The Ponce

I'm not very good at art. I did it at GCSE level, but only got a C, and I've always been a little bit suspicious that there was a sympathy element to that mark. When I look back through my old sketch books, it's obvious that art was not going to be the route I'd follow. Creative? Yes. Able to channel that creativity though my arm, into my hand and onto a piece of paper via a brush/pencil/other thing? More chance of visiting Woking and not seeing a single idiot. (If you've never been to Woking, I can confirm the odds are tremendously low.)

However, a few years ago I was sitting idly in a friend's kitchen, holding a pen in my hand and not paying much attention to what I was doing with it. When I looked down at the page before me the reality, nay, the gravity of the situation started to sink in. I'd created this man:



Ladies and gentlemen, it is an honour and a pleasure to introduce Derek the Ponce.

I don't know why he's called Derek, or why he is a Ponce. All I know is that he captured my heart. He's become something of a celebrity amongst my friends. Two people have expressed an interest in getting a Derek tattoo. As you can see, I happily obliged when requested to adorn a dining room table leg with my creation. He is, quite simply, the greatest creepy little man you'll ever see. I hope he touches you like he touches me (not in an '80s BBC TV presenter type way).

I've got big plans for Derek. I'll keep you posted. Please enjoy his face.

Dodge, duck, dip, dive and... dodge

Two clans, both six-strong, stand opposite each other, separated by 20 yards of open battlefield. A whistle blows. They surge forwards, screaming as they explode towards their enemies. There’s a clash at the heart of the arena as warriors gather arms. They retreat a safe distance. The standoff commences. Then, BANG! Projectiles fly. Combatants perish and fall as the action roars on until, eventually, one team is annihilated. The air fills with the hollers, whoops and relief of the victors, who bravely live to fight another day…

… then they all head to the bar for a right old piss up! Wahaaay!

This, ladies and gentlemen, is Dodgeball. It’s like the opening scene of Gladiator, but with fewer losses of life, less fire, fridgeloads of booze, a considerably more jovial atmosphere, a smattering of sportswear, no weapons and not a single instance of Russell Crowe. As you can imagine, it’s the metaphorical male canine’s genital area. Unless he’s had the op.

I joined a Dodgeball team last summer and, quite frankly, have never looked back. It is, without doubt, one of the best things I’ve ever done. Every Wednesday I hop on the train to the Shoreditch Powerleague centre, where I routinely throw balls as hard as I can at complete strangers. And they don’t even mind! In fact, it’s openly encouraged. Ok, so they throw them back at me, in most cases much more powerfully, but that’s the name of the game. And I love it. Here’s why:

1. If you’ve had a bad day, the dull thud of a ball as it crashes against an opponent’s lumber is quite possibly the best therapy you’ll ever receive.

2. There’s a bar…

3. It’s all for fun and fun for all! Ok, so once you’ve crossed the white lines you do want to win, but you can lose with a smile on your face too. In all the years I’ve played football I don’t think I’ve ever come off the pitch after a defeat and thought “That was awesome.” With Dodgeball I do it all the time. And it’s not just because all the blows to the head have left me mentally retarded.

4. The teams have to be mixed sex. Attractive, athletic ladies in sportswear, getting a sweat on. Could be worse…

5. Winning. Yeah, I know I said it’s all about the fun, but by the beard of Zeus, there’s nothing quite as pleasing as pulling off a winning throw or catch.

6. The atmosphere is electric. My fellow Dodgers are ultra-pleasant and friendly people who love a few drinks in the bar afterwards as much as they enjoy throwing balls directly at people’s faces. It’s a perfect arrangement. Technically speaking, you’re not allowed to hit faces, but it sure makes for better reading.

Perhaps the only downside is the crushing shame and remorse you feel after blasting a humdinger straight into the face/boobies/ovaries of an innocent young lady. Yeah, I feel a bit guilty when that happens. But they would probably hit me square in the pant region at the drop of a hat, so I should stop worrying I guess. Oh, and the inability to perform even the most basic of motor skills with your throwing arm the next day is a slight downside, but who uses their arms these days anyway? It’s much easier to type with your nose and chin…

Anyway, I love Dodgeball. Can't really do it justice in a short blog entry. But I just thought you should know.


Incidentally, if you want to try it out head to http://dodgeballuk.com/

Marathon Man - Part 4

Perhaps the best way to start this blog entry is to answer the questions posed at the end of the last one. Here goes...

Will I have made it?
Yes. Yes I will. Just about. I've got the medal, the finisher's t-shirt and the photos to prove it. 26.2 miles in 4 hours and 29 minutes. Done.

Will my legs and lungs hold out?
The lungs will. The legs, not so much. Towards the end every major muscle group in my legs was cramping. That's not much fun. Especially in the quads. I have never had cramp in the quads before. Turns out it sucks just as much as anywhere else.

