Fixing the charts is all the Rage

Is anyone really surprised that somebody finally took it upon themselves to engineer the result of the Christmas number one against X Factor? I doubt it.

For those moronic Luddites out there who live under a rock or draw their entire opinion base from a glossy magazine, a bloke started a FaceBook campaign to get Rage Against The Machine's festive ditty "Killing in the name" to number one, ahead of the perennial dirge-fest that Cowell's bitches barf into the charts.

Personally, I couldn't give a shit. The Mrs was apoplectic with anger at the result; not because she is a Factor fan, but instead that such a non-Yuletide tune made it to number one. She has a point, but as long as Cowell has been having a go at kids who can't sing, the number one spot has ceased to be a meaningful achievement. If he had any real confidence in the 'winner', or he wasn't considering his bank balance, he would release the record at a different time of the year. Of course, he's not in it to discover the next Buble or Rhianna (God help us); he's in it to make shitloads of cash.

That a normal bloke can start a FaceBook page urging people to download a record which gathers enough momentum to actually get to number one is as impressive as it is sad. Like I said, Mr Blobby aside, the Christmas number one was at one time seen as a genuine achievement, but the writing was on the wall when certain Irish 'boy' bands started engineering the release dates of their records to ensure they had a clear run at the top spot.

I've said before that including downloads is a daft idea, unless you only count those of records currently on new release. The ability to download your favourite tracks from yesterdecade is ace, but it's ridiculous that they should count towards a Hit Parade placing, meaning FaceBook stunts like this will be all the rage (geddit?) in the coming years.

At the end of the day, the chart is a dead concept. Yes, it's a sad day for music and genuine music acts when they realise that this once-great gauge of your musical standing is now as much use as Cliff Richard's johnny drawer, but think of it this way: it puts people like Fearne Cotton and Reggie Yates out of a job. Christmas or not, that ain't no bad thing.

Bottom Gear. (It's a play on words)

I like Top Gear - I've never made a secret of that fact. It's easy to watch and entertaining (if slightly over-staged) fare. Three men in their late 30's to late 40's arse about with cars the way we all would if we had the chance. Like it or loathe it, we'd all like to chuck a Bugatti Veyron about or drop a piano on a Morris Marina. And that's a scientific fact.

The problem is, as usual the BBC have realised there's a strong following for one of their products and rather than sit back and allow it just to be a TV programme, they've started milking it for all it's worth, all the while spectacularly debasing the integrity of the show.

I'm talking of course about merchandise.

First off, they're bastardising the image of The Stig. Bear in mind that he's essentially a faceless bloke in a white racing suit and helmet, but there's all manner of tat bearing his featureless visage. Shower gel for fuck's sake; what's that got to do with Top Gear? Unless it's made out of Castrol GTX I can't see the link. There's even a book like 'Where's Wally' which is basically 'Where's the bloody Stig'. Who's gonna buy that? In 2 minutes I found him on the first 3 pages, so I doubt you'll get much mileage out of it once you've farted out your sprouts on Christmas Day.

That's bad enough, but today I actually saw a make-your-own Cool Wall. For those not in the know, that's where Richard Hammond and Jeremy Clarkson have a scrap about whether certain cars are cool or not, usually ending in Clarkson putting it quite high up on the board. You know, because he's taller than Hammond. Anyway, this build-your-own affair appears to consist of a fold-out piece of cardboard, crudely adorned with the TG logo. You've then got a few dozen stickers so you too can pretend you're on the BBC gravy train and show people what you think about the latest Daihatsu. What a sack of shit.

Lest we forget that we've already paid once for the programme to be made. Like I said, I really like the show, but we mustn't forget I've already stumped up my licence fee to make it possible, then they go and release a load of Krusty-esque turd, trying to make a quick buck off the back of its popularity. I'm sorry but that stinks.

Where will it end? Eastender's-branded Prozac? A Miranda joke book (it'd make a change)? Songs of Praise condoms? 'Le mind boggels' as the French might say.

'Up' rhymes with 'Up'. And 'Up'

Back in that halcyon summer of 1994 Scatman John (colloquially known as 'The Scatman'), released his seminal hit "I'm the Scatman". Never before in the history of the Internet has a sentence contained so many references to scat without attracting the attentions of the legal system.

I was at school when this stuttering masterpiece hit the airwaves, and despite its nonsensical lyrics, it pissed the Hit Parade and was number one in no time. Kids up and down the country were deemed socially acceptable if they could 'scat' like an American man in his 50's. The fact that the lyrics made no sense had little impact on our enjoyment of the record; we knew it wasn't a serious song and enjoyed it as such. Similarly 'Doop', by the creatively named 'Doop'; a right load of old rhubarb set to a Charleston beat which had schoolkids the length and breadth of this fair isle besotted with the word 'doop' for nearly 3 weeks.

Skip forward to the present day, and a group of chaps looking suspiciously like transsexuals have had a number one with their hit smash "Everybody in love". I'm told the band is called 'JLS' and that they emerged from X-Factor or somesuch, so you already know you're in safe hands musically. I happened upon this 'tune' last night and was staggered to hear the sheer craft in the lyrics. Bernie Taupin must shit himself when he reads the chorus:

Everybody in love, put your hands up
Everybody in love, put your hands up
Everybody in love, put your hands up
If you're in love, put your hands up

Fuck me, what's that about? I've shat better lyrics than that. As I stated above, the tunes we listened to growing up weren't all serious pieces of music, but I'm led to believe JLS are some kind of popular group, found sexually attractive by birds and respected within the industry. The fact that they came second to a woman who butchered 'Hallelujah' seems to be lost on today's youngsters, who'll happily part with 79p to download this twaddle from iTunes and listen to it on their Walkmans.

I have no issue with them pursuing their musical dream, but put a bit of effort in, eh? Maybe create rhyming couplets that aren't actually the exact same words repeated. And quite why putting your hands up if you're in love is required is beyond me, unless they're working for some kind of census company and are polling their fanbase (no jokes).

Presumably, most of today's songwriters are drawing inspiration from the music they grew up with, which makes such baffling tripe all the more surprising, given that they were likely to have listened to not only The Scatman, but East 17, Kylie Minogue, Peter Andre, Sinitta and The Outhere Brothers. If you've listened to "Toyboy" or "I should be so lucky" and still can't craft a decent lyric, then quite frankly you're dead inside.

Greetings of the season anyroad.

I don't want to talk about it...

A few years ago, a very good friend and I were visiting a couple of girls. I was seeing one of them with the other being her friend. Much drink was taken and merriment was had, and that was that.

The following morning I discovered my friend not to be on the sofa as expected. He eventually emerged from the friends' room, much to my amusement. Later that day, as we returned home, I quizzed him on the goings on. He sadly admitted that due to his copious alcoholic intake the previous evening, he couldn't 'rise to the occasion' and left the young wench unsatisfied.

I pissed myself laughing.

When we got home, my housemate asked us casually about the previous evening, and here's where it started to unwind for my aforementioned chum. Instead of saying "Nowt really, had a few jars. You know the drill" he instead said "I don't want to talk about it".

My housemate was understandably curious about the last night's occurrences and set about my mate like Amy Winehouse would a pre-gig rider, asking him all manner of questions to get the obviously juicy information out of him. With almost no help from me, he eventually concluded that The Droop Fairy must have visited, and from that day to this, borderline offensive jokes are still made at his expense for his moment of PR ambiguity.

Compare and contrast with Eldrick 'Tiger Woods' Woods.

Tiger, a world-famous snooker player and razor enthusiast, recently had a car accident outside his home. He was a bit injured and had to drop out of a couple of tournaments, and that was that. Except, instead of telling the press "What am I like? I was putting my seatbelt on and not paying attention to the tree which has been outside my house since I moved in. What a dunce" he instead said that there was nothing to see here, and the press should just leave it. Well played there.

Since this naive and intriguing statement, the press have been all over the story, and in the last 24 hours details of 2 fit-for-a-skank affairs have come to light, with Tiger neither confirming nor denying the events being portrayed in ever media outlet imaginable.

Again, he could've come out and either said "It's a fair cop, guv" or "It weren't me guv", but instead he's released a statement saying he's committed 'transgressions' for which he is sorry. Has the brother not learnt? Unless you explicitly declare or deny such events, you leave yourself open to all manner of conjecture and ridicule, rather than people just saying "The dirty devil. She was proper fit for a Vegas skank though".

David Letterman was recently held to ransom regarding a series of affairs he had had. Rather than being vague, he fronted up on his show and admitted his indiscretions. Yes, he was protecting himself for having to shell out, and he had committed multiple acts of adultery, but on some levels people respected his honesty, and the story pretty much died the day after because there was nothing else to talk about.

So Tiger, if you're reading, take heed. The next time you visit Jugs, think on; Either keep it in your drawers, or aim for the gap between the trees when you drive off in a huff. You daft apoth.

He's on the BBC gravy train. I wish I was.

What the hell is Radio 1 'shock jock' Chris Moyles playing at, exactly?

Last night there was an advert for his hilarious new project, 'The Chris Moyles Parody Album'. That's right, for £9.71 of your hard-earned, you too can own a copy of musical history, as Moyles and his team slightly change the words to some recent pop records. Brilliant. It even says on the blurb online that as well as the parodies, he's written a series of new tunes exclusive to the album. I'm no pedant, but I'm pretty sure material you've written yourself doesn't constitute a parody, ergo it's not a chuffing parody album is it?

