The worst anecdote of all time

Have you ever been in a situation where you've begun to tell your mates a story and realised halfway through that it's actually a bit crap so either embellished it to avoid looking stupid or aborted it instead? Moreover, have you ever begun to tell a story and realised that it contains evidence of your private, depraived self which may shatter any remaining respect your peers have for you?

I've definitely been in the former category before and have added explosions and sea monsters to make the story a better listen, but before I embark on the tale telling journey, I ensure it's for public hearing and not likely to make me look like some kind of social leper.

Unfortunately for a friend of mine, he wasn't quite as prudent on Saturday night.

A group of us went for a few jars and were swapping stories on various subjects when the inevitable slip towards toilet stories took hold. One friend told an amusing story of a time in Australia when, faced with a lack of toilet roll, he had to use sanitary towels instead. Upon completion, he stood up and found a shelf of 15 toilets rolls which were originally out of his view. A funny tale and amusement ensued.

Obviously deciding his story was of a similar ilk, my other friend embarked upon his story. It went something like this.

- Goes to a town-centre pub.
- Gets a knock at the back door and has to visit the little boy's room.
- Upon completion, begins the necessary clean-up operation.
- Unfortunately runs out of supplies, so
- Retrieves a used piece of toilet roll and completes the job.

You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife. We all looked at each other and literally backed off him, such was the disgust at his antics. He seemed rather surprised at our reaction, and tried to justify his actions with the excuse that "it was a clean piece" (obviously begging the question as to why it was in the bowl in the first place). He seemed somewhat put out and inevitably suffered an evening full of abuse along the lines of his momentary lapse of morals as a result. Serves him right, says I.

The thing is, at what point did he run through this story and think "Yeah, it'll be fine. They'll lap it up"? I can't imagine him, trollies round his ankles, retrieving spent bog roll and thinking "I can't wait to tell 'em about this - they'll howl with laughter". His moral and anecdotal compass is clearly somewhat adrift from centre it seems, and from now on, I'll treat any sentences of his which begin "I remember once.." with the necessary caution.

I'm not laughing, I'm shooting people

What the bloody hell is going on at the moment? Barely a day goes past that someone isn't getting shot in the street, and more often than not they're dying while they're at it. Has society really disintegrated that much in the last few years that no dispute can be settled without the popping of a cap into someone's ass?

When I was younger, shootings were reserved for bank jobs and clay pigeons. Sure, there were muggings and violence on the streets, but you hardly ever heard of someone getting blown away. Growing up there was usually a scrap or two to be seen when rival gangs of lads or schools crossed paths, but there was a gentlemanly lean to it. You didn't hit 'em when they were down, your mates didn't wade in to help and there were no recriminations afterwards. When I say 'rival gangs of lads' I'm talking about a group of youngsters on a particular estate, not some specially-named clique with firearms and an initiation ceremony to get in. Things were more innocent in those days, and you didn't need to wave a piece about to get respect or your point across.

They keep wittering on about the break-up of the family leading to disaffected youths running riot in the streets, and I'm sure there's an argument to be heard for kids without role models ending up in this sort of caper, but the simple fact that they end up getting into gang culture in the first place suggest the parents don't know what they're doing. Where's the discipline? Where's the instilling of family values and respect and honour? It's all gone out of the window now in today's "I don't care" society. Parents don't give a shit so who can blame kids for ending up the same?

The latest incident was that of an 11-year old lad who was gunned down by a teenager in broad daylight next to pub. Apparently the little 'un was playing footy with his mates and minding his own business when they were approached by a kid on a BMX who stopped, 'calmly' according to the cops drew his gun and shot at them, fatally injuring one. What the fuck kind of situation arises where this is the only outcome? I'm absolutely baffled at the mindset of someone who is doing this. I'm almost hoping that the culprit turns out to be some kind of deranged loon; at least then we can say "Well, he was off his rocker" rather than "He just liked shooting people".

I've said it before and I'll say it again: society is a scary place these days. If we don't start stopping this at its root, we're only years away from Detroit in Robocop. Be warned.

'Troubled': The new 'Easy Street'

Sadly for those of us who are considered well-adjusted, today's celebrity culture is all-consuming. Every magazine on the shelves has pictures of the latest celebrity goings-on; who's seeing who; who's split up; who's been robbed at gunpoint and had their antique watch collection stolen. If you are ill enough to consider this of interest, your average Londis is something of a utopia. Good for you.

