Christmas Number Two

Bloody hell, for the second time in as many years I can say I've written a topical blog...

"It's Christmas!" yelled woolly-haired tartan-botherer Nobert "Noddy" Holder on his seminal Yuletide song with the backwards S. For a couple of weeks a year he's right as well, as all that is correct and right-thinking in life is replaced by tinsel and minature toy snowmen who grind their hips to the electronic tinkling of Jingle Bells.

Back in the good old days, Christmas number one was worth listening out for. It wasn't necessarily a christmassy song, but it was a genuine attempt to achieve top spot, and it meant something if you managed it. These days, it's all bloody X-Idol and Pop Factor and the like, meaning the number one is sewn up as early as August, when middle-aged women from Glasgow are murdering a Motown classic in front of a startled Louis Walsh. To say it was a cynical marketing ploy for each year's contest to end just before Christmas would be something of an understatement. Unfortunately, as long as there are vaccuous people with nothing better to do than watch dozens of personality-challenged cretins warble the latest hits in their own adolescent style, I'm afraid we're stuck with it.

Anyroad, that's not the nub of my rant, although the above phenomemna has given rise to my latest festive irk. This year's hotly-tipped number one is a cover of the Lenoard Cohen song "Hallelujah" by whichever pop drone won this blasted Factor competition. As you can imagine, it's like shit in a field at the moment; every regional and national station is playing it at 25-minute intervals to ensure we rush to our local record stockist and push it to the top of the Hit Parade.

There's a problem with it, though. It's shit.

My preferred version of the song is by Rufus Wainwright, which is achingly beautiful. Low-key singing and simple piano backing give it it's unique quality, and it's a welcome addition to any programme which is trying to force an emotional response from its viewers. Now, I'm not saying that is the only acceptable version of the tune, but I'm afraid this poppette's offering has slightly spolit it for me. It starts off alright, with the same low-key vocals and simple backing, but after a couple of verses she's like "Forget this, let's take it to town". All of a sudden there's banging drums, a screeching choir and Bonnie Tyler-style power ballading all over the shop. From the sublime to the ridiculous in seconds, as the entire ambiance and feeling of the record is blown out of the water in favour of fist-clenching and giving it large. Shambolique, as the French might say.

To make matters worse (if that was possible), she then decides to do that annoying thing that some supposed vocalists do, where they stick ten different notes on the end of some words, as if they're trying to put their own inimitable slant on the sound. All you're doing love is over-complicating a song which needs to be kept simple to get its message across. Your high-necked warbling is ruining it for everyone, so knock it off.

That Leona Lewis is the same. Fit, albeit slightly lion-faced, but her verion of Snow Patrol's 'Run' is awful. Yes, she is note-perfect and as good technically as a singer is able to be, but she injects no passion whatsoever into her performance, and she's changing notes left, right and centre. Listen to the original; Gary Lightbody sounds broken and vulnerable which makes the lyrics work and the song make sense. Lewis has ripped all of the pathos out of it in one fell swoop, leaving an empty, pointless and forgettable version. Lightbody may have made a packet in royalties, but I bet he winces when he hears one of his finest works being ripped to shreds by someone who's only been in the business five minutes.

In conclusion, there's nothing wrong with cover versions. Indeed, a lot of the Live Lounge stuff when an act recreates a well-known song with a different muscial slant is great, but you've got to pick your songs with care. Some songs are good because of how they are performed, not because of who's singing them. So think on, Cowell...

It shouldn't happen to...a blogging legend

A while ago I made the conscious decision to stop writing blogs about colleagues. On one hand, my job had changed slightly which meant I no longer got to fraternise with the sort of people who made blogging worthwhile in the first place. On the other hand, biting the hand that feeds you by slagging them off online does pose something of a conflict of interests, so I bit the bullet and started concentrating on my Kerry Katona hatred instead.

However, yesterday an event occurred at work which was so blogworthy that as it was still taking place, I was already thinking of a suitable title when I inevitably posted it online. So here goes.

At my place of work, we are able to buy stock directly from the company. It's a simple procedure which ends with us paying the balance to a suitably-elected member of staff who sits in his dreary office, crossing us off as we pay up. The office in question is cosy at best, meaning you're practically on top of him when you pop in with your hard-earned.

As usual, an announcement was made on the PA system that shop money was being collected, so I grabbed my invoice, chequebook and lucky pen and made my way to his office. As I approached, he had an unusual look on his face. A sort, of "Blimey, I didn't think anyone would be here that quick" sort of look. I'm sure you know the one.

Now, my record for paying for stock in a timely fashion is not exactly stellar. It's not that I'm tight, I just seem to never get round to it (I've been put on stop on more than one occasion as a result). I therefore suspected that the look on his face was more of a "Blimey, I didn't expect HIM to be here that quick". As I walked in, I began to explain that yes, I was in fact paying on time for a change. As I was explaining this, a strange smell began to invade my nostrils. I concluded my monologue, instinctively drew back from the as-yet unknown smell and waited for a response.

This is what I got.

"I knew somebody would walk in just after I'd farted"

Dear God. Now, I consider myself pretty quick on the draw words-wise, but I was totally stumped by this situation. I opted to pretend I hadn't yet smelt it, then suddenly picked it up and backed out of the room. Being a man in his late-40's, I expected an embarrassed, almost apologetic response. Instead, the next thing he said was:

"It's a corker, innit?!"

All I could muster was a gobsmacked nod, before I departed at speed (it transpired that I had to pay this particular bill to someone else, thank fuck).

The thing is, this guy actually KNEW people would shortly be visiting his office. It was him who asked for the announcement to be made to pay their bills in the first place, so he can't have been surprised when someone turned up within a minute or so. You have to wonder about his checklist when he decides to collect payments:

"Right, I'll put out the announcement first....puts out announcement...OK, I'll get me pen and a sheet of paper...gets pen and paper...now, what have I forgotten?....Oh yeah....BANG"

Why me?