When he barrelled onto the scene in the mid-90's, he was labelled 'controversial' and other terms which make middle Englanders shit themselves, because he wasn't a banal airhead. I didn't mind Radio 1 back in the day, but after 4 or 5 years, I realised that they had absolutely no intention of keeping it fresh so I gave up and switched to FiveLive. From then on, my Radio 1 listening came via being a reluctant passenger in the car of someone who thought he was ace (such folk exist, apparently) and an interesting thing became clear. Over the years, not only did he bang out the same features (Carpark Catchphrase still? Really?), but he'd also become a corporate lackey, dropping his obviously fake shock persona in place of being a board-friendly inoffensive drivel-merchant. Gone are the edgy comments and low-level bad language, replaced with banality which would make a regional Real Radio operative feel grubby.

Now, a certain amount of blame can be levelled at the BBC itself, as broadcast guidelines were tightened in the light of the Brand/Ross scandal, meaning he had to scale down his supposedly controversial views to prevent someone wearing a cardigan having a panic attack. The thing is, though, he wasn't exactly Howard Stern at the worst of times, and his listenership knew what he was like and were unlikely to suddenly think he was offensive and call for him to be spectacularly terminated. All of which leads me to think that he's realised the sum total of his powers is to sit on his arse taking the piss out of his sycophantic team, so he's put his feet under the table and is staying for the duration. Classic gravy train material.

To be fair to him, he has tried to crack television, with a level of success comparable with Robbie Williams' attempts to break America. Despite James Corden paving the way, he doesn't exactly fit the profile of a hip and happening presenter, so maybe he's realised that his future lies in slightly rewriting tunes currently in the hit parade and ambling up a mountain because Gary Barlow told him to.

Either way, he'll end up a millionaire.

Nobody cares, 'Jordan'. Nobody cares

There was a time, at the back end of the nineties, when Jordan was fit. Human-sized tits and a human-shaped fizzog adorned a well-put-together chassis. Yes she was a she-chav, covered in pink tracksuits and enough make-up to mend a Cumbrian bridge, but everything was where it should be, and I liked it.

Skip forward to the present day, and she's done it all. Shagged Yorkie, been in a sex video with burger fan Dane Bowers, married the first bloke to show an ounce of interest in what was behind the plastic, divorced his ass and gone back to the jungle for 'closure'. I'm surprised she's had time to get under the knife during all that.

She faces something of a problem these days, however. Nobody gives a shit about her anymore.

Previously, people seemed to warm to her because she was a genuine (if massively dense) person. Yes, she was trading off her looks, but she seemed a decent sort and she wasn't averse to getting her cans out, so we left her be. However, over the years it's become clear that she's quite an astute businesswoman, using the Jordan brand to further her modelling, writing and, yes, singing career. With that came a certain amount of cynicism from the general public, who realised she's not as daft as she seems.

Her latest stunt was to return to the jungle post-Andre, and the public had a field day. Voted for 7 consecutive Bushtucker Trials (whatever the fuck they are), she lost her rag and quit the show. 'Who cares' quoth the masses, as she tried to glean sympathy for herself. She then decided to announce that she was dumping her latest squeeze via the medium of Ant 'n' Dec, rather than sitting the poor chap down and explaining her intentions. Now, I'm not entirely sure what she expected to happen here, but let's face it, most people wouldn't like being given the elbow on national telly, and have sided with the bloke. Nobody in their right mind could think "I know, I'll dump t'other half on the box and people will be like 'Aw, poor Katie. It must be well tough having millions in the bank and being in the press despite not being passably attractive since 2006. My deepest sympathies'"

Having weighed up the many pros and cons in this complex emotional case, I feel she needs to adopt a two-pronged strategy to sort out this mess.

1) Grow up
2) Fuck off out of the press

They say every dog has it's day. I doubt I need to waste time writing the punchline...

Don't get up, love. I'll sort your mess out

Despite constabularies up and down the country now referring to the coming together of two motor vehicles as a "road traffic collision" as per their shiny new guidelines, it's still an "accident". Apart from that fella who got put away for hiding round corners in his car then suing for all manner of made-up physical complaints, a crash tends to be an accident, with blame attributable one way or the other.

Such a coming together occurred to me this morning.

I was literally stationary in a queue at a traffic light when this - and I choose my words carefully here - moronic gimp managed to punt me up the tailpipe. It wasn't exactly high-speed, but it proper shook me from my Pulse-of-West-Yorkshire-induced daze, I can tell you.

I looked in my mirror to see a blonde bird sat there, and for a second I thought I saw the rebellious glint of a runner in her eye, but by pulling across to the pavement in front of the other drivers I forced her hand and she duly followed.

Now, I've been in this situation before when I was the bumper and some poor soul the bumpee, and the protocol is thus:

- You both get out
- You throw yourself a their mercy, begging on your knees for automotive repentence
- You swap insurance details
- You fuck off

But not this washed-out harpie. Instead:

- I got out
- She peered out of her window and asked "Is mine alright?"
- I bit my tongue lest I set about her with a tyre iron
- She said "I'm really sorrer" which I'm told is the local dialect equivlant of "My deepest apologies, squire"
- Bereft of speech, I left the scene

There was no damage to either car that I could see, so I wasn't that arsed about her not giving the shiniest of shites about the situation, but you'd have thought she could have got off her backside and had a quick butcher's, if only to check her hairdressermobile was unscathed. I thought I was reasonably diplomatic (which may or may not be deemed by others as 'overly assertive') but I didn't swear or take her to task when she wouldn't get out of the car, so she didn't really have an excuse not to get involved.

I think we've all learnt from this. She's learnt that, yes, there are people out there daft enough to clear up her mess for her, meaning she'll probably trundle through life using her ample bosom (possibly) and loose sexual morals (almost certainly) to get what she wants. I've learnt that sometimes violence isn't the answer. It's a good day.

It's not my fault, so soz

It appears that when you're in politics, at any one time you're only a few minutes away from someone having a go at you. I don't mean mouthing 'wanker' while you're on the phone to the President of Burundi, or flushing your head down the bog at dinner. Instead, I mean members of the opposition making you look like a right royal fool in order to undermine your political standing whilst making themselves look like super-cool happening dudes.

You may have noticed the government has taken a bit of a battering of late. With the credit crunch, the various wars we're involved in and the expenses 'row', there's always something going on which the Tories and the Lib Dems can use to say "See, they're rubbish at governing. Put us in charge and you'll get free doughnuts for life".

Now, if Gordon Brown was going round kicking kittens up the arse or shouting "Homosexuals are gay", I could understand the abuse he gets, but the latest attempt to pick on him is a bit lame to say the least.

I'm sure you've seen the story; he hand-wrote a letter of condolence to the mother of a soldier killed in Afghanistan, but managed to make a right hash of it, making several spelling mistakes and even getting her name wrong. Quite frankly, it's a disgrace, and the mother in question had every right to have a go at him in the popular press as she comes to terms with her terrible loss.

The thing is though, it's got nowt to do with anyone else, but for some reason papers and news outlets have decided it's another stick to beat him with. I'm pretty sure the only 'crime' he's committed is disrespect, but you'd think he'd been putting babies on spikes the way the press are carrying on. It was even breaking news when the mother accepted his apology. I have every sympathy for her and her plight, but can you honestly say, hand on heart, that you give a shit about the ongoing dialogue between them both? He's not the Prime Minister of Spelling, so if he makes a couple of mistakes, by all means roll your eyes, but don't start having a go at him like he's some kind of evil-doer. Let those who he's treated badly sort it out.

I'm no Brown sympathiser and I don't vote, so there's no political agenda here, but I do find it a bit ridiculous the amount of cack he has to put up with because he's in charge. The latest gripe is from these poor buggers who were shipped to Australia against their will decades ago, where they were separated from their siblings and abused and allsorts. It's a harrowing story, not least because it was carried out in living memory, with most of the victims in their 50's and 60's. It seems incredible that a country which sees itself as advanced would treat its people this way, but there you go.

The thing is, Brown is now expected to stand up and say sorry for what a previous government did. Pardon the potential outrage, but why should he? By all means get up and express your disgust at their plight, but in no way was he responsible for it, so he's got no need to apologise. If any of the original decision-makers are still alive, drag them out and hold them to account. I doubt the victims want an apology anyway, as no amount of saying 'Soz' will repair the damage or bring back the years, but even if they did, they wouldn't want it from someone who wasn't reponsible for it. You might as well get Simon Cowell to say sorry for the good it was do.

Besides, he's got enough to apologise for. X-Factor indeed.

The man who couldn't sue God

Yes, yes, I'm getting married. Stop going on about it, OK?

Despite it being 10 months away, we're very much in the throes of wedding fever at my house. Most surfaces are covered in a thin layer of wedding magazines and/or flyers for photographers, so I have little option but to go along with it, at least until I've got my suit anyway.

Last night, the topic on everyone's lips, wedding insurance, reared its ugly head. It transpires that you need to insure you wedding in case the church is closed down due to illness or you all die or somesuch. For a reasonable fee you can make sure you get your money back if the nuptial shit hits the fan.

Fair enough says I, but an interesting aside struck me during this discussion. It turns out that acts of God are explicitly not covered by insurance. Now, when you're buying a car, I sort of understand that your insurer can't be held responsible for a bolt of lightning melting the paintwork or a plague of locusts clogging up the manifold. However, I'm pretty sure that marriage (especially those held in a church as ours is) is some kind of religious affair where your love and commitment and demonstrated before...wait for it....you're gonna love this...only God!

So let me get this straight - you rock up at the church in your gladrags and go "Oi, God, look at us getting married. What do you reckon?" and he decides he doesn't like you and sets fire to the Roller parked outside. You haven't got a leg to stand on legally, plus you'll have a job on getting to the reception.

