t. Does he have no shame?! For a man who worries as much as I do, this was the verbal equivalent of smashing my face in with fully-grown, adult male grizzly bear. I was right up the shitter and no mistake. The rules of conduct state that there was nothing I could do. You simply can’t say no to that request, no matter how dangerous a proposition it truly is. Better to go down in a blaze of glory than be regarded as a right rotten shit.

So off he trotted, leaving me with his bag, at which point four possibilities started racing through my mind.

1) The bag has a bomb in it and I’m standing here right at the epicentre of the shit storm. Not only am I going to be shortly pulverised into some kind of fleshy soup, but CCTV images will later identify me as the murderer of countless other innocent victims. Of course, the alternative is that I call the police and waste everyone’s time as they shut off the whole of London to carry out a controlled explosion on a bag probably containing nothing more dangerous than an A4 jotter and a flapjack. Ruddy Hell.

2) What if someone takes a liking to the bag and decides to try stealing it? As temporary custodian of said oversized satchel, it will be my responsibility to either give chase or engage the would-be thief in an ugly bout of mortal combat. There’s a very real chance that I’m going to get my face punched off simply because one bag-carrying bastard can’t control his bladder. Awful. £10 says the thief is Jean Claude Van Damme too. Great, now I’m going to get my face kicked to smithereens.

3) What if he never comes back? I can’t leave it now; the verbal man-contract is utterly binding. Will I have to stand here with this distasteful rucksack forever and ever and eternity? Will I slowly ebb away right here in public as some idiot’s backpack stares at me with its zipper like a shit-eating grin? Panic heightens.

4) Of course there’s always the chance he’ll come back in about four minutes time, thank me and head off with his leathery, bag-shaped mistress to torment some other poor bugger. All my worrying will have been for nothing. He’ll have made an idiot and a victim of me in one terrible swoop.

As it happens, he returned quicksmart, thanked me endlessly and was utterly apologetic. So I kicked him in the neck and told him to grow up.

More observations

2010-04-18T14:37:00.000-07:00

I'll let you in on a little secret here; when I do these random observation blogs it's because I feel guilty about not having written in a while but have neither the time nor the inclination to construct a well thought out and informed rant right now. Therefore I just write lots of things that I've seen recently that have either annoyed or amused me. Sometimes things amaze me too, but it's quite rare these days. So there you have it. I'm fobbing you off with some lazy verbal toss. Don't hate me too much.

+ It's been one of the most joyously sunny days of the year so far today. I spent most of it indoors trying to make the flat as dark as possible for photography purposes. I suck.

+ That said, I did play 90 minutes of football yesterday in the blazing sunshine, leading to a burnt face and mild sunstroke. The weekend wasn't a complete washout...

+ Icelandic volcano. What a c***.

+ Playing football yesterday also alerted me to the fact that it is possible to be athletic even though your legs are the width of a grass snake. I swear Peter Crouch's skinnier brother was playing against us yesterday. He should have had a pie at half time, not an orange slice.

+ The warm weather really does divide people. I saw someone today wearing a wooly hat and a warm jacket. Shortly down the road I saw someone practically naked. It begs the question, what does the first person do in the dead of winter, and what the hell does the second person do when it's genuinely hot? Some people have messed up internal thermostats. Either that or they're fucking imbeciles.

+ I know it's petty, but I'm starting to consider deleting my Facebook account. It's not because I hate the bizarreness of it all. No. It's not even because I have to constantly see photos of other people in exotic locations clearly having far more fun than me sat at my desk in work. Goodness no. The only reason I'm thinking of leaving the biggest social networking site in the world today is because of the truly horrific standard of grammar and punctuation used by the majority of people on it. Just to clarify, they're, their and there are three completely different words with entirely different meanings. We're and were are not the same thing, and neither are to and too. If a post spans more than six or seven lines it's likely a full stop or a comma were needed in there at some point. I don't think I'm friends with anyone younger than 20 on Facebook. There are no excuses.

Right, low quality rant over. Hopefully I'll think of something more interesting to say soon. Either that or I'll post a photo of my face looking mildly disgruntled. A picture paints a thousand words and all that...