You can literally sit in a house for 6 weeks, get evicted then become a celebrity - it's that easy. They recently changed the exam you need to pass to become a celeb. You no longer need any discernible talent or personality. Being pretty helps, but you essentially just need to know which avenues to turn down and you're a shoo-in for premieres, parties and more spit roasts than Aunt Bessie.

Having stumbled upon one of these monoworded 'celeb' magazines the other day, I found myself leafing through the car-crash filled pages agog. Can anyone actually care this much? Does it matter how much weight she's put on? So what if she did carry her minature dog in a handbag? I don't consider myself out of touch, but this caper left me feeling cold inside.

Naturally, it got worse.

I got to an 'article' about Amy Winehouse, which was essentially a few snaps of her running for a train (front-page stuff again), and the tagline was 'Troubled star weight worry'. Er, excuse me? 'Troubled'? - what the hell does 'troubled' mean? Back in my day, a troubled person was one who had suffered immeasurable pain or tragedy in their life. Maybe they had a cruel medical condition, or had lost several family members in a pedalo accident. Either way, they were generally put-upon people who were dealt a bad hand.

Not exactly a blueprint for Ms. Winehouse's antics is it? She's a famous singer, undoubtedly wadded, with a husband and a penchant for high-class narcotics. She openly drinks and smokes, takes drugs and has lost some weight. Hardly the very definition of a troubled soul now, is it? There'll be those who crow that being famous has taken its toll and she's doing it as a cry for help. Sadly for them, that's bollocks. Nobody is making her stay in the limelight. Nobody is forcing her to attend star-filled parties and snort coke and chug cases of Jack Daniels. All her choice I'm afraid, which makes it all the more galling when she doesn't turn up for gigs claiming she's a perfectionist. Twat more like. If she stayed off the sauce and charlie the night before a gig she might have a half a chance of turning up.

The latest is she's suffering from 'acute exhaustion'. We don't know how lucky we are having 9-5 jobs, getting up at the crack of dawn 5 and 6 days a week and worrying about paying our ever-increasing mortgages. We could be trapped in a world of drink, drugs and debauchery like old Wino. Count your lucky stars..

Special mention must also go to Lindsay Lohan, who's immature and reckless behaviour somehow makes her a victim. If she was some down-and-out with no job pegging it through the streets of California whilst pissed, I doubt she'd be afforded the same level of understanding from the arse-kissing media who stay on her good side to keep the stories coming in. Knobhead.

It's me who's the victim, love

People are always picking on me.

I could have a PhD in Minding My Own Business, especially when I'm driving, but those around me seek to shatter my otherwise calm and controlled demeanour with swear words and imaginative hand gestures. I could live with it if I was some kind of loutish, tailgating maniac, but most of the time I'm just the wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I was on my way to work t'other day when a pleasant, well-to-do young lady decided against the laws of physics and pulled out in front of me with barely 30 yards clearance. Gently depressing the brake pedal, I carefully ventured to the centre of the road to see if there was an opportunity to pass this delight of the female form and avoid rear-ending her. Such an opportunity was not there, alas, and I had to make do with a heavy, albeit awesomely controlled halt behind her.

We carried on our merry way, up hill and down dale, taking in the sights and sounds of the crisp early morn, the song of the lark caressing the breeze. All was well. A few minutes of utopian conditions passed then my erstwhile goddess-like driving partner opted to turn right. Again, a controlled braking manouvre ensued and she turned as expected. However, I couldn't help but notice a gentle, almost poetic hand gesture that she passed to me as we parted, that suggested I partook in the vigorous act of self-abuse on a regular occasion. Either that or her Elizabeth Duke was sliding off her wrist and needed sliding back.

Clearly on her way to Finishing School, I felt it relevant to offer her a sweet smile and a polite wave to acknowedge receipt of her opinion. Suffice to say, she went apeshit.

I'm still not entirely sure how this was my fault. She pulled out in front of me causing me to be nearly cut in half by my own seatbelt, yet she proceeded on her journey at a monumentally slow pace, only to opine that I was some kind of self-intefererer and wanted to let me know. Then again, I may have misread the whole situation. Maybe she felt guilty about her automotive faux pas, and was offering some kind of recompense for my trouble. Sadly, I will never know.

Another time, I was frequenting my local petrol station and happened upon a scene of chaos. Every pump was taken and I had no option but to queue. I then noticed a lady in front of me who had just finished filling up (her car, not crying) and her other half had gone in to pay. I therefore gently rolled up behind her, ever-so-delicately pipped my horn and motioned that she might move forward just a few yards so I could refuel while she waited for her knuckle-dragger to return. Happily she obliged and all was well.