I'm not suggesting God is in the habit of exploiting loopholes in insurance policies, but given that at the very core of the marital process is presenting it before Him Upstairs (disregarding your particular religious leanings) you'd have thought the insurance company would give you a bit of leeway in case it rained for 40 days and 40 nights in the run-up to your special day. Obviously not.

Quick: Someone phone the cock doc

Given that the company I work for also employs a healthy quota of battleaxes, women's magazines are in plentiful supply around the building. Personally, I like to read them because there's just not enough information on the weekly goings on of Jordan and Katona in the real world, plus they often include stories about psychic horses or grim tales of incestuous rape. All in the name of menopausal entertainment.

One particular feature of one of these publications is the Sex Advice page, where your shag-related queries are answered by Kiwi uber-fox Tracey Cox. Now, given that this isn't a top-shelf magazine, some of the material covered is a bit near the knuckle. They stop short of saying "frothing at the gash", but details of size, tightness and, yes, wetness have been discussed in a mature and professional manner.

Yesterday I was leafing through their latest epic offering and the following letter was included from a distressed harlot. Almost verbatim, it read:

"My boyfriend recently banged his penis on my thigh during sex and it really hurt him. He says it still hurts when he pees. Did he break his penis?"

Now, give yourself a few seconds to let this information sink in, then consider the following:

1) How do this couple have sex that involves him inadvertently hitting her thigh?
2) Why are they asking a clearly medical question to a sex therapist, not a qualified quack?
3) At what point did the bloke say "I tell you what love, it's still killing. Never mind nipping down to the docs though; grab a pen and paper and we'll write to that bird in your magazine and ask her what we should do."

Not for a minute am I suggesting they make these letters up, but who in their right mind would rely upon the advice of not only someone whose expertise lies elsewhere, but moreover write in to a magazine on the off-chance that their letter is published and they find out what to do? Being a chap myself, I can safely say that, embarrassment aside, if I was in this kind of pain I wouldn't be reaching for my notepad; I'd be off the doctors quicker than you can say "careful, that's my thigh".

What happens if she doesn't answer it? Do they just keep bothering the denizens of middle-aged entertainment? Do they write to Richard and Judy? Paul O'Grady? Loose Women? The mind boggles.

Anyway, I can't stop. I think I'm getting a brain tumour so I need to email Russell Grant. Laters.

Meat-free madness!

Thanks to Stella McCartney sticking her oar in, companies are beginning to subscribe to the idea of 'Meat-free Monday', where you opt out of eating meat for one day, making the world a better place.

The idea is that the cultivation, production and transportation of meat products costs a right shitload, so by not having it for one day, you're effectively reducing the demand, ergo you reduce the global carbon footprint, theoretically by 20%

A nice idea, I'm sure you'll agree.

It'll never work, I'm sure you'll agree.

Hand in hand with this is a strategy at my company to improve their global positioning in terms of impact on the environment, improving working practices and all the other buzzword-laden twaddle people do to look good when jobs are on the line. Don't get me wrong, it's a noble project and I have the utmost respect for those trying to 'realise the dream' as it were, but they seem to have missed one small element in the uptake of their grand plan.

The attitude of the British.

More specifically, the attitude of the British at the company where I work.

We were all treated to an hour-long presentation about the aforementioned vision, taking in the various projects we're involved in and showing us exactly what they're planning to do. All very impressive and worthwhile, but people in the UK are a bit, well, cynical. I know, incredible isn't it?

After the event, a lot of "What the chuff was that all about?" could be heard around the building, as people who pack boxes for a living wondered quite why we're so bothered about working practice in the Third World. However, visiting the canteen was the best gauge of where we are in our own pursuit of the project.

"It were crap" was all I got out of our gurning plate-monkeys. They had their arse out because of the Meat-Free Monday idea, which they thought was a huge waste of time. Roughly translated, that means they can't just get away with lobbing sausages for breakfast, and they might have to open the occasional tin of beans.

The option to go meat-free has been available for a couple of weeks now, so I asked how it had been going since it's inception. Their response was thus:

"We had to stop offering it to the folk in the warehouse, cos they thought it meant they got free meat for the day"

I'm guessing that it isn't going to take off quite as well as management had hoped...

Mobile Phones: Also make calls

I've reached a watershed in life.

I'm now at that age when all I want my phone to do is make and receive calls.

Since the back end of the 90's, I've had a mobile phone. In those halcyon days of fledgling mobile communications, they were still brick-sized and had the technological advancements of a Speak 'n' Spell. Gradually though, they started getting all kinds of clever gizmos; camera, video, Internet, and now you can see whether your shelves are level. How clever.

The problem is though, in amongst all of this LCD-based jiggery-pokery, we forgot about the calls, man. The reason why we bought the chuffing thing in the first place.

It's no surprise today to learn that mobiles are wank. Plastic, barely-put-together pieces of chuckaway tripe which last 5 minutes before you're calling the Helpdesk (ironically) complaining that it's bust. To save on brass, I recently switched from a 12-month to 18-month contract, which also meant I got a better phone. And by 'better' I mean 'fell apart in the Trafford Centre a couple of months after I got it when I dared to open it and attempt to send a text'.

In that event, I went back to my previous phone; a solid, black and silver clamshell Nokia which I'd had for donkey's years. Very pleased was I, as I smugly made calls and what have you whilst others carried handfuls of broken plastic components which used to resemble an iPhone. However, last week, my phone decided enough was enough, and in the space of around a week went from being AOK to being fucked. And by 'fucked' I actually mean 'got on my tits to such an extent that I chucked it into the footwell of my car and it more or less exploded'.

Long story short, I popped into Asda, and for a score got myself a pay-as-you-go phone, which I simply put my contract SIM in and I haven't looked back. Alright, it's not going to win any design awards, and Carol Vorderman has to pop round to help me send a text, but it WORKS, which is something of a novelty in the mobile phone world these days.

The irony is, the older and more financially viable we become, the more we hark back to cheap and cheerful technology which actually works. That said, I've only had it a week, and in all likelihood I'll be popping back to Asda with a handful of plastic components in the near future...

When the president calls you a jackass...

Kanye West really is the end of a bell, isn't he?

A couple of years ago he made himself look like something of an arse when he complained on-stage at an awards ceremony that his video should have won the Best Video award because it was better and cost more than the actual winner. The fact that Pamela Anderson was in it also seemed to be some kind of deal-sealer in his shaded eyes. He was lampooned and ridiculed by most people in music circles as being self-involved and, you know, a bit of a twat.

With such pleasantries ringing in his ears, you would have thought he would think twice about any future outbursts, be them directly to the press or overheard and repeated. He can't afford to drop any more bollocks lest he be deemed an outcast by his peers.

Which makes his latest episode all the more amusing.

At this week's VMA awards, he thought it would be a good idea to interrupt Taylor Swift's award for Best Video (note the pattern), pinch the mic off the poor bint, then declare that Beyonce's video was in fact better. He literally took the mic off her, then proceeded to steal her thunder. All this after crashing the stage uninvited.

Beyonce's arse dropped as the camera focused on her and Swift looked proper upset, all while this lurching goon stood there professing his ill-thought-out and (most importantly) uninvited opinions on the relative merits of the videos. He left the stage, and was promptly booted out for his troubles while the festivities got going again.

His peers were not impressed. Pink called him 'a piece of shit'. President Obama called him a 'jackass', albeit off-camera, but they have a point. Who is this clown anyway? He's made a couple of decent records, which in his mind seems enough to qualify him as a judge on all things musical. Coupled with his aforementioned previous outburst, he's hurtling towards becoming a laughing stock in the industry. That was my prediction when he first came onto the scene, but I presumed it would be due to the quality of his work. Either way, I was right.

Apparently he's apologised a few million times now, including to Taylor Swift directly, and he even showed up all tearful on Jay Leno to repent his sins. That may repair some of the damage caused to the victims of this piece, but I doubt it's going to repair much of the damage caused to his already sinking stock.

Cos he's a cock.

Breaking News: Er, water is wet?

Here's a fact that'll have you running for the hills in paranoid fear: Sky News take themselves a little too seriously.

On Sky TV, we're treated to two 24-hour news options: Sky and BBC. I personally use them both for different reasons; BBC for well-balanced and non-sensationalised headlines and information, and Sky for the red-button stuff which gives you the headlines whenever you want them.

At a recent family function I was wittering on about how Sky have a propensity for digging up any old twaddle, sticking it on the yellow ticker and deeming in Breaking News, whereas The Beeb tend to be a bit more relaxed and concentrate on things like actual news.

As an exercise in being smug, I proved it. I stuck 503 on where something about Afghanistan was being reported (for a change). No breaking news, no flashing banners, just an update on recent occurrences. I then switched to Sky News and predictably, there was breaking news. It read as follows:

"David Cameron says the NHS is a national institution"

Hmm. Pardon me if I'm wrong (and it's been known to happen), but is this news, or just someone's opinion? Granted, he's in a position of power, but if this is deemed breaking news, surely every opinion he expresses is the same. What next?

"David Cameron says 'This coffee is a bit hot'"
"David Cameron says 'Have you emptied the dishwasher?'"
"David Cameron says 'Look - everything I say ends up on Sky as breaking news. Sweet'"

It's bollocks, isn't it? When I was young, breaking news was a serious business. The Herald of Free Enterprise disaster, for example, or Lockerbie. They actually broke into normal TV to tell you of the unfolding disaster. Don't get me wrong, I can imagine that trying to find newsworthy material 24 hours a day can be a bit of a twat on slow-news days, but that's no reason to dress up someone's throw-away comments as must-read information. By all means report that he said it in the context of the story, but don't flag it as breaking news when it really, truly isn't.

Either that or start a new channel to furnish us with the inner monologues of people in power. Then we'd really find out what David Cameron thinks about Fabio Capello's selection policy. And not before time.