Parking Spacko

2010-04-04T13:41:00.000-07:00

OK, OK, I know. "Spacko" isn't a particularly PC thing to say these days. But last time I checked, being a gigantic c**t isn't particularly PC either, so I think I'm well within my rights to use the phrase in this instance. Let me tell you why...

Outside my flat there is a short stretch of kerb with enough room for two cars to park along. Thinking rationally about it, a stretch of kerb long enough for two cars should, most of the time, be occupied by two cars. Unless, however, some useless weasel decides to park his/her car bang in the middle of the space. I see this as a very bizarre piece of decision-making, and there are only two possible reasons for it:

1) He/she is a hugely inconsiderate fuckwit. They know they're filling a 2-car space with just one car, and they hold the rest of society in such contempt that they simply don't give a shit. Obviously this makes them one of the most vile human beings you're ever likely to meet. If I ever realise my dream of forming a small task force, popping balaclavas on and driving around the neighbourhood in a black van with baseball bats, dishing out vigilante justice towards all the cretins we stumble across*, this person will be at the top of my hit list. (*note to police - I don't really dream about doing that. If that ever happens, it wasn't me. )

2) He/she is so blunderingly stupid that they don't have the capacity to think any further than the fact that the car has come to a standstill. In fact, they're probably surprised that they've stopped without hitting a wall. They simply have no idea that a space that size could fit two cars if they had parked properly. They are as thick as the proverbial puddle of pig excrement. Instead of receiving a certificate saying "FAIL" for their GCSEs, they simply received a sharp punch in the mouth from the board of examiners.

So in summary, the person whose car is currently dreadfully parked outside my flat is either a hugely inconsiderate anus face, or is less intelligent than a recently deceased fir tree. Neither rank especially high on the "ideal human characteristics" list. It's highly likely that I hate this person.

Thankfully it's Easter and I've just eaten the face off a Lindt rabbit, so the task force can remain at ease for the immediate future...

Females = Different

2010-03-23T15:53:00.001-07:00

I'll keep this very brief because it's 10:46pm and, quite frankly, I'd much rather be in bed right now. Maybe this should be called "Females = Different: Pt.1" because there are likely to be many more entries on this theme. And before anyone sets fire to a bra and throws it at me, different doesn't necessarily mean bad. Simple observations. I'll leave it up to you to decide the rights and wrongs in this case...

Anyway, the single event that prompted this entry occurred tonight. Quite simply, I handed a ladywoman (who, for the purpose of this blog and factual correctness, will be referred to as my 'girlfriend') a small chunk of chocolate. At this point a male would've said something like, "Cheers mate," before scoffing it without a second thought.

Interestingly, however, the lady in question could only make basic noises as she strolled away to find a comfy chair. I've thought long and hard for a way to accurately put the noise she made into text, and this is the only way I could describe it...

Imagine you're saying something to a small child who is yet to master the art of speech. In fact, "dada" is about the pinnacle of their spoken word so far. OK, now imagine that same, speechless small child agreeing with something you've just said through the power of guttural noises. Now that is the exact noise this chocolate chomping, fully grown adult lady blurted out as she wandered off.

Fascinating. Clearly I'm not exactly breaking any new ground here, but I thought I'd share it with you nonetheless. Just cup your ear next time you see a female ladyperson grabbing some chocco. Truly fascinating.

Just some stuff

2010-03-17T08:46:00.000-07:00

Think my train hit a bird this morning on the way into Waterloo. Either that or a pillow. With jam in it. Not sure which is more likely.

Saw a guy with so much toothpaste around his mouth that he looked more like a fully made-up clown who had missed a bit.

Waterloo stunk of faeces this morning. I thought you weren’t supposed to flush the toilets whilst the train is in a station? I don’t make the rules. Who poos on a train anyway?

I’m noticing that many of my posts are train-related. Given the amount of time I spend on them I guess it’s understandable. Doesn’t make it right though. You don’t see Wayne Rooney blogging about lawns.