Now, to be fair, there was then a moment of slight provocation. My friend Kev decided that an elaborate, sarcastic round of applause was necessary for the young vixen, seemingly because in his opinion it had taken her too long to move forward. I must confess that I didn't share that opinion, but nothing untoward resulted and on we went. I refuelled the car while Kev refuelled Kev in the shop. As I was putting the pump back in its holster the husband returned. A few words were exchanged between he and his lovely spouse before she opened her door, leaned out, looked me squarely in the eye, and with the vocal dexterity of a young Oscar Wilde proceeded to declare "Fucking knob". Doors were slammed, cars were accelerated and I was left bewildered as to why I was the target of this not-entirely-untrue sentiment.

I made my way to the checkout and was apprehended by the security guard, who declared that it was company policy for patrons to pay for their fuel before moving their car. I countered that as the station had recently been converted into a minature store, people were spending increased lengths of time out of their cars, leavng the evident queues. He suggested that it was no harm to wait, and that I should desist from using foul language towards him. To this day I cannot think of the word I am supposed to have said, but I conceded that this gentleman was indeed a fucking prick and withdrew from the debate.

I'm no angel, I'll admit. But can somebody tell me why I end up being the victim to these socially unarmed oxygen-wasters? Anybody?

Just doing your job? I really must protest

I cannot stand protesters. They really, really, REALLY get on my nerves. I'm talking specifically about those busy, workshy gets who don't have proper jobs and spend their days looking for something to get in a razz about. Those are the ones who really get on my tits. Before I continue, let me clearly state that I've got nothing against free speech, nor the right of every human being to try to make the world a better place, but there are those who just take it too far.

Naturally these long-standing feelings have been reignited by this 'Climate Camp' nonsense on the outskirts of Heathrow, where a bunch of militant skank-merchants are taking the opportunity to feel self-righteous and get on telly by 'raising our awareness of air travel's impact on the environment'. Bra-chuffing-vo.

I'm sorry, but who's buying this shit? So far, what have they actually raised our awareness to? It may have escaped their notice, but running this 'camp' like an independent state to the extent of only letting the press in for an hour every couple of days isn't exactly getting your point across is it? They're not bothered about saving the planet; they just want to cause trouble to a few multi-million pound airline companies.

The thing that gets me is who suffers because of this? The airlines? Not really, as they'd be booked up months in advance and only a few true crusties would boycott them. Mother Earth? Again, hardly. True, we're doing harm to the planet but global awareness of this is at an all-time high and governments don't need telling that air travel is where improvements have to be made. No, as usual, the ones to suffer are those people either trying to get on with their jobs or trying to enjoy a well-earned break from their jobs. But they can't, because these hygienically-challenged tossers are buggering about in a cesspool at the end of the runway.

Whenever there's a strike, it's the public who suffer, not the company. When the firemen started striking, who suffered? That's right - Britain's gullible civilians, who had to tolerate a bunch of put-upon soldiers driving antique fire engines with a water pistol on them to save us. And the postal strike? It's us who have to suffer delayed deliveries, while Royal Mail sit back and wait for their employees to realise that there's only one decent postal service in this country, so management can do what they like and we'll still have to use them. It's a joke, man.

Going back the Climate Cack, news that they've asked pending arrivers to bring civilian clothes and even air hostess uniforms so they can bypass airport security is a worrying development. Personally I hope anyone found on-site without sufficient ID is deemed a terrorist and immediately arrested and tried as such. That'll slow down the tree-huggers.

Perhaps my biggest gripe has to be the issue of the carbon footprint. Don't worry, I'm aware of it and fully understand the ramifications of our actions to the environment, but I do have one question for these tax-dodging jokers who've travelled from all over the UK to Heathrow in the name of trying to save the world:

How did you get there? Walk?

Look at the brains on that

Far be it from me to be unappreciative of the female form. Most visitors to my 'pad' will know that there are a great many so-called lads mags dotted around the place (mainly by the throne though, to be honest). Admittedly a lot of the Nuts- and Zoo-style magazines struggle for ideas week in, week out so roll out the same old tired photos of Jordan and Michelle Marsh from 2001 under the guise "Topless pics inside - hottest snaps ever".

Back on topic, my latest gripe is the fact that the physical features of new employees (predominantly female) are far more important to the male staff than any real ability to do the job, as in:


Perv #1 "Have you seen the new bird in sales?"