11 years too late, but still...

So Channel 4 have finally decided to bin that stinking pile of uber-shite Big Brother? Good bloody riddance.

When it started, the first series had a novelty appeal. I didn't watch it (although I caught the final in a pub) but you could understand why people were interested in it. Genuine people were slung into a house and watched, while their arguments and emotions were played out for the voyeuristic viewers. Not my cup of char, but if it lights your candle, go for it girl.

The thing is, after that, C4 were like "Hold up, this is taking off big-style. Maybe, instead of sticking to this format though, we fill the house will a series of ill-monikered goons, socially-retarded wannabees and scantily-clad nork-merchants to titillate our clearly idiotic fanbase. Then, we'll employ some skinny blokes with concerning fashion tastes to discuss the goings-on in the house like a Jeremy Kyle-version of The Big Question. That'll be ace"

And lo, said ideas were actioned, and for the last decade we've been subjected to the likes of Jady Goody (RIP, Queen of our hearts), that Chantelle woman and John Tickle. Really, are any of these people actually worth the skin they inhabit? They're no-marks of the highest order yet because they spent 6 weeks sat on their arse in a house, they are thrust into the limelight while every facet of their sex and social life is plastered across the newspapers, usually by a plumber named Dave who used to shag one of them.

The idea of it being an interesting social experiment died when they started taking themselves so seriously, employing old Bignose to tell us how important it was, and how interesting the folk in the house were. You could argue that she was spectacularly missing the point; that people who invest any kind of emotion or time in the plights of these skanks were somehow the right-thinking in this society. Don't get me wrong, I'm not blaming the BB producers for tapping into the culture of brainless voyeurism that blights our televisual treats these days, but to make it look like the must-see show across the summer is at least worrying, at best irresponsible. Yes, dip in every now and then to see them having a scrap of showering together, but don't stop up all night watching them sleep on an infra-red camera. That's just gay.

Sadly, the rumour is that another station will pick up the franchise and eek even more mileage from it, despite the fact that it ceased to be a good idea in 2002. Naturally I won't be tuning in, nor will I be picking on the people who like it to any great degree. Despite what you read above, I genuinely don't care. I just find it fascinating how much effort and airtime goes into covering a dozen unemployed, intellectually-challenged individuals arguing for 2 months.

I just hope McCall doesn't find herself at a loose end and fronts another series of her dreadful chat show. That really would be a tragedy for TV. Cheers.

How to create a reality TV programme

It's true to say I actually like about 10 TV programmes, although I'll happily watch millions when there's nothing better to do. However, apart from House and Top Gear, there is only one other programme in the whole world that I get arsey about missing.

Brooke Knows Best.

Now, for those of you who don't know, this is a reality documentary charting the life of Brooke Hogan, daughter of Terry "Hulk" Hogan, who was a boxer or something. The plot is simple: she spends her entire life talking to her roommates (fit and gay respectively), while we sit there bored shitless waiting for something to actually occur. Hardcore BKB fans will know that her parents recently got divorced after Tegs started knocking off one of Brooke's friends, and now both parents are shagging someone nearer their kids' age than their own. The result is an unmissable mix of Miami footage and the lovely Miss Hogan in a range of skimpy togs.

It's what our forefathers fought for.

You'll be surprised to learn that the production values on this epic aren't exactly spectacular. Indeed, the whole programme actually lasts about 17 minutes, when you strip away the 4 million adverts, and easily the most annoying part of the show; the "Coming Up" section.

Basically, this is what happens:

1. Opening credits roll. Staged beach shots which make the Baywatch cast cringe ensue
2. Brooke voiceover: "Coming up on Brooke Knows Best"
3. We see a minute-long montage of literally everything which is going to take place in the show tonight. I mean EVERYTHING.
4. We sit through the rest of the show watching exactly what we were shown in the preview, embellished with the occasional house or location shot, or one of the roommates looking wistfully into the middle distance, possibly wondering why the feck they're in this tripe in the first place.

It seems to me that 2 things have taken place for us to end up here:

1. Brooke actually has a normal, run-of the mill life (except no job, it appears)
2. The production team have spunked so much money on the production of this piffle that they have to cobble something together, albeit with results that don't exactly have the Emmy awards committee moistening their undergarments.

The sensible option would be to say "You know what, B? We might as well can this, cos you don't do owt remotely interesting, and the only stuff you ever do that is vaguely watchable is over so quickly we have to rely upon padding it out with millions of swimmers or skaters or external shots of your house that we've already used fourteen times in this show"

Then again, if they did, where would people like me go for their car crash fix? Jeremy Kyle? I think not, squire. Keep up the good work, MTV.

Ikea: Home of vocal lesbians and hot dog-chasing tightwads

You probably know that I recently moved house. I'm now in that familiar position of having two television cabinets whilst not being entirely sure where the kettle is.

Part of the homebuilding procedure is of course visiting Ikea. I checked the relevant paperwork and found that yes, I am legally obliged to visit the Swedish furniture superstore once a month until I'm dead. My only choice is which day I go. What a gyp.

I chose this time to go on a Monday, mainly because I expected it to be relatively quiet. It wasn't, mainly because it's the school holidays, so I was constantly on my guard for kids pushing miniature trollies at high speed into my ankles. Luckily for them, no such collision occurred and they'll happily see their teen years.

The problem (or benefit, in my opinion) of Ikea is that the close-knit nature of the layout means you're often in the vicinity of other couples measuring headboards, and get to hear snippets of their conversations. It was through the medium of inadvertent eavesdropping that these two beauties fell into my lap.

- An obviously lesbian couple, with an obvious husband/wife set-up. Whilst milling around the picture frames, they passed me in the opposite direction. Grabbing the 'wife' by the waist, the 'husband' then imparting this sweet nothing in her beloved's ear:

"Come here and give us a snog, you big lesbian"

I managed to control my laughter until I was just out of earshot (I have no doubt she could've kicked my head in had she wanted to), but you have to ask what kind of statement that is. As if hetero couples refer to each other as 'big fat straighties'.

- The woman in front of us at the checkout pulled the checkout girl up when a dish she thought was one pound odd actually turned out to be a little over two. After checking, it transpired the shopper had picked up the wrong sized dish, so decided to leave it, due to the 80 or so pence difference in price. "Fair do's" thought I, surmising that she must be a bit short on brass and couldn't afford to go chucking it about on oversized cookery items. I found myself to be wrong, however, when she proceeded to the hot dog stand, bought TWO, then ate them herself on the way across the car park. Clearly spending the thick end of two quid on processed meat products was more favourable that spending the extra 80p on a dish. What a gal.

I'm off back next Monday to actually buy something. I'll report back on the latest goings on with the social underclass once I've been. Ciao.

Sky: They really are the limit

You may know I'm shortly going to move house. As a result, a lot of my recent phone calls and correspondence revolve around telling the various services I use that I'm off, and where my new abode will be. It's a little over 7 years since I last moved home and that involved a lot of letter writing and call centre queues. The advent of that Internet, however, has made it child's play to tell multiple companies of my pending whereabouts in minutes.

If only it were that easy with Sky.

First off, you can't cancel over the Internet. Shades of Setanta here, as you can't move for attractive deals or new customer offers, while the existing customer base can whistle for any such perks. I therefore deigned to call them the other night to find out whether it would be cheaper to move and upgrade my existing package, or to cancel it and get the Mrs to raise a new order in her name.

The answer was spectacularly the latter. Quite simply, they treat existing customers with unbelievable disdain.

Let me state at this point that both the people I spoke to were friendly, helpful and knowledgeable. It's just the company they represent who raised my ire.

The first bloke I spoke to gave me details of the move process. Basically, I want to upgrade from 1 box to 2. As there is no dish at the new house, it'll be £60 to have one installed. It will then be a further £129 for a second Sky box. So before I even watch owt, it's nearly £200. Bargain. I said I'd think about it and get back to them.

I got off the phone and fired up their website. It is no lie to say that within the next 10 minutes we ordered Sky Multiroom with 2 free boxes, free dish, free fitting and a £25 Tesco voucher using the Mrs' details. Literally 10 minutes and everything was free. I was most perplexed and no error.

The next logical step was call Sky back and say "You know what, squire? Shove it up your poochute". And to a certain extent, I did. Of course, as soon as you press the button which says "I would like to cancel please" I was sent to the back of the world's longest queue. '8 minutes' I was told I had to wait, and at almost exactly that time, I was put through. Again, a genial, helpful Scot, but his intention from minute 1 was clear - you ain't leaving no Sky, fool.

He wanted to know why I was cancelling, and knowing that they would take a dim view of me having raised a new order using different details, I spun an elaborate tissue of lies involving the expense of house moving and how I wouldn't be home as much after moving so I couldn't justify the cost any more. Using the skill of a world-weary detective, he then began to blow my story apart piece by piece. It actually got to the stage when I uttered the phrase "Look mate, I appreciate what you're trying to do here, but I'm literally cancelling my Sky tonight". That got through to him.

In the end, he offered to reduce the installation fee to £30 and the Sky box to £99, meaning that had I moved my current package with them, I would have been paying £60 more than I would if I threatened to leave them instead. Having already ordered a new package I could appreciate the brass neck of the greedy bastards, but allowed myself a rye smile at what could have been if I didn't do my research first.

In the end, he kept me on the phone for 25 minutes, discussing all manner of football-related themes (my password was of a soccer ilk). He reckoned it took 5 minutes to cancel my account, but he was obviously just spinning out the phone call to make more money out of me; a fact proved when the account miraculously completed the cancellation process at the exact point he ran out of things to say.