I’ve been listening to the Ricky Gervais podcasts quite a lot lately. It’s made me want to team up with a very tall Bristolian and write an award-winning TV series. I’ll settle for the West Country though if Bristol is too specific. If you’re out there, get in touch.

There is currently a small group of ladybirds (correct collective noun for a group of ladybirds, anyone?) squatting in my bathroom. When I say squatting, I mean they’re living there without permission. They’re not crouching in unison. Anyway, whilst I initially found this quite charming, it has now become something of an annoyance. Nobody needs a small, spotty beetle flying around their head when they’re trying to put a contact lens in their eye. I might kick them all in the teeth.

No. Not like that. Wrong.

2010-03-12T08:37:00.000-08:00

Very often I see things and wonder what the hell is going on. These are a few of those things that I have seen lately:

• It annoys me when I see people using their hands free kit for their mobile phone whilst simultaneously holding the phone to their mouth. Initially I thought there was a chance I was simply overreacting, but now I’m fairly sure I’m not. Firstly, as far as I’m aware, there is currently no law in the UK saying that you can’t walk and talk on a mobile phone. It’s not the same as driving. Secondly, if you’re going to hold the damn phone to your head anyway, why the hell do you need to use the hands free earphones. The clue is in the fucking name – HANDS FREE, i.e. you don’t need to use your hands.

• It’s always annoyed me, but I’ve only now thought of committing it to the page. Some people – and I must say, nine times out of ten it’s womenfolk – really swing their arms wildly when they walk. It’s usually only one arm because the other is holding something or hooked into a bag. The movement of their arm is ridiculously out of proportion to the speed at which they are walking. Not only does this A) pose a very real threat to the genitals of every passer by, but it also B) makes me wonder what the hell their arm does when they actually sprint. I can only imagine sprinting is an impossibility because the wild flailing of their arm puts them so off balance that they inevitably fall to the ground in some kind of thrashing tangle.

• Every morning I go to the same railway station. Every morning at exactly the same time (well, in theory…) the train turns up at said station. More often than not the train is the same length as every other morning. So, safe in that knowledge, when I arrive at the station I stroll down the platform to the rough area from which I will board the train. So why is it that every morning all the other people who catch the very same train every morning seem to wait in the middle of the platform until the front of the train whizzes past them, at which point they worriedly scramble en masse to the end of the platform? Are they honestly surprised every single day by the train’s actions? Do I commute with a collection of humanoid goldfish? It’s a daily occurrence that never fails to mystify me.

Busy.

2010-02-27T15:57:00.000-08:00

A quick glance to the right side of this page will tell you that I haven't blogged since November. Turns out I'm actually quite a busy chap these days and it's much quicker to moan about stuff orally. Nonetheless, I will do my best to leave the occasional grumpy rant for your reading pleasure. Does this one count? Well it's going to have to. I would write more, but tiredness is washing over me like a ruddy great shower of shite. Apparently that's a side effect of being busy all the time. Busy like a bee they say. Last time I checked, bees only work during the summer. That's not busy, that's bone fucking idle. Give me eight months off every year with full pay and I promise I'll knock out more blogs than a giddy American teenager.

Sadly I'm not a bee. Probably for the best. Sitting down must be a right pain with that stinger up their jaksi.

Aaaand I'm spent. See you in March...

Massively long cars full of shite

2009-11-26T06:03:00.000-08:00

If I could pass on one piece of knowledge to the next generation, it would be this: weird shit happens on trains. If you’re up for seeing some weird shit, just hop on the 9:11 from Surbiton to London Waterloo. I can guarantee you’ll see at least one thing that makes you question the human race. Take these examples, all of which I’ve witnessed in just the last week…

1) Arse bastard
There I was, crammed into an overfilled carriage, standing up with about 25 other people in a space built for no more than 10, when someone decided it was the right moment to fart. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m no killjoy; this kind of behaviour can be mildly humorous amongst friends, but surrounded by strangers on their way to work this is an utterly contemptible act of depravity. Firstly, it’s early in the morning. Hopefully all of these people are freshly showered, smelling great and just about coming to terms with the fact that they’ll be sitting at their desk shortly. Invading their nostrils with your bowel scent is a violation. What’s more, with no way of pinpointing the real culprit, everyone is suddenly flushed with the terrible thought that the people standing nearby might think it was they who did it. So, in summary, everyone is standing around with the stench of someone else’s arse in the back of their throat and the worrying feeling that everyone else blames them. Terrible start to the day and really, really awful behaviour. I hope he or she shat themself in the process.