Perv #2 "No - is she any good?"

Perv #1 "Well, she's got fantastic ASSETS....AHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA"

Perv #2 "He means tits!"


Like it matters. I've got nothing against eye candy in the office for both the chaps and the birds, but who really cares what they look like? Surely the point is that they can do the job? Call me old-fashioned, but in days gone by I thought people were employed based on their skills, and I don't mean being able to tie a cherry stalk in a knot with their tongue. I'm not naive enough to ignore that a great deal of 'casting couch' activities have been used for many years by knackered old bosses to have one last hurrah with a pneumatic secretary, but you have to draw the line somewhere.

I'm sure there have been studies that indicate that the more attractive you are, the better chance you have of being employed, and it goes down to a base level. Put simply, if an interviewer has two identically-skilled candidates, he (or she) is odds-on to employ the one more attractive to them. It's simple human nature; they think if they give them the job, the newbie with give them one in return. It's a sad state of affairs but until you take the human element out of the equation, it's bound to be flawed.

Even so, if a particularly fit bird is employed by your company, surely you could look past the obvious and treat them like anyone else? I genuinely pride myself on being completely objective about the people I work with; it doesn't matter what they look like, as long as they're straight with me and are what I consider to be a 'good worker' (incredibly pretentious on my part I accept, but I have high standards and expect others to be the same).

Of course, there's always going to be people who use their looks to climb the greasy pole (no jokes). Not necessarily stupid people, but they realise that there's no point wasting time and effort doing the job when they can just shake their sweet can and move on up. Those sort of people are worse that the pervs, but on some level you can't help but admire them.

In the future I think all interviews should be conducted over the phone to take the attraction element out, or at the very least the interviewers should have no sexual preference for the interviewees, to level at the playing field to an extent. It'll never happen I know, but what's the point in writing all of this cack if you don't try to change the world for the better? Maybe if I had a killer rack I'd be able to get something done about it...

Well, you will go exposing yourself on planes...

An unprecedented story today in the news, about a group of lads off on a foreign holiday who behaved badly on the flight, abusing staff and exposing themselves to the crew and others. When they got to Greece, the Feds were waiting to take them away. After being held up for an hour and a half, they were bizarrely released without charge.

In the meantime, the airline (First Choice) told them that they could sod off if they thought they were allowed to fly back with them at the end of their holiday.

All reasonable so far, yes? But what makes it so good was that First Choice then went on to sprag on the lads to all the other major airlines, meaning none of them would touch the group with a ten-foot barge pole. They're now effectively stranded and will probably have to fork out for a bus ticket to get back. That'll be fun.

I love the thought of all these multi-million-pound industries resorting to playground tactics when it comes to misbehaving clientelle. A bit of "Them lads from Surrey will get their cocks out on your plane...pass it on" is exactly what these cretins need to finally realise that they can't go around acting like complete arses and expect to be welcomed back anytime soon.

On the radio, the female spokesperson was every inch your Mum when you're in bother. She actually used the phrase "Well they should have thought about that" when pushed on the issue of grassing them up to others, and she audibly smiled when contemplating their return trip options. I'm loving that. It's about time more companies stop pandering to the low-life 'tards in the perpetual pursuit of the American dollar and said "Actually mate, I don't give a shite how much you spent on your tickets. If you're going to act like a child, we're gonna treat you like one. Do one". Bravo, says I.

What next - Microsoft Windows telling you to stand in the corner and think about what you've done when you download porn? Banks ringing each other up behind your back to say that you smell, and so does your credit rating? Whatever happens, all I know is I'm keeping it in my drawers next time I fly...

Potter Politics

Anyone who knows me will also know I can't stand Harry Potter. I can't stand the whole fantasy fiction genre per say (Lord of the Rings, etc) but HP proper gets on my nerves. I think the worst aspect of it is these socially questionable people gathered under the umbrella of 'fans' who queue outside bookshops at midnight to get a copy the minute it's released.

Everybody knows the first release of the book is the only one that contains all of the pages, and a page is removed each day thereafter by the bookshop staff as part of a Government-led initative to make people buy books sooner. Or something. All I know is that a 35-year-old woman who dresses as a bespectacled teenage wizard in public is not someone I'd want reading my literature.