Will I soil myself around the 20-mile marker?
No I won't, and any rumours to the contrary are unfounded and malicious. I haven't washed my shorts yet, you can check them.

Will Brooklyn Decker be waiting at the finish line to give me a really long congratulatory hug?
No. Bang out of order. What's that? Your professional tennis player husband, modelling commitments and blossoming international film career got in the way? Whatever. So selfish...

So there you have it, I have officially run a marathon. At this moment in time, just two days later, it's hard to say exactly how I feel about it. The strongest memories at the moment are probably the negative ones! As I sit here typing this, my legs are in pretty much constant pain. Going up and down stairs poses real problems. I walk like I've been the victim of a brutal, leg-based, gangland attack. It's like someone dressed my legs up as a Crip and drove me into the Bloods part of town. Yeah, that's exactly what it's like. I guess that's how a physiotherapist would describe it too...

Don't get me wrong though, I am over the moon I've done it. No more training for it! I'm so relieved that I can now go for a jog when I actually want to and not because I have to! And it's nice to not have something scary looming on the horizon any more. But in terms of the actual achievement I don't think it's set in yet. I'm still finding it hard to believe that I actually ran 26.2 miles. Doesn't seem real yet. Hopefully that will come when the pain subsides!

Nonetheless, despite my overriding memories being of pain and physical suffering, there were moments that were amazing. In fact, if I think about it, the first 14 miles were really enjoyable. And even though I was in pain, I've never been so fucking happy to be standing still after crossing the finish line!

The positives:
+ Seeing familiar faces in the crowd dotted around the course cheering me on. That was brilliant. It was nice when strangers offered support, but nothing beat seeing friends cheering me on. That was awesome, so thanks to everyone who came to support.

+ Getting a high-five and a shout of "Come on, Andy!" from Gus Poyet. That was pretty funny/cool.

+ The feeling of taking part in something so big and so challenging. That was pretty overwhelming.

+ Raising so much money for such a good cause. Thank you again to everyone who sponsored Dan and I.

+ More than anything, running it with one of my oldest and best friends. Oldest in as much as he's been my friend for a long time. He's not 90 or anything... Seriously though, not only was it great to share the occasion with him, but he also pretty much carried me over the finish line! Those last few miles would've been a hell of a lot tougher without you champ!

The Negatives:
+ Everything after about 18 miles was gruelling and painful. Running the final stretch should've been joyous, but to be honest I was in such pain I couldn't enjoy it!

+ The training.

+ Blah blah blah, stop being a moany old bastard and enjoy it.

So there you have it, my marathon adventure is over. I bloody did it, and I'm glad I've done it. But if anyone hears me talking about doing another one, you have my full permission to hit me in the testicles. Talk to me in about a month if you want a sunnier opinion on marathon running...

Marathon Man - Part 3

Probably about time for an update I'd say. My last post painted a very gloomy picture indeed. I was at a low ebb. Ravaged by flu, lacking energy and clinging to shreds of hope, I was like the A-Team BEFORE they escaped. Now, like a soldier of fortune freshly sprung from unlawful incarceration, I'm a far more positive animal. I'd like to stress, however, I'm not available for hire, I'm not big on plans and I don't have a secret cache of powerful firearms. But, I can run.

Yes, since my previous post I have been putting in the miles and suffering for my efforts. Just yesterday I ran 18 miles. 18. 18 miles. If my run yesterday were a human being, it could legally stroll into a public house, purchase and then sup an alcoholic beverage. In those terms, quite staggering. I managed this without any devices to harness the wind, without any illegal stimulants and without an internal combustion engine. As Paula Radcliffe once said, "I just fackin' ran it up."

So, to cut a long story short, with little over 13 days to go, I now feel far more confident that I will complete my marathon goal. Thanks to my period of illness setting me back a month or so, I'd say it's now going to be more of a horrible slog than an enjoyable challenge, but I'm going to do it nonetheless. As such, I'll probably be pestering you for sponsorship shortly.

Anyway, I thought now might be a good moment to share with you a few things I've noticed during my time pounding the pavements and towpaths of Surrey...

1) In general, I've found that if you're running towards a group of people, most will shimmy to the side at least a little bit to let you get past. I always say thank you as a courtesy, even though, let's face it, they don't own the ruddy pavement, so why should they have any more rights to it than I do simply because they're walking and I'm running? Anyway, I digress. What I've noticed is that most people move quite happily, but two distinct groups stick out by a mile as the least jogger-friendly: chavvy kids and women over the age of roughly 50. I realise the age thing is pure guesswork and it's a sweeping generalisation, but I think it's fairly accurate. Now, with the chavs, I fully expected it of them. In their adolescent mind, somehow being rude and taking the mickey out someone who is both relatively fit (see 'jogging') and twice the size of them is a good idea. That's because they're demented. Fair enough. But the women of a certain age, I just don't get it. Nine times out of ten they just look at me angrily as if jogging is the visual equivalent of a shit-smeared wall. If they've got hiking poles with them, there's absolutely no fucking way they're budging even so much as an inch. Even if it means I have to run several metres submerged in the Basingstoke canal. If anybody can offer any possible explanations for this bizarre trend, I'd love to hear from you.