The above experience does beg further interrogation at a later date, as the practice of attracting new customers with kick-ass offers while treating your existing subscribers like shit is endemic in the service industry. I'll save that inevitable rant for another time, but for now I'm enjoying the honeymoon period of being a new customer, which will undoubtedly end the second our first payment hits their bank account.

What a bunch of robbing shitehawks.

Revealed: John Barrowman's favourite pie filling

Frequently, when I read or talk about 'celeb' magazines like Heat and Closer, I get so het up that steam begins to come out of my ears and I revert to the language of working class Essex girl pissed on tart fuel. I make no secret of the fact that I quite enjoy reading these magazines for some unknown reason, despite the fact that they drive me round the twist with murderous aggression.

However, we've had a breakthrough.

I think I've worked out what gets me so arsed, and as a result, I appear to have made my peace with this kind of magazine and can enjoy perving over pictures of Colleen Nolan without getting upset. Basically, the stories are so banal and pointless, that there can't be a single person on God's green earth (or elsewhere for that matter) who could bring themselves to give any kind of shite about what is written within the pages of these glossy tomes.

I'll give you a few examples. I probably read about 3 of this type of mag last week. Selected """"highlights"""" include:

- Chantelle from Big Brother isn't happy with her body and wants a breast reduction
- Kerry Katona went on a bike ride
- Mischa Barton has put weight on
- Peter Andre went to a party and had his photo taken with a couple of trannies

Let the concept of these stories sink in for a minute, then see if you could possibly care about any of them. Didn't think so.

There are 2 sides to these stories. On the one hand, there's the teller's angle. Apart from Katona who was merely snapped on her epic bike ride round a park, the others have come to the press to tell their story. If I had put weight on, or wasn't happy with my figure, I can't think of anything I'd be less likely to do than inform the press. Who gives a shit what I think about myself? As if someone's sat at home thinking "Do you know what, I'm not fully clear on Chantelle from Big Brother's current body hang-ups. I hope she lets us know in the pages of the popular press soon". If you're not happy about it, love, sort it out in your own time. Don't go whining to the press (complete with half a dozen posed bikini shots, mind. She's clearly dead upset with her appearance if she can do that). Instead, get off your arse and either do some exercise or go to a plaggy surgeon to get your hang-ups de-hanged. You might want to ask for a brain transplant while you're at it.

The other side of the coin is the press angle. 1 of 2 scenarios must play out for this kind of drivel to hit the news stands:

- A meeting is called between the journos of Twat Magazine, where they decide that they're going to find out if Peter Andre has been to any transvestite-themed clubs lately and report thereon, or

- Pedro rings them up to say he's about to nip out to The Sausage Club, and the sheer glamour and interest generated leads the press pack to hot-foot it after him before one of the more respected rags gets the exclusive rights to the undoubtedly phenomenal photos.

Either way, it's a right pile of old slurry. As I said earlier, there can't be anyone who deems such tripe even remotely noteworthy. It has come to my attention that some women actually revel in the fact that certain celebrities have put on a stone since January (often it's the particularly good-looking women who think this, bizarrely). Surely there can't be water fountain conversations about the majority of the material covered though:

Bimbo 1: "Hey, have you seen them photos of Kerry Katona on a bike?"

Bimbo 2: "I know. Awesome!!"

Bimbo 1: "Tell me about it. To think she rides bikes and we didn't know about it until now. I don't know how I functioned before I knew this information"

Bimbo 2: "My entire life has been leading up to this moment"

Bimbo 3: "My stapler's blue!"

Bimbo 2: "No way! You should ring Heat and tell them"

Bimbo 3: "Already did. There's an 8-page spread in next week's edition. Plus I've been given a 6-month residency on Loose Women and my own property programme"

Bimbo 1: "Bitch"

Save me from the reality!

There's nothing good on telly any more.

Apart from Top Gear, House and the occasional episode of Family Guy, there's nothing decent worth watching on a day-to-day basis at the moment. Every now and then there'll be a documentary about spontaneous combustion amongst the homeless community or somesuch, but in the main it's twaddle of the very highest order.

To me, given that there is a floating viewer market looking for something to keep them entertained before the inevitable expiration of their mortal soul, it would make sense to not only make decent programmes, but to actually name and advertise them in a manner befitting both the content and ethos of the programme itself.

Sadly for the makers of "Real Rescue", such a thought process must have passed them by.

I accidentally wasted a decent portion of my evening watching this last night (mainly because there was bugger all else on) but it made me realise that the title is at least 50% lies. Put simply, there were no rescues. Let me elaborate on the stories which unfolded:

- Ship sinks in the Antarctic. You might remember this from a year or so ago, when a specially-designed ship took tourists to the Antarctic, only to get a bloody great hole in the front and everybody had to leave. Now, such was the slowness of the sinking that everybody managed to amble off and get away in lifeboats while the ship was barely listing. Indeed, video footage from the event shows tourists taking pictures of each other dolled up in life jackets while waiting to depart.

www.dictionary.com defines 'rescue' as "to free or deliver from confinement, violence, danger, or evil." and "to liberate or take by forcible or illegal means from lawful custody". Which part of calmly evacuating the ship then being picked up by other ships a few hours later actually constitutes the rescue here? Don't get me wrong, had the ship plunged at speed, or the weather was bad or they were out there for days, a rescue would have been necessary, but it didn't, it wasn't and they weren't, so it's not a rescue in the slightest. Fin.

- Caravan jack-knifes. Next, we're treated to a traffic cop zooming down the motorway to assist in the tragic tale of a caravan which jack-knifed, causing its attached car to hit the central reservation a bit. Again, don't get me wrong, it must have been shit-scary at the time and the car was a bit beaten up, but the family were completely OK and all the copper had to do was push the caravan from lane 3 to the hard shoulder. Not exactly Hollywood material is it?

- Lift gets stuck with ironic passenger. The last of the heart-rending tales of woe was a lift which had got stuck, trapping its inhabitants. "Now we're talking" I thought, as people actually needed rescuing. Cue 2 minutes of looking for the power override switch followed by them opening the doors with a master key, freeing the trapees within a couple of minutes of their arrival. Luckily, the camera crew had a bit of dramatic footage, as some apparently claustrophobic man had been squealing and clawing at the doors whilst trapped. Pardon my cynicism, but what kind of claustrophobic is only scared when trapped, rather than being in a confined space? Surely that's a different condition, like 'Wet-blanketitis' or somesuch. If he really was scared of confined spaces, it served him right for not taking the stairs. The lazy get.

So at the end of the day, out of 3 potentially rescue-ridden stories, we got 1 tenuously linked to the breathless title. It wasn't exactly seat-of-your-pants stuff, which leads me to think that maybe they should scale down their ambitious title to something a bit more fitting.

I'm not in marketing, but how about "Series of incredibly run-of-the-mill events set to dramatic music while emergency services waste time with people who've dropped their keys down a drain"?

It's got a certain ring to it, don't you think?

Are they being murdered?

There's a joke amongst TV critics, especially those who deal with soap operas, regarding the life expectancy of occupants of the various locations used for such programmes. With the necessity to keep audiences tuned in as important as ever, all manner of explosions, stabbings and, yes, bestiality are lobbed at the occupants of The Street, The Dale and The Enders. Week in, week out, some poor bugger ends up under a tram or in The Thames or lodged within the lower digestive tract of a farm animal, all in the name of entertainment.

However, it has recently become apparent that there is a TV programme far more dangerous than any farm on any street in any fictional borough. A programme which has seen 3 of its key protagonists pop their clogs in the last two years.

That programme is Are You Being Served?

Think about it; with Molly Sugden dying this week, that's 3 in a little over 2 years. First was John Inman (ironically-named one-act homosexual) in 2007, then Wendy Richard (shrill, leggy fox turned skeletal mardarse) earlier this year, and now Molly's gone. Granted, she was 86, but Inman was only 71 and Richard 65, so they weren't exactly knock knock knocking on heaven's door at the time. Maybe the sets were covered in lead paint. Maybe the sheer shame of squeezing 10 series worth of material out of a poor vaginal innuendo made them die early. Sadly, we may never know.

So who's left? Well, there's Captain Peacock, who at 88 regularly has our sides splitting in mirth-fest Last of the Summer Wine. Jug-eared Mr. Rumbold is 75, so he's well into the danger zone. Mr Lucas, the housewives favourite is 72 as well. Mr Harman is no longer with us, and if Young Mr. Grace was, he'd be 110. But he isn't.

I suppose if a programme's main cast are all of a similar age, it's likely that they'll all start to fall ill and/or die at a similar stage, but the fact that 3 of them died in a little over 24 months makes me think there are darker forces at work.

Either that, or this was just an exercise in browsing Wikipedia, but if Captain Peacock carks it before the end of the year, make sure you've got a cast-iron alibi.

The King (of Pop) is dead

The King (of Pop) is dead. And that's pretty much that.

I liked him. From a young age I'm not ashamed to admit I thought he was ace. Yes, he was a bit odd with the monkey and the oxygen tent and the one white glove, but his tunes were good, his dancing was awesome and for a young boy growing up in the badlands of Hull, he represented the very epitome of the word 'megastar'.

I can't pretend I ever get really upset about celebrities dying, simply because I don't really know them. There's that initial 'Oh' moment, when you first hear the news, but after that, you realise your life won't change that much and you crack on (or off, depending on your workload) as before.

The media has gone into full meltdown at the news, with literally hours of footage being dedicated to his body of work, which is quite frankly incredible. Everyone's got some shonky tracks in their portfolio, but the majority of his stuff was not only quality, but for it's time, ground-breaking.

