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.
Friday, 25 February 2011
Friday, 28 January 2011
2011? Already?
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…
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…
Tuesday, 23 November 2010
Reality TV
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.
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.
Friday, 24 September 2010
Don't bother asking the butler...
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.
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.
Tuesday, 20 July 2010
Me - Factfile
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.
• 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.
Wednesday, 2 June 2010
The Rucksack Conundrum
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.
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.
Sunday, 18 April 2010
More observations
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...
+ 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...
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