Oral buggery

The latest Walkers Crisps promotion has created an abomination.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Magic Beauty

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

That is all.

Power Bastard

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

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

Walking? Nonsense.

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

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

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

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

Rubbish Fight

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

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

Fancy that

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

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