Sadly, being such a controversial figure, all hell has broken loose with conspiracies and whatnot. Suggestions of foul play and medical malpractice threaten to overshadow the occasion, when it's likely that the simple fact was he had a heart attack and died. One day, a globally-reknowned star will cark it and everyone will go "That's sad" and that'll be that. No conspiracies, no crying uncontrollably and certainly no gathering round a paving stone bearing their name instead of getting their arses to work. I doubt I'll see that day though.

Luckily, despite the tragedy, there is a silver lining. Often shunning the press, and notorious for his supposed bullying parenting style which saw Michael and his brothers thrust into the limelight whether they liked it or not, Jacko's dad Joe has suddenly turned up again, using the oxygen of his son's death to promote his new record label.

Good work - why let the death of your child get in the way of business.

God rest you Jacko. Chamone.

Weight gain: Now 25% more blame-free

Jesus Christ!

I wasn't singing the opening bars to a Lloyd-Webber musical there; I was merely trying to vent a little frustration before I began writing this blog, to prevent me using the kind of language which would make the Gallaghers blush.

Hot on the heels of my previous blog (regarding being blamed by somebody who ate my breakfast for her gaining weight) comes the story of an American (surprise, surprise) who has apparently got a condition which makes her eat in the night.

It's got a real medical name as well, apparently. Something like Kippinglardarseitis or something, and is actually recognised as a condition. Surely you can understand my earlier outburst now.

Basically, the story unfolded thus. She had a foot injury which wasn't healing despite the fact she was laid up during the day. She also started noticing crumbs and food wrappers in the bed, and put on the thick end of 9 stone despite dieting and exercising daily. It hardly takes Columbo to figure this one out does it?

Now, my complaint is not with the condition itself (although in my opinion it's not really worthy of medical attention). Instead, my gripe is with the fact that she is totally helpless in resolving the matter herself. They had her on the radio and all she did was bleat about how she couldn't help raiding the fridge in her sleep, that her husband was a heavy sleeper so he didn't notice and that she had clothes in 3 different sizes (not sure why - she doesn't exactly fluctuate weight-wise). Throughout the whole interview, the female interviewer was very sympathetic, agreeing that it must be a living hell.

I have one, small question, however:

WHY DON'T YOU LOCK THE FECKING FRIDGE THEN?

Put a lock on the fridge, get her husband to lock it when she's not there then hide the key. Unless she's a psychic Houdini type of sleepwalker, how the bloody hell is she going to find the food then? Either that or fill the fridge with fruit and other low-fat treats (if such a thing exists). If her story was that she'd been taken hostage and force-fed lard for 6 months you'd have some sympathy, but this is so easily resolvable that it barely warrants any media attention whatsoever.

Mind you, Lady Gaga is a successful music artist, so what do I know about what should and shouldn't be in the media?

Weight Gain: Blame-free

It's been ages since I used conversations and occurrences from work to write blogs, but every so often you're given a chance to highlight just how misguided and, yes, idiotic some of the other inhabitants of our fair isle actually are.

Due to a work-related problem, I had to visit a different site yesterday morning. It was a last-minute thing and as such certain people weren't aware that I wasn't in my normal office that morning. Our canteen staff fall into this group.

Now, I'm what you might call a creature of habit. I have the same breakfast every morning (when else would you have it?) - 2 pieces of dry brown toast and beans. Simple, healthy and above all, cheap. Such is the regularity of me having this, that all I need to do is ask for 'the usual' and it will be done. It is important that you bear in mind the fact I have to visit the canteen and physically ask for this.

When I returned to my normal office today, I visited the canteen and ordered 'the usual'. I was then accused of causing one of the canteen staff members to gain weight. Her logic was thus:

- She had made my usual rounds of toast yesterday morning
- I obviously didn't turn up, so
- She ate them instead

Slightly taken aback at the ridiculousness of the statement (even by their standards), I then countered with three questions of my own:

- Why did you write down my order when I didn't actually ask for it?
- Given that I hadn't turned up to order it, and the quick nature of making toast, why didn't you just hang on on the off-chance that I'd forgotten to order and turned up anyway?
- How did you manage to put weight on by eating 2 slices of dry brown toast?

I must confess I didn't ask the first two questions, simply because I've had arguments in the past about pre-empting my order (to the extent that I've sometimes deliberately ordered something else to prove myself right - what a wag). I did however ask the final question.

Her response was succinct.

"Well, I didn't want to eat them dry, so I put butter on them"

Oh, so that's why it's my fault. You buttered the toast I would have eaten dry to suit your own taste, and therefore it's my fault you may put weight on. Maybe I should have suggested that the next time this happens (cos I know for a fact it will eventually), she actually covers the toast in dog dirt. The resulting stomach problems will cause her to lose weight (through vomiting, the trots, etc) and can only presume I will be held up as some kind of a hero for bringing about miracle weight loss.

At my place of work, stranger things have literally happened.

Setanta: The ITV Digital of football coverage

Many football fans will remember a few years ago, when ITV Digital went tits up, meaning a load of football clubs who had shelled out for new players and stadia based on their expected revenue from the deal went a bit sideways. Much shaking of heads and wringing of hands ensued, as the FA promised such a situation would never arise again.

Which makes the pending doom of Setanta all the more surprising.

As I write, they're expected to call the administrators in shortly, as they owe £3m to the SPL and a further £30m to the Prem. Apparently they've fallen behind on payments and are unlikely to be able to meet them, so that's that. I'd be surprised if the Premiership suffers too much as a result, but the Jocks may have some trouble filling that void, and besides which, that's not the point.

I'm all for fair competition in the marketplace, to ensure no one company has complete control over something. Sky pretty much put regular live football on the map (although they do seem to think that top-flight footy began in 1992) and have been nothing but a success in delivering quality footage, drama and the worse pundits this site of MoTD ever since. A couple of years ago, the Monopolies and Mergers Commission (or whoever deals with this kind of thing these days) decided enough was enough and broke up their monopoly on the packages. Setanta threw their hat in the ring and got some games, so Sky wound Prem Plus up and Setanta began showing Saturday tea-time games against a gaudy yellow background.

There are 2 reasons why this eventually went wrong.

Firstly, other than these odd games and some international matches, all Setanta can offer are pay-per-view boxing and a bit of golf. These are specialist interest sports in my opinion, meaning they would only ever attract a fraction of the viewing public. Had they offered a wider range of sports and/or less pay-per-view options, I think more people would've signed up to it. Contrast with Sky, who offer entertainment, news, movies and some right twaddle alongside their sports package, meaning the vast majority of people will opt for Sky (rightly or wrongly) knowing they can add/remove the sport at their behest. Sky's multi-avenue coverage of televisual entertainment ensures they're the punter's choice for a satellite provider.

The second (and easily most important) reason that Setanta are on their arse is because, not to put too fine a point on it, they're utter, utter, UTTER shite at customer service. At the request of a friend who wanted to attend my birthday and watch the Calzaghe fight later that night, I signed up for a 3-month stint one April. They couldn't have been more helpful in setting it up and taking my brass (from my credit card, mind; a Direct Debit was not allowed). Once the 3 months was up I was surprised to learn I was still able to see games. That's because they'd decided to carry on charging me anyway, God bless 'em. By the October I'd decided enough was enough, so begun the cancellation process. A few points relating to this procedure:

- There's literally no way to cancel your subscription either on their website or over the phone. Upon searching Google, the only hits were for users in a similar situation who were either asking for help cancelling or offering an email address to contact.

- Having rung them to cancel, the 'assistant' gave me the wrong email address (in my opinion wrongly, to get another month's pay out of me). I got the correct one during my second call.

- The only way I managed to speak to someone was when my credit card changed, so they could no longer collect payments. I left it ages before I answered one of their calls because it came up as "withheld" on caller ID.

- I agreed to pay the difference on the account on the understanding I could have my subscription cancelled. I gave them my details and that was that. 2 days later I got another call demanding payment. Upon explaining the situation, it became clear that apparently some temporary staff had been processing payments but not completing them, meaning they could claim the commission but leave it unpaid to try again at a later date.

- Their policy is to take a further month's payment from you before cancelling, meaning I didn't actually get it cancelled until the start of December, a full 6 weeks from when they started.

- There is no known complaints procedure.

All in all, they're a shower of shambolic schysters. I wouldn't go back to them for all the tea in China after the way they treated me (and others, it has subsequently transpired. My story seems eerily familiar to other people I've spoken to). As far as I'm concerned, they've got exactly what they deserved.

** Insert knob gag here **

CrimeWatch: The Movie

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Bad Language: Prompt

I consider myself a genial kind of guy. Apart from a reasonably high-profile falling out with a friend of a friend recently, my record for getting on with people is practically blemish-free. In addition, I tend to find that I get on with people from all walks of life very quickly, and often find myself talking about all manner of personal and unusual subjects with people I’ve only known a few minutes.

However, it also appears that I have the kind of face and/or personality which says to people “This guy clearly loves to hear lots of incredibly aggressive swear words shortly after meeting someone, so let’s say some. Immediately”

You’ll be surprised to learn that bad language doesn’t exactly upset me. I’m not the most frequent exponent of its use in my group of friends, but I’m all for a bit of ‘industrial’ language to get my point across rather than that flowery nonsense most people go for. Indeed, if I could guarantee that such prose wouldn’t upset readers, I would in all likelihood sprinkle massively inappropriate words throughout my blogs, simply because I can. However, given that I can’t guarantee non-friends won’t read this, I have to keep it clean and ultimately avoid any potential legal wranglings.

The reason I mention this skill of drawing bad language out of people came about after a recent trip to Dublin. To and from the airport I unsurprisingly used local taxi drivers. Both were chirpy salt-of-the-earth types who had opinions on everything from traffic police to the state of the economy. I was happy to join in with my opinions and thoughts on many subjects, but out of respect and a lack of knowledge of the drivers’ tolerances to swearing, kept it clean.