2) Lots of people have fires. Seriously. It's like every third garden is home to a blazing inferno. When you're gasping for air, you really notice when it suddenly thickens with plumes of dark smoke. And it happens a lot. Can the residents of Surrey please stop setting so much stuff on fire? It's like that guy on Friends. Not Tom Selleck; the other one.

3) Hills are horrible. Going up them saps your energy, and coming down them forces your hips to make a beeline for your armpits. Unpleasant. And it turns out roads I've traversed hundreds of times before in a car are actually far steeper than I'd ever realised. Bummer.

4) Dogs are awesome. I already knew this, but regular jogging has reinforced my view times ten. They are such happy animals. They just love running and playing. There's nothing that lifts your spirits 10 miles into a run quite like being joined for a few strides by a furry pacemaker. Bless their tiny little happy faces.

5) Tree roots are the evil wooden offspring of Peter Sutcliffe. And apparently my ankles are Yorkshire-based prostitutes.

6) There aren't many bins. Yesterday, 18 miles, predominantly on public pathways. I passed one bin. Keep Britain tidy, kids...

So, my next post (quite possibly titled 'Marathon Man - Part 4') will be written after the big day. Will I have made it? Will my legs and lungs hold out? Will I soil myself around the 20-mile marker? And will Brooklyn Decker be waiting at the finish line to give me a really long congratulatory hug? Only time (and this blog in a couple of weeks) will tell...

Marathon Man - Part 2

So, following on from where I left off, I entered Autumn 2011 back at square one, but with plenty of time to be ready for the big day. Various things happened over the next few months that gave me a terrible kicking personally, but through it all I managed to keep up the training.

Even moving to New Haw, where joggers seem to be greeted with absolute suspicion and hostility, didn't stop me from pounding the pavements. Even Christmas, a time of year when I traditionally eat and drink until my insides pack up and stop working entirely, didn't derail me. I went for a run the day after Boxing Day! It was horrific. I thought my over-extended abdomen was going bounce in such a way as to either render me infertile or knock my silly face off. But I did it anyway. And I felt great for it.

2012 has seen me reach standards of fitness that I have undoubtedly never before attained. By the beginning of February I was doing 10-mile runs, taking in giant hills, towpaths, tarmac and the occasional roundabout (road, not playground), and I was actually ENJOYING it. Crazy, but hugely satisfying. Everything was going to plan and I was actually looking forward to the big day. My plan was going perfectly. By the end of Feb I'd be doing 15-milers, and by the end of March, just two weeks before the marathon, I'd be doing 20-milers. Perfect.

Then, disaster struck. Towards the end of February I was poleaxed by a bout of flu. I've had flu, or heavy colds, before and they generally keep me out of action for a couple of days, no hassle. You know how it goes: feel shit, lack energy, sleep badly, get better, everything's fine, thank you. But not this. This wasn't going to let me off that easily.

I know people joke about it and say "oh, bit of man flu eh?!" but this is without doubt the most ill I have ever been in my life. The first evening I had all the usual shivery then boiling hot nonsense. Then, that night, I woke up at about 3:00 in the morning, so soaking wet that, ironically, it was like I'd just been out for a long run. I was literally dripping with sweat. I had to go to the bathroom to dry myself off and wait for my bed to dry out a bit. Last time I checked, sleeping shouldn't be strenuous enough to cause that. That was definitely a bit weird and a warning of what I was in for.

Over the next week I continued to have my buttocks thoroughly kicked by this particularly vicious fever. Fuck man flu, this was dragon flu or something. There were a few days when I genuinely thought I might have contracted the Black Death. Take last Saturday for example. Just as I thought I was recovering, I suffered a giant relapse. I felt so weak that I couldn't even bring my hand out from beneath the blanket to change channels on the TV. I felt paralysed with feebleness. Before I knew it, I'd watched almost two hours of documentaries on the holocaust. What. The. Fuck. Not an ideal Saturday. Let that be a lesson to you all – if you ever start feeling ill, make sure you don't leave your digibox on the 'Yesterday' channel, or you could be in for the most depressing sick day of your life.

Even now as I write this, over two weeks later, I still feel rotten. Because of the way the virus struck in my training programme, I basically missed two full weeks of training. Not a single run. No exercise at all. For two whole weeks. Double balls. With just over a month to go, they were two weeks I could ill afford to lose.