2) Licky four eyes
Perhaps the weirdest thing I’ve seen this week was carried out by a middle-aged woman going through her entire ‘get ready for work routine’ whilst sitting down wedged between two total strangers. Doing makeup and all that jazz is quite normal on the train, you see it all the time. But this woman got her glasses out of their case and proceeded to lick each lens, front and back, before buffing them up with a small cloth. How is that an acceptable thing to do EVER, let alone in public?! Why, why would you do that?! Who licks their glasses clean for Christ’s sake? I hope she never needs a hearing aid… Presumably she wandered around for the rest of the day with her eyes smelling of saliva. Wonderful.

3) Coffee fucknuts
Finally, this isn’t particularly weird, just fucking annoying. As far as I can gather, it is physically impossible to walk off a South West Train without passing a bin. So why do people leave half full cups of coffee all over the place?! I’ll tell you why, because they’re rotten fucks, that’s why. They carried the bastard thing on, so presumably they have moderate control of their upper appendages. I don’t want to have to move it before I can sit down, just because you’re such a clueless cretin that you couldn’t pop it in the bin. If I see anyone doing this in future I will shove it up their back pipe, plastic lid and all.

Commuters. Fucking weird.

Pigeons

2009-10-06T13:51:00.000-07:00

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.

Brief

2009-09-14T15:13:00.000-07:00

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.

Blackberries are evil

2009-08-27T06:35:00.000-07:00

Let me just clarify that statement – blackberries by their very nature are not evil. They are a useful and thoroughly modern tool that embody just how far the communications industry has come over the last few years. I remember when I first started university back in 1998. I opened a Barclays student account, primarily because they gave me a free mobile phone when I signed up. This thing was roughly the size of a young dog. Texting took hours, you had to wait for received messages to scroll across the screen to read them and it created an unsightly bulge in your pocket. Crystal clear reception though, I’ll give it that… What I’m trying to say is that mobiles have come a long way in 11 short years, and blackberries are right at the forefront of that.

BUT, and this is a ‘but’ of enormous proportions, in the wrong hands they are nothing but tools of pure evil. Not only do they have some of the clickiest buttons, but they also have a range of the most annoying noises known to man. If seated in an enclosed space with a number of strangers – some of whom might be trying to grab 40 winks – you or I would probably turn it to silent mode and perhaps leave rewriting the New Testament on it until you get somewhere more private.

However, there is a filthy, but expansive, underbelly that cares not for other people. The words ‘consideration’, ‘compassion’ and ‘not being a giant shit’ don’t feature in their vocabulary. They will leave the grating sound of the scrolling nubbin on as loud as possible before thumbing through several pointless pages of emails and a digital version of Heat magazine. Then they’ll punch out a 4,000-word reply to said emails, filled with more guff than a particularly flatulent herd of bison, all the while clicking louder than an arthritic pensioner doing squat thrusts.

Quite frankly this sort of behaviour is not on. But more often than not, as if to really rub extra-strong salt into the weeping wounds, they will follow this up by barking inane drivel at the top of their voices down the phone to someone who probably cares even less than I do what they’ve got to say. Recent random shouty comments I’ve overheard:

“Yeah, then we’ll have lots of sex darling! Naughty!” Ok, we get it; you’ve had sex with a woman before. Congratulations. No one on this train is either a) impressed, or b) interested. Shouting it loudly in a silent public place just makes it look incredibly unlikely that anyone in their right mind would ever let you put your rotten penis anywhere near them.

“Ok, Clive, I’m on the train, we’re coming in to Waterloo now, I’ll be in the office in five minutes.” Five minutes?! Will you call him again when you’re two-and-a-half minutes away?! Clive doesn’t care if you make it in to the office today at all because you’re a horribly shouty scrotum and everyone hates you. Stop pestering him.