The same cannot be said of the drivers.

Bear in mind I was in the company of both drivers for less that 20 minutes combined, yet I heard 30-plus f-words, multiple ‘bastards’ and even a couple of the ‘bad’ swear word. You know, the one that starts with ‘c’ and isn’t ‘cock’ or ‘compass’. Yeah, that one.

Now, like I said, such language doesn’t bother me (in fact, given the Irish accent, the word ‘cont’ actually made me laugh, which may or may not be racist), but surely these guys must come into contact with people from all parts of the social spectrum on a daily basis, so liberal use of the c-bomb shouldn’t be encouraged? Assuming these guys are aware of the fact they’re being paid for their driving service, they have to be very careful not to offend people and jeopardise their pay day. I can therefore only assume that within a few seconds of meeting me, people think “This guy clearly likes a bit of blue language. It would be rude to disappoint”. Either that or such language is as clean as the proverbial baby’s bottom in Ireland, so it isn’t deemed offensive to lob it into every other sentence.

I’m still not sure if I’m proud or not. I probably am though.

£150 for a glass dildo?!

Let’s have a quick show of hands; who actually, genuinely cares about the expenses ‘scandal’ currently engulfing anyone who’s ever set foot inside Westminster?

If you do, then kudos to you for having the time and inclination to get worked up about something that literally has no effect on us. We don’t have to pay any extra for their claims, so it doesn’t matter one iota what they get up to.

Don’t get me wrong, I think they’re taking the piss. £100 to get some blokes to change a few light bulbs or having the audacity to claim for the repair of a pipe under your tennis court is OTT in anyone’s book. The expenses system was implemented because it was deemed bad form to be giving MP’s pay rises, so they give them a basic wage and let them claim for other, legitimate expenses that occur in their normal political business. I didn’t realise tennis featured so highly on their political agenda.

When I accrue expenditure as part of my job, I claim it back as any normal person would. However, I only claim for the food/fuel/prostitutes I’ve used carrying out the work. You won’t see car washes or a round of tequilas at Hooters mentioned on the form, because it had nothing to do with it. To me that’s the point; if it emerged that an MP had claimed shitloads, but they countered with a pile of receipts that explained every penny spent was for their job, you’d hold your hands up and say ‘fair enough, guv’. Quite why you’d say that, I’m not sure, but you get my point.

The thing is, anybody put in the same position would do exactly the same thing. I would; I don’t because I know I can’t get away with it. It’s not actually against the rules for them to claim for all the guff they do end up claiming for, so there’s not really a scandal after all. They’re just a shower of greedy bastards manipulating a pathetically-governed scheme.

As you would imagine, the leaders have been falling over themselves to apologise and promise change (and my favourite – order an independent review) but the simple fact is anything they do is a direct result of being caught. If somebody had come out a few months ago and said that they thought it was a bid naughty to claim for a housemaid and they were going to sort it out now, fair play to them. In the event, The Telegraph has pulled everyone’s pants down and the public have been treated to the display of general-election-later-this-year panic from anyone with ‘MP’ in their name. Like I said earlier, it has cost us nothing more than we would already have paid, so I’m quite enjoying the playground level one-upmanship being served up by Brown and Cameron as they each pretend they thought of sorting this out first. If they just said “you know what – fair’s fair. We’ve been taking the piss for yonks now, but it’s about time we knocked it on the head” at least we’d think there was an element of humility within them. But they didn’t, and we don’t.

Right, the company’s paying – who wants an Castlemaine XXXX?

A tale of 4 tits

Many moons ago, when I still held onto the thought that people actually read this, I wrote about the pending divorce of him from The Ordinary Boys and her off Big Brother. You know, the blonde one who reckoned she was like Paris Hilton. Got her cans out in a swimming pool. Yeah, that’s her.

Anyway, that blog was notable for 2 reasons; I was poking well-thought out fun at another celebrity-driven defamation of the sanctity of marriage, but more importantly because I used the c-word uncensored for the first time online. I felt that strongly about it at the time, as I surmised that it was nothing more than a cheap publicity stunt to keep them in the public eye, and they would be back together quicker than you could say “centre-spread”.

Alas, I were wrong.

I recall my younger, swearier self here because this week, the nation’s favourite celebrity chavs, Andre and Price, have decided time’s time and are to divorce after 4-and-a-half years or wedded bliss.

Perhaps blunted by the sheer volume of stories of this ilk you read these days, I find myself more amused than angry. I think a lot of that has to do with the simple fact that they’re both massively cretinous and unlikely to be taken seriously apart from by those orange lasses who wear pink tracksuits and furry boots. The right-thinking of this nation ceased to give a shite – shiny or otherwise – about these two ages ago.

Now, I don’t begrudge them a minute of their fame or a penny of their fortune. It is widely noted that Price is a businesswoman of some repute; cashing in on the ‘Jordan’ persona to feather her nest. The way she’s brought up her lad is an inspiration to parents in the same situation as well. And let’s face it, not many red-blooded males would have passed up the chance for half an hour in her pre-silicone company, surely? Either way, she’s a bit of a dick, but she’s harmless and if people want to read about her, why shouldn’t she make as much brass out of it as she can? I know I would. Compare and contrast to Captain CarCrash herself, Jodie Marsh. Same sort of idea to Jordan, but now looks like Pete Burns and has the bedroom morals of a French whore. Well played there.

Andre on the other hand is a different kettle of shrimp. Reasonably popular in his pomp, he used “I’m a celebrity” the same way the other Timmy Malletts of this world do; to get their mug on telly when people think they’re dead. The only difference here was that he bagged himself a glamour model at the same time, and if memory serves me correctly, he re-released “Mysterious Girl” into the bargain. A good era for Great Britain, I’m sure you’ll agree.

I never doubted for a minute that it wouldn’t go tits-skywards from the word go. Given the way they lived their lives through the pages of ‘glossy’ magazines, it’s clear their agenda is far from being man and wife. The genuine tragedy is the poor kids stuck in this. They’ve had 2 together I believe who don’t need this, and poor Harvey’s got enough on his plate without being the victim of a broken home.

As you would expect, they’ve managed to overshadow this entire sorry charade with a beautiful piece of comedy. Having spent their entire married life in the public eye, with more programmes about them that there is about property, one of the first lines of their divorce statement read thus:

“We would appreciate it if the press left us alone during this difficult time”

For once, words fail me.

Forgive me Jebus for I have sinned...

God bless Karen Matthews. Where would we be without her?

For a kick-off, she makes every parent in the country look like some kind of SuperMum or Dad, given her vomit-inducing attempt to blag money from well-wishers by conspiring to kidnap, sedate and tether her own daughter for an extended length of time in a relative's house. If there's a worse act that doesn't involve killing or interefering with a child, I don't want to know about it.

Lest we forget the service she provided to her special boyfriend Craig "I dunno, officer - the PC was like that when I bought it" Meehan. Let's face it, he's not exactly dealing from the top of the deck looks- or brains-wise, so the fact that Matthews was prepared to have carnal knowledge of him, let alone tolerate his dinner-plate glasses gawping at her all day is a cause for credit in anyone's book.

She's trumped the lot this week though, with an article in the press giving the nation a chance to catch up with its favourite dole scum, where she puts herself across as a humble, apologetic reformed character, trying to repair the emotional damage she's done to her daughter, whilst convincing the public that she's a changed woman. Read her testimony; it details how she came to terms with her own actions and vowed not to rest until she's proven that she's turned over a new leaf, and gets her children back where they rightfully belong - with their loving mother.

She also talks of finding religion, and how The Good Book has taught her more about herself than she ever thought possible. She reveals how since finding God, she's cleansed her soul, cleaned up her act and realised the sheer debt she owes to her family and to herself. "With the Lord's guidance", she said, "I WILL become a better person"

Not really - this is what she actually said:

"It wasn't me guv - it were a fit up"

and

"The things I miss most in jail are sex and shopping"

What a prick.

Disclaimer: We make sh*t up

I can appreciate that advertising is a difficult job. In today's cost-conscious society, people will invariably gravitate towards the cheaper end of the market for their stuff. To that end, companies have to think smart and come up with slogans and statistics which prove their product is the best choice for the consumer.

Of course the flip-side is that companies must also put a certain spin on their research and data, to ensure their product is shown in the best possible light. I'm sure many millions are spent each year proving the quality of their product, so if the results they get aren't exactly what they hoped for, they'll need to massage the data slightly to get what they want out of it.

There's an advert on at the mo for ink cartridges, specifically a particular company (can't remember which one) and how their products are much more efficient and use less ink that their competitors. They fanfare this fact with a "You could save up to £75 a year on ink" slogan on the advert, suffixed with the obligatory asterisk. Usually, such asterisks lead you to some tiny text elsewhere on the screen detailing how many people were asked, how many printers were used, etc, to give you a better indication of the scope of the research.

However...the disclaimer on this advert basically said "Based on 1500 pages of text and photos. Results may vary"

Er, "Results may vary"? Isn't that just another way of saying "You could end up with any old results. We haven't got a Scooby Doo what'll happen"?

How this had got through whatever watchdog or governing body manages these matters is beyond me. It's like an advert saying "If you drink this product, you'll live 'til you're a million*" then putting elsewhere "* Your lifespan may vary". They've literally made up the results, yet qualified it by saying "Well, it might not pan out exactly the same for you, in which case, tough shit"

If this is tolerable in our great British media, I see no reason why the general public can't use it on CV's or personal ads:

"Male, 35yo, ripped like a prize fighter, hung like a baby elephant, seeks pneumatic, improbably-breasted librarian for rutting *"

* Actual rippedness and cock length may vary.