But it gets worse. I've now started running again. I simply can't waste any more training days. But things aren't as they were before I fell ill. Where once I was pounding out 10 miles easily, I am now struggling with 4-milers. And it is absolutely devastating. As it stands, I'm not sure if that's a result of the two weeks of enforced inactivity, or the fact that I'm still not operating with a clean bill of health. This virus is still kicking about in my system.

Whatever it is, I am now in a position where I genuinely don't know if I'll be in a any shape to run the marathon. I should be doing runs between 15 and 20 miles now. Instead, I'm aching my way around 4-mile circuits. This is bad.

I guess we'll just have to see how it goes. I'll keep you posted. Touch lots of wood for me please. If I miss the marathon because of a broken leg, a ruptured achilles or a burst arse, I'll be able to handle it. If I miss out because I had a nasty bout of flu, I'm going to throw myself under a bus (not literally).

This is Andy Durrant, marathon hopeful, signing off for now. Hopefully see you at the finish line. x

Marathon Man - Part 1

For those of you who don't already know, on Sunday 15th April, this year, I will be running the Brighton marathon. Me. Running 26.22 miles. Non-stop.

Ridiculous.

It all started waaaay back at the beginning of last year. Well, further back than that in truth, but the main thrust started last year. I've always thought I'd like to give it a go, so when someone I used to go to school with announced they were running the 2011 Brighton marathon, it piqued my interest for two reasons. Firstly, it was someone I'd known since I was a young, fresh-faced boy, so it brought the marathon mystique closer to home. Secondly, and I'm sure she won't mind me saying this, she's not necessarily the first person you'd pick out as a marathon runner. Don't get me wrong, she's always been very slim and, if I may say so, quite the hottie, but I'd say she's probably more accustomed to sipping a nice glass of wine or wearing a smashing blouse than pounding out 26 miles on the tarmac. So not only was it rather inspiring, but it also made me think, "hmmm, if she can go through with it, maybe I can too?" How silly and, let's be honest, fucking rude of me. Fast forward twelve months and I'm starting to suspect that she might actually be a secret Olympic athlete. Mucho respect. Needless to say, my training hasn't been all plain sailing...

Anyway, if her marathon efforts had piqued my interest, catching the train up to town to watch the London marathon grabbed me by the testes, tugged them violently and didn't let go until a) I had that sick feeling in my stomach, and b) I had told myself that I, Andrew John Durrant (full name used for added effect), would definitely run a marathon. The fact that I also knew people running the London marathon helped fire me up, but it was the atmosphere and support from the crowd that really made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I wanted a piece of that action. And a medal. And maybe a sweaty hug from Nell McAndrew or, as a last resort, Chris Akabusi. Alriiight.

Within a few weeks, my friend and I had signed up for the 2012 Brighton marathon, and a tentative training plan had been drawn up. Bonza.

I officially started road running in July 2011. This was quite a shock to my system. Distance running is neither something I've ever enjoyed or been particularly good at. Put me on a grassy field and I'll sprint after a round ball all day long (not even barely literally), but point me in one direction and tell me to plod along for hours at a time and I'm likely to lash out, be sick on the spot or jog 200 yards and collapse in the gutter, crying. So the first month was pretty tough. But I persevered.

Being an idiot (as I tend to be) I thought I'd be able to juggle training for a marathon with playing competitive football on Saturday afternoons. This very quickly turned out to be an error of judgement.

The first problem was that, at 31 years old, I tended to ache for a few days after a match. So, Saturday I'd be playing, Sunday and Monday I'd be aching, and Friday I wouldn't run because I had a game the next day. Not exactly a good balance, given that running a marathon would require slightly more effort on my part than amateur football.

The second problem was that a hulking, neanderthal, master of bastardry absolutely clattered me, quite intentionally, in a match towards the end of August, leaving me with an open wound in my leg that quickly became septic. Cheers. I don't hold grudges, but I hope he has a terrible and painful accident. Every. Single. Day. Of. His. Rubbish. Life. I was given injections, a course of antibiotics and rendered immobile for about a month. That's definitely not in the Good Guide to Marathon Training.

Needless to say, when I eventually started jogging again, I was back at square one. Two months of training, effectively erased. Bollocks. So, with football now thoroughly on the backburner, I entered Autumn 2011 100% committed to the ongoing marathon slog.

To be continued...

In the meantime, if you'd like to make a donation to our marathon fund, please follow the link. I'll love you forever. All donations will go to Everyman, a charity committed to the fight against male cancer.

www.justgiving.com/Dan-and-Andy-do-some-running

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.

Joy Sad Joy Sad

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

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?

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

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...

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.

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.

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.