So there it is. In the right hands, they represent everything that is good about mobile communications technology. But in the hands of society’s more repulsive members, they are pure and unnecessary evil. Give me back my dog-sized phone any day.

Time To Hate My Friends

2009-08-06T07:09:00.000-07:00

Yes, it's that time of year again – the Fantasy Football season. As of Saturday afternoon when the bidding starts in my mini-league amongst friends, all pleasantries will be thrown out of the window.

Bidding for players is probably the most stressful part of my life. Whoever said moving house, getting married or having children were the most horrific things you'll ever do have clearly never played Next Goal Wins, the fantasy league game with a twist. It's like eBay; I could be about to clinch a season-long deal for Robinho when - woomf! - some cheeky git could come in with a last-minute bid and steal him from under my nose. In this case, read 'some cheeky git' as 'one of my friends'. What makes this worse than eBay is that the player they stole will then mock me on a weekly basis throughout the season as they rattle in goals for the opposition. Sickening.

No longer is Final Score a pleasant saturday afternoon institution. Now everyone's worried about whether their players scored, got an assist or kept a clean sheet. "Yes! Bolton kept a clean sheet! What?! Gary Cahill didn't play?! ARE YOU INSANE!!!!???" The pain of missing out on points as your enemies get cheap points for an anal deflection cuts deep. It's pretty stressful alright.

What makes it even worse is that there really is no winning. If your team is bad, the weekly scoring is like a rusty dagger to the heart. Your lack of footballing nous is laid bare for everyone to scoff at. But worse still, if you're actually quite good and sit at the summit of the league you become something of a hate figure, living with the constant "you must be bumming the webmaster" jibes. It's tough out there. It's a frikkin jungle.

The worst part is that this isn't a bunch of strangers you're competing against; it's your nearest and dearest. So, to any of my friends who are involved in the annual painathon that is Next Goal Wins, I've had a lovely summer spending time with you all, but now it's time for the paranoia, hatred and clinical depression to return.

May the best man win.

Wanky Banky

2009-07-25T09:55:00.000-07:00

Banks are absolutely rubbish. It's a fact. And I'm not even talking about the fact that they basically fucked the entire world squarely into next week with their big bonuses and terrible decisions. No, I'm talking about something far less globally damning, but equally as absolutely ridiculous.

Last saturday night at roughly 8:00pm I withdrew £50 (mad) from a cashpoint at Clapham Junction station. Apparently, a mere hour later I also attempted to withdraw funds from a hole in the wall in Thailand. Even with my surprising turn of pace that's pushing it a bit. Fortunately, Barclays Fraud Department picked up on this straight away and the cheeky little bugger was denied the funds. Round One to the banks – good work. However, it did mean that I had to destroy my card and wait for a new one to arrive. Now this is where the utterly shit part of banking comes into play.

I was told that my new card would take "up to" 5 working days to arrive, which obviously meant "You definitely won't get it until the very end of that period." Straight away, that seems like a ridiculously long time to have to wait for something that important. I'm a member of Lovefilm and they can get a DVD to me in one day.

So that's pretty shit. The shittier thing is that I didn't have any money. Mr. Robbing Thai didn't exactly give me any warning that he was about to violate my account, so I was left with an empty wallet when I was told my card had been cancelled. The only way I could get money out was by taking two forms of ID to a branch of Barclays.

Now, that doesn't sound so hard, but you have to consider that they don't fucking open until 9:30. Then they close at 4:30. Given that I actually do that whole "job" thing, and I don't work anywhere near a branch of Barclays, I was utterly fucked. I don't know if you've ever tried going five days without spending a single pence, but it's pretty darn inconvenient, especially when most train companies expect you to pay to use their services on your way into work.

So, basically, if you have a job and aren't blessed with a local Barclays, it is physically impossible to go to a bank. What kind of totally wanky system is that?! Surely it's quite important that you have access to the people who fuck around with all your money? Clearly not. They might as well wait until everyone's asleep and open then instead. Or maybe open several branches in the middle of an inaccessible and inhospitable jungle. It would be just as easy to reach.