I don't ask cos I don't care

"In a roll, lose control, but we're alright" sang hat-wearing walking sideburn Gaz from UK supergroup "Supergrass" on their debut hit "Alright". It was welcome news to those of us who were concerned about his well being at the time, as anybody who remembers those halcyon days will recall the nation being beside itself with worry about Gaz's plight.

The point I'm spectacularly labouring is the propensity for the British public to enquire about someones well being as an opening gambit, when we clearly couldn't give a shiny shite whether the questionee is in fine fettle or about to shuffle off this mortal coil.

I don't ask people because I don't care. Call it harsh if you will, but in general, the health of the people I come into contact with on a daily basis has little to no effect on my life or work. If somebody I had time for had just returned to work after a bout of the old swine flu, I might enquire "How are you?", if only to determine how big a gap I should maintain between us until the virus dies down.

It's one of those unusual traits of our society that we're all guilty to some extent of using "How are you?" or "Are you alright?" as a conversational pleasantry, but if I was trying to describe an objectionable person to you and said "They're the type of person who if you ask them 'Are you alright?', they say 'No'", you would nod knowingly and thank your lucky stars that you hadn't had to tolerate the cretin in question.

I guess it harks back to the old 'stiff upper lip' days, when our forefathers buried their ills deep down and enjoyed a pint of mild instead, whilst their very being came apart at the seams. Everyone was in the same boat so it did no good moaning about it. "Only pussies say 'no'. Another pint please, landlord".

I might be doing everyone a disservice; maybe it's me who couldn't care less and the rest of the nation does. However, I'm willing to bet a sizable sum that if someone replied "Well no, actually", the asker's internal monologue will shift from pleasant interest to murderous impatience quicker than you can say "Well go to a doctor then, arsehat".

Anyway, enough about me - how are you getting on?

How come tramps aren't fat?

Occasionally, and it is only occasionally, I learn a fact. Even rarer than that, the fact in question is so well-known and agreed upon by the general populus that when it transpires that I didn't know said fact, the only acceptable response is to thrust the tongue into the lower lip and deliver what is widely regarded as a "belm".

Such an event occured (the lack of knowledge, not the belm) just yesterday, when I found out that alcohol is in fact highly calorific.

Talk about a kick in the teeth. I, like most Britons, rely heavily upon alcohol to a) get a party started, b) make me seem funnier, more charming and harder than everyone else in the room and c) as an emergency mouthwash. Imagine my displeasure then, when I discovered that Sweet Lady Booze is actually slowly turning my into a lardarse at the same time as delivering epiphanies on the true plot of the original Star Wars trilogy.

To say I was disappointed was something of an understatement, as in recent weeks I've started using a gym and eating healthier (not healthy, merely healthier). Now it turns out that when I wind down of a Thursday evening (or Friday or Saturday) with a nice glass of Tesco's own Italian Merlot, I'm actually piling all the weight back on that 7 minutes of mid-paced ambling took out at earlier that day.

After nearly 4 minutes of soul searching, I concluded that the only solution is to work out more. It was either that or drink less, so I'm sure you can appreciate the inevitable logic of my decision. I did approach it in a mature fashion and look for low-fat alternatives in the alcoholic spectrum, but that was a pipe dream from the kick off.

So, if anyone out there is reading this and has come up with a viable alternative to burning off the calories I've gained through controlled exercise, let me know, because the alternative is literally too scary to consider.

Why are the chavs so sad?

Every weekday I go into our canteen at work around the 9:30 mark. As a result, social misfit overlord Jeremy Kyle is plying his wares on his eponymous car crash of a TV show. If you haven’t seen it, I can save you the effort, as every episode goes like this:

- Kyle is smug

- Member of the social underclass (Liam, Destiny, etc) is wheeled out, sporting a haircut fashionable only with people in a certain salary bracket

- Kyle shouts at them for refusing to acknowledge their baby/drinking themselves into an early grave/not adhering the Carney Code

- Wife/bird/chap/lover is wheeled out with a face like a slapped Labrador

- Hilarious argument ensues, relying heavily on the word ‘slut’

- Nothing is resolved.

- Kyle looks smug

It’s easy to poke to fun at this pointless piece of voyeurism based on its ‘cost-friendly’ production values and reliance upon the moronic sadness of the great unemployed, but it does raise one pertinent question:

Why are the chavs so sad?

If the media is to be believed (and I can’t think of a single reason why it wouldn’t be) today’s dole scum enjoys a healthy giro, low-cost alcohol and regular unprotected sex in playparks. All this with a built-in reluctance to work and a well-developed sense of not giving a shit about anyone or anything else in society. I wish I could be that lazy, inept and stupid, yet still enjoy such hedonistic benefits. Talk about nirvana.

The thing is though, Kyle’s hard-hitting journalistic skill proves that they’re all upset. They all seem to be cross with each other and feel that aggressively declaring “I know you slept with that slag, Terry!” whilst not wearing a bra is the only way to resolve such deep-seated issues. Maybe cider has gone up in the latest budget, or all the local talent has gone off to do a BTEC and cannot be reached for carnal relief of an evening. I can’t think of any other reason they would be so sad and be forced to air their grievances on national television.

Maybe I’m doing them a disservice; maybe these people want to work and are treating Kyle’s show as a shop window. Let’s face it, it gives them a chance to show problem solving, communication and bare-knuckle boxing skills in one place. In many respects it’s like a video CV for Macdonalds or Halfords. If that’s the case the kudos to them; anything that helps them afford something other than Ben Sherman clothes and a razor to remove their laughable moustaches can only be a good thing.

We are gathered here today...to out-tack Stringfellow

It's coming up to a year since I became engaged. I say 'became'; it was completely my decision. I didn't wake up one day to find I'd contracted a fiancee. Let's just say that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, so I tied her down before she reads any of these blogs and realises I'm a social retard.

With this wedding caper in mind, we recently visited a wedding fair (or possibly 'fayre', although it wasn't massively medieval) to get some ideas and generally frighten the living daylights out of me.

Let me make it clear, I'm not scared of the commitment or any other aspect of marriage. I just expected to leave all the details to her and get a text the day before saying "Church. 11am. Don't be too pissed". Sadly that is not to be.

What I really want to comment on though is the sheer level of tackiness that seems to make up a modern wedding. Back in the 70's, you picked a church, put pillars on your cake and had the reception at a local pub. Now, it's all subtle lighting, grand venues and soft-focus photography. And it looks shite.

I want my wedding to be a simple affair; friends and family, vows, bridesmaids who make you think you've made a mistake choosing the Mrs, speeches, telegrams, low-level racist uncles and a bit of dancing. However, if you gave any of these fly-by-night chancers the reins, you'd be up to your eyes in personalised balloons and leather-bound photo annuals before you could say "But that looks wank".

Every aspect of the wedding was covered, but the whole event felt shrouded in a tacky, over-sentimental film, where flying in by helicopter, sporting a rooster-style haircut and having 'mood' shots of the happy couple in black and white were par for the course. Sorry, folks, but that's not me (and happily not the Mrs, either). We're not going to be in OK magazine, nor are we the type of people who sport a tattoo bearing our children's names or a butterfly. We're simple, traditional people, so let's keep the wedding the same, eh?

I'm all for a bit of indulgence (one of my many ideas involves top hats and canes bearing the respective holders' football club crest) but I refuse to pose next to a Ferrari or look pensively into the middle distance as it tips it down and our relatives grow increasingly bored and begin to refer to us as 'pretentious twats'.

I think the only way I can guarantee that we don't fall into the trap these shysters are setting for us is to employ a simple test as we venture on this nuptial quest. Whenever we are faced with a difficult decision, be it suits, flowers or whether to black up the best man, we should quietly ask ourselves this:

"What would Peter and Jordan do?"

The REAL "Real Hustle"

I consider myself to have a penchant for detail. I keep my eye on things. I'm not like Jason Bourne and can give you the registration plates of all the cars in the parking lot, but it's rare that I'm conned, tricked or tucked up by anyone.

Allow me to explains what happens when I am.

For the first time in ages on Saturday, I thought I'd treat myself to a burger (i.e. I couldn't be arsed doing the washing up). I went to the local fast food hostelry, paid my £3.70 (half pounder including chips - you can't complain) then decided to go to the nearby shop and get a drink.

As I had done a thousand times before, I approaced the drinks section for a potential purchase. Not knowing exactly how much money I had on me, I dug into my pocket to inspect my change.

I gave the chap a fiver, so I should have £1.30 left.

I had a 10p.

I had a 20p.

I had a 10 Franc piece.

Hmm.

Put simply, I'd been so lackadaisical in paying attention that the proprietor of the burger shop had managed to substitute my quid with a coin that isn't even in circulation any more. Almost certainly the same thing had happened to him and this coin has been burning a hole in his till ever since; that is until Captain Jackass here strolls in to take it off his hands.

The problem was, as I had now left the shop, I couldn't go barrelling back in with all manner of wild accusations, as he could politely suggest that I'd swapped the coin a la Derren Brown and was attempting to pull the fastest of ones. That, and they all look a bit 'gangster' in there and I didn't fancy some kind of grudge being borne against me in what is essentially a small village.

I therefore had to sit there like a complete tool while I waited for my burger to be prepared, knowing that I was a quid lighter and 10 Francs better off thanks to a simple lack of attention. I briefly considered raising the issue towards the end of my visit but a man the size of a house who appeared very friendly with the staff turned up and put me off the idea.

So take heed and check your change (it's highly likely you possess the presence of mind to do just that without this cautionary tale) because mistakes cannot be rectified later. At least not without a gun.

All I need to do now is find a Frenchman from the past...