Meh...

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

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...

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...

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.

This happened. Was Great.

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...

Snotty Bugger

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

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.