Either that or maybe they should just open AT LESS RIDICULOUS TIMES!!!

Wasps vs. Bees

2009-07-20T12:18:00.000-07:00

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.

Not old, just stupid?

2009-07-11T10:37:00.000-07:00

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.

Driving = Easy

2009-07-06T10:48:00.000-07:00

Yeah, that's a fact. Driving is a piece of piss, so why are so many license holders so utterly dreadful at it?! Isn't the whole point of the driving test to weed out people who can't do it? Are we to assume that examiners often say. "You were dreadful, I could've driven better than that if I clenched the steering wheel between my rubbery arse cheeks. Congratulations, you've passed"?

It's simple: point car in right direction, create an increasingly obtuse angle between your foot and your shin until desired speed is reached, touch brake pedal when you wish to slow down or stop. That really is all there is to it.

So why on Earth do you get people driving 20mph below the speed limit on long straight roads? Why do people not indicate when they're turning? Why do people pull out in front of me when there clearly isn't enough space/time? Why do people park straddling the white lines in a car park? Why do people park so far from the car in front that a 3-space area is reduced to a 2-space area? WHY ARE SOME PEOPLE SUCH AWFUL CRETINS????

But all the problems encountered on the local roads are nothing compared to the shit storm I drive through every time I'm on a motorway.

Again, it really is very, very simple: inside lane = driving. Middle lane = overtaking. Outside lane = overtaking the overtakers.

If you're not overtaking anyone, GET OUT OF THE FUCKING MIDDLE LANE, AND DEFINITELY DON'T GO ANYWHERE NEAR THE OUTSIDE LANE, YOU STUPID, STUPID BAG OF HORRIBLE SHIT!!

If everyone could abide by these very simple rules, driving would be a far more enjoyable experience in this country.

I'm off to buy a helicopter.

Lazy Bastard

2009-06-22T09:04:00.000-07:00

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.

View From Not On The Sill

2009-05-20T14:35:00.000-07:00

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.

Joe Public

2009-04-28T08:54:00.000-07:00

I used to be convinced that I hated the general public. I'm now older and wiser, and have come to the realisation that it's not the public at large that I hate. No. There are lots of pleasant strangers out there, just waiting for a jovial chance encounter, or the opportunity the make me smile by doing something amusing that they don't even know they're doing. And people-watching is one of the best activities in the world, especially when you have a beer in one hand and a tasty sandwich in the other. Yes, I've finally realised that I don't hate the general public, I actually quite like them/it from time to time.

However, this realisation opened another can of worms. If it's not the general public I hate passionately, who or what is it? What is it that makes me grind my teeth into oblivion on my way in to work? Why do I sometimes consider punching my own face off far more preferable to engaging with some members of the human race? And what is it that makes me go head mental and actually think about (for at least half a second) going on a brutal rampage through town centres as I go about my shopping?

Then I figured it out. It's not the general public; it's selfish, ignorant, rude , thoughtless, stupid, shit-brained idiots that I hate. For the purpose of this blog, we'll call them "Scrotes". And, worryingly, they are very much at large in society. They live amongst us, spreading their vile brand of cretinous behaviour far and wide. They affect us in almost everything we do, from ordering replacement windscreen wipers to simply walking in a straight line. When was the last time you were on a train and someone was chewing their gum so loudly that it was audible over the noise of a thousand-ton vehicle traveling at 80mph? Textbook Scrote behaviour. When was the last time you were shat on by someone working in customer services, despite the fact that their only task is to "service" the "customer"? Scrotal activity of the most sweaty and baggy variety. When were you last driving along, minding your own business, when a feral, caveman-like youth purposefully crossed the road slowly to make you hit the brakes in order to avoid hitting them? Rubbish, Scrote-faced shit fucks.

The Scrotes are taking over. We need to fight back. Would anyone really mind if shouty, ignorant, brain-dead tossers no longer existed? I dare say not. I'm often told ignoring them makes them go away, that their incomprehensible stupidity is their punishment. Maybe it is.