Anyway, the inspiration for this blog is the politics of not telling someone the ending of a book, despite your best efforts to warn them that you're about to spill the beans. The event occurred a couple of weeks ago when I went to a mate's house. I'd never met the girl before so to be fair she didn't know about my slightly negative attitute to all things Potter, but the conversation went along these lines:

Me: "Yeah, so the Mrs has got the new Harry Potter cobblers and she's told me the ending"

Others in room: Silence

Me: (After a decent warning pause) "I can't believe he dies then comes back to life. Garbage"

Girl: (name unknown) "LALALALALALALALALA" with fingers in her ears

Me :"?"

Girl: "Don't tell me the ending, I don't want to know. I'm going to buy it"

Me: "Well why didn't you say summat in the first place? I gave you plenty of warning"

Girl: "Well I didn't think you'd give the ending away"

Me: "I can tell we've never met before"


As usual, I stand by my convictions. I wasn't trying to annoy anyone because I knew the ending; my mates all hate it as well and I was trying to make a point about how JK Wotsit can write any old tat and the readers will lap it up. It's not my fault she didn't heed the warning. Had she said "Terribly sorry old chap, but would you mind not giving the game away?" I would have initially been surprised cos she was Scottish, but I would've kept my mouth shut until she was out of earshot.

Which brings me to my next HP-inspired gripe: It's a made-up story about a made-up concept.

Magic doesn't exist. I'm sorry for all you advocates of Paul Daniels (and to a lesser extent his alcoholic black-sheep son Darren) but it's all a con. There's no magical skill to guessing your card or walking through the Great Wall of China - it's done with cameras, mirrors and fast hands. That's where JK makes her brass; she can write literally anything and say it was magic. You can imagine the editor reading that one:


Editor: "But there's no actual platform - they just run through a wall to get to school?"

JK: "Yep. Magic"

Editor: "And the ability to fly on broomsticks? I'm not sure kids will..."

JK: "MAGIC"


Easy, innit? I am jealous; I can't deny it. I wish I was a quid behind her just for sitting at home all day making up stories about a bloke who can't act hanging around with Robbie Coltrane. Now if I could invent a time machine...

Time Travel: Cack

"If only I could turn back time" warbled flourescent-haired pop minx Lene in Aqua's drear-fest of the same name. What, Lene? What if you could? What would you do? Apart from not do your hair that ridiculous colour in the first place.

I watched that "Deja Vu" the other day. You know, the crime thriller where Denzel Washington discovers a police agency who have managed to look back into the past a few days and can prevent a murder from happening. It was alright to be fair, although my scientific mind quickly shut up shop when talk of time travel started. Mainly cos its bollocks.

Today I'm not here to discuss the scientific rights and wrongs of TT - I simply can't be bothered. Instead I want to focus on the concept of it, and how it is ultimately impossible in my opinion.

Picture the scene: On your way to work, you crash into someone in your car. Nowt major, but it was your fault and there's a hefty bill coming your way. Fortunately, you also discover the secret of time travel while you're on the pot at lunch so you quickly jump in your crudely-fashioned time portal, zoom back to 5 seconds before the incident and put the brakes on. Perfick.

Except..it isn't. Having gone back in time you've now altered the past so your 'old' self's experience of the event changes (i.e. you don't crash). Therefore you don't need to get into your teleporter and fix the damage. You've created an alternative ending. Still sounds feasible, yes?

Where it falls over logic-wise for me is that as far as events are concerned now, you came close to an accident and stopped in time - any person looking on at that event would see only a near-miss, because that's what happened. But in reality you intercepted your own stupidity and didn't crash. Therefore you don't have a big bill coming and you don't need to go back to fix it. You therefore don't experience any of the act of going back in time to fix it therefore that technically never happened. But it did happen, so how can it be possible that those occurrences don't exist any more? Your real-time experience now is that you narrowly avoided a crash, so the need to return to fix it doesn't need to happen any more. So how can it have?

I guess it's difficult for me to explain in a few words, but the basis of my argument is that time is a never-ending stream of occurrences which you can only experience once. The theory of time travel in films is that you can go back in time to fix the past before it occurs, but in doing so you eradicate the very need to go back and the actual act of doing so, so how can time travel exist? By the same token, you could go back far enough to actually precede any desire to return to the past, therefore preceding the invention of all time travel devices as well. It's a huge paradox which I simply can't condone on any level. Sorry folks.

Anyway, that's enough cyber-twaddle for one evening, but it does get the new blog up and running nicely. I believe there is the ability to post comments and arguments so feel free. And if we could reduce the number of knob gags at the same time, it'll be a happy side effect.