Regardless, I still think we should all put balaclavas on and throw urine-filled water balloons at the Scrotes in an operation of military precision. Anyone game?

Really high

2009-04-16T14:59:00.000-07:00

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.

Man's best friend

2009-04-06T15:00:00.000-07:00

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.

It's come to this

2009-03-30T15:04:00.000-07:00

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...).

Irrational fear of photographs

2009-03-23T14:38:00.000-07:00

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...

Quadra-spazzed

2009-03-18T09:05:00.000-07:00

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.

View from the sill

2009-03-12T09:11:00.000-07:00

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.

Bathing with Palmer

2009-03-03T05:06:00.000-08:00

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.

Oral buggery

2009-02-25T10:52:00.000-08:00

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...

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

2009-02-24T08:49:00.000-08:00

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.

Technology

2009-02-18T03:42:00.000-08:00

Mr. Timberlake and Dr. Cent (I may have my rap moguls mixed up there...) once said "Ayo! I'm tired of using technology!" Whilst I agree to some extent with their statement, there is only a 2% chance I would ever start a conversation with the word "ayo". To be honest with you, I'm not even sure what it means. Perhaps "by the way" wouldn't have fitted quite so well with the urban beat and hot US lick. I'm getting sidetracked.

Whilst I love technology to a point, it can also be quite infuriating at times. Sure, without technological advancements such as the personal computer, I wouldn't be writing this blog right now. Blogging would be a significantly more strenuous task if it involved writing each entry 1 million times on scraps of paper and stapling them to the back of pigeons in the hope that someone would read them. No less fun though of course.

So technology allows us to lead lives of leisure, pumps information into our brains 24/7 and opens doors that were never possible before.

But riddle me this: did anyone ever hear Neanderthal Man screaming "Why won't you fucking work you little shit stabber?!?!" at the top of his voice? No? Was it ever reported that Moses, in a furious rage, threw a remote control against the wall because it kept turning his Sky box off instead of flicking over to Dave +1? Perhaps not.

So you see, though these little technological advancements and gadgets have no doubt enriched our lives beyond measure, they can be right bloody shits sometimes too. So Amen Brother Timberlake and Father Cent, your wise, reasoned take on technology is not lost on me. Or should that be "Ayo"?

Magic Beauty

2009-02-14T03:15:00.000-08:00

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.

Power Bastard

2009-02-10T05:02:00.000-08:00

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.

Walking? Nonsense.

2009-02-04T15:15:00.000-08:00

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.

Snow and behold!

2009-02-03T09:58:00.000-08:00

For the past two days, the area in which I live has been blanketed in a foot of snow. I have never seen snow this deep in my life. Naturally, I was quite excited. Not only did it mean I couldn't get to work, but it also meant I could revert to childlike behaviour for an entire day without being severely punished. It's a great leveler, snow.

After spending a couple of hours in the white stuff, I came to the realisation that it could have two quite opposite effects on us humans. On one hand, it can unite communities like never before. However, it also has the ability to turn some people into utter cretins. Let me furnish you with examples...

Fully expecting to be heading into work on Monday morning, I'd set my alarm as usual on Sunday evening. As a result, I was up and about and free as a bird with the entire day at my disposal. Uncharacteristically, I strolled into the village to buy some bread and milk. I can honestly tell you I've never done that before. Walking? Bread and milk? Village? Nope, not me. Drive, multiple purchases, out of town shopping centre. That's more my style. Anyway, on my stroll I engaged is pleasant chat with numerous strangers along the way, something that NEVER happens where I live. Usually a right unfriendly bunch.

"Brrr! Eh?!"

"No point driving today huh?!"

"Up to my ruddy knee!"

That's just a slice of the jocular conversation pie that I feasted on. Heck, I even joined forces with a local family to push a lady's car back into her drive after it had become stuck on ice! I damn near high-fived each of my team mates before rolling my eyes, laughing and strolling on. I think I might even be having a game of squash with one of them on Thursday...

You get the picture. Strangers being drawn closer by a shared experience. In this case, our experience was being shat on by the sky gods. Nice white fluffy poo though, I might add!

But every positive must surely have an equal and opposite cretinous negative. Having dared to take to the roads later in the day, I stumbled across a fiercely idiotic dullard. And when I say "road," what I actually mean is "icy death path of doom." Not wanting to spin my chariot off the "road" I was sensibly ambling along at circa 20mph, as was every other well-adjusted, non-shit-brained driver. Except the guy behind me. He, in his sporty little 1 litre, rusty, older than Christ Citroen AX was sitting right on my bumper, flashing his lights and generally offending all of my senses. At this point in time, my car was probably going as fast sideways as it was forwards, the "roads" were so icy. Being a fan of staying alive, I wasn't going to speed up for this giant anus. For the next mile he attempted several dangerous overtaking manoeuvres. Don't get me wrong, I hate unnecessarily slow drivers, but these were no ordinary conditions.

Anyway, when the road widened a bit, he duly overtook me, nearly spinning out as he crossed a deep pile of snow, slush and ice in the middle of the "road". Perhaps the fact I was flicking him the bird and mouthing "W-A-N-K-E-R" as he blundered past put him off. I hope so. I hope he ended his journey upside down in a ditch, explaining to his obese wife that he was going to be late for his fried shit sticks and lard for dinner because he'd been a right fucking arse. I can hear it now...

"Sorry love.... late for shit sticks... yeah, ditch... no reason... I'm a cunt."

Something like that anyway.

So there you have it. Snow. It brings out the best in most, but the worst in a few. Let's hope the latter all have their shit sticks AND eat them next time the snow graces us with its presence.

Rubbish Fight

2009-01-31T10:48:00.000-08:00

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...

Pop Bollocks

2009-01-27T14:45:00.000-08:00

I'm torn. I don't know what to complain about first. I'll lay my cards on the digital table - I'm either going to scathingly attack the music industry, or just pick out the one individual I loathe the most. Because, quite frankly, so much about the music industry pisses me off nowadays. The only thing that might keep me from attacking the institution as a whole is the fact that, deep down, it's probably not the corporate big wigs' fault. No, it's the bloody general public who vote for a load of hyped up karaoke singers every bloody year and elevate them to some kind of magical shitstorm status. I can't hold a note, but I'm convinced if I had a makeover, made up some shit about losing a puppy in a punching accident and smiled idiotically enough, I could make it to the final of the X-Factor. As a result, every bastard would buy my Christmas single and carry me to number 1, despite it being an absolutely horrific bum rape of someone else's work. That's not Simon Cowell's fault. Sure he's the ringmaster, but he gets rich doing it. Christ, I'd bloody do it if I was on his money. It's the people who suck this tripe up that are at fault.

Erm, ok, so I kinda attacked it anyway. Well, I'm on a roll, so I'll rant about an 'artist' I truly detest. I'm only going to hint at her identity, because I don't particularly want to be boxed around the neck by a vicious crew of protectors. Here's the deal; she's been around for a while, all her songs are the same, she's a cock, she's shakes around like a fitting seal and her voice drills to my very core like a bolt of angry lightening. Every song is the same. I fully expect her next release to be titled "I HATE BLOODY MEN, THEY'RE SHITS," and the chorus will simply be her flicking the bird whilst shouting "I'M GOING LEZZA, COS ALL MALES EAT SHIT. FUCK!!" That's the song. Seriously, nip down to the bookies, it's going to happen. OK love, we get it, you're anti-men, now sing about something else or GO AWAY!!!! Obviously, that's just one man's opinion...

Pat on the back to the first person who guesses who it is.

Fancy that

2009-01-25T11:40:00.000-08:00

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...

2009-01-22T08:45:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-21T12:15:00.001-08:00

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

2009-01-21T11:45:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-01-20T11:09:00.000-08:00

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.

Kaka?

2009-01-17T04:57:00.000-08:00

£100 million for a Brazilian? Crikey. Time to head to a different salon if you ask me.

Business failure

2009-01-14T08:34:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-12T12:10:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-10T06:02:00.000-08:00

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.