Show me the funny...

As a rule, I try not to comment on individual items in society. I find it much more pleasurable to pass judgement on entire genres and make sweeping statements that offend millions in one fell swoop. However, recent events have pushed me so far that I have no choice but to kick off about one specific phenomenon.

I'm talking about TV 'comedy' The IT Crowd.

Right, before we even start, it has nothing, I repeat - NOTHING - to do with the fact that I work in IT. That it is based in the computing industry is probably why I have so many people offering their second-rate opinions on it (in fact, it seems wholly possible that people discuss it with me because they think I'm some kind of nerd who only watches programmes related to my work). In recent days I've had several 'lively' discussions about this programme and find all of my arguments are shot down simply because of my link to IT. That's not really fair; it's not as if there are programmes called "I am a complete wankjacket" which I can use in retaliation to the people who use this argument.

Basically, I can't see where the comedy is coming from. In my many years on this earth I've watched sitcoms from every part of the comedy spectrum. Some of them are true greats (Father Ted, Partridge, Phoenix Nights, The Office, Extras, etc) and some of the not so great (Lab Rats, anything starring Kevin Bishop). I even submitted a script to the BBC which was sadly turned down (it's who you know, but that's not for now). I've been to loads of stand-up gigs as well so I can confidently consider myself a good judge of comedy. As a result, when I finally decided "enough's enough - I can no longer argue with people about this programme based purely on the trailers; I need to watch it" I found myself struggling to raise a titter. I'll happily admit that I smiled a couple of times, but in general I found myself staring blankly at the screen as 'gag' after 'gag' was thrown at me in the vain hope of getting a laugh. Fail.

The entire premise of this programme seems two-fold. First, say or do something that implies something specific will be said or done, then immediately cut to a scene showing the polar opposite of that occurring. What a bastion of side-splittery. Second, as it is loosely based in the IT industry, the characters are socially-awkward geeks with funny voices and doubtful hairstyles and hygiene habits. More than one of the attempts at humour were driven by one of them being in a sticky situation or saying something in a stupid voice. Well played there as well.

What's truly sad about this is that the writer co-wrote Father Ted, so it should be immense. But it isn't. It's shit.

Having recently won a comedy award it's clear that a great many people must deem it hilarious. I have no problem with that. I'm not trying to bash or belittle the writer or it's fans, but I'm sick to the back teeth of being shouted down when I express a genuine puzzlement at the location of the comedy.

In conclusion, there are far worse programmes commissioned every year that make it onto our screens (alas, I'll never be able to venture as far as that scrapheap with my seminal work, "Flatmates") but just because it has a primetime slot and has quality writers and plenty of money thrown at it, it isn't guaranteed to be amusing. If, in the future, it bucks up its ideas and becomes good then I'll hold my hands up, but until that day I'll continue to fight the good fight.

Oh, and if one more person says "turn if off and turn it back on again" in an Irish voice to me, I might just fucking kill them.

The only secret is it's worse that fancy dress...

Until recently, I thought fancy dress was the worst idea of all time. Of course I mean within a particular societal domain; I'm sure things like DVD piracy and the rise of the Nazi empire will rank higher on some people's irk list, but this really gets on my tits. However, a chance conversation with a colleague highlighted something even more pointless and pathetic than dressing as Cruela de Ville for the entertainment of others.

Secret Santa.

Dear God, is there a worse idea in civilisation today? Just the idea of fully-grown, supposed right-minded adults wasting eight quid on a novelty mug coaster fills me with a dread I can barely put into words.

Of course, the yay-saying brigade will immediately roll out the standard "Don't be so miserable, it's a bit of fun" argument, to which I always reply "How starved of fun are you to deem exchanging worthless, risque gifts anonymously as anything but immature idiocy?". That usually foxes them.

I think my biggest issue with it is the potential for flirtation. I'm not daft, nor naive; I know how the world works. I bet a decent percentage of office-based staff are looking for a bit of extra-marital slap and tickle, and see the old Secret Santa as an opportunity to test the water, sex-wise. Picture the scene; man fancies woman, man buys chocolate body paint for woman anonymously, woman opens gift and thinks it's ace, man approaches woman, man ruts women (consensually of course). To that end it's a good idea, but for anybody who isn't after a bit of extra-curricular sauce, what excuse could you possibly have?

My disdain for all things festive doesn't need further airing here, but I can get into most of the facets of yuletide existence. The after-work drinking, for example, is a hoot. And the presents don't hurt either. (Apart from one time, when I got an electric Lego helicopter which I built in the bath, but that's not for now...)

In conclusion, if you must buy a present for one of your ill-liked colleagues, have the balls to give it to them in person. Maybe even go so far as to put your hand in your pocket and fork out more than a fiver, rather than giving them an oversized pencil with "Visit Edinburgh" scrawled up the side. The alternative is to spend your money on something useful, like heating or petrol or somesuch, but that's not in keeping with Christmas is it?

Jesus wept. And on his birthday, too...

Traffic Wardens: I like 'em

I'm not what you'd call an avid mingler with people in authority. I don't have any issues with them, nor do I fear their wrath, but I do tend to end up on their wrong side so as a rule I stay out of their way. Of course, when other people are involved in this calculation, the whole plan goes to shit. But sometimes, in this crazy melting pot of civilisation we call Earth, there is a person in a place of authority who is on our side, and their existence should be held up as a beacon of all that is good in this world. As follows...

As with most stories of surprising authoritarian generosity, we begin in the Post Office. A parcel for me was too big to fit through the letter box (despite the fact it was smaller than a gnat's mind) so I had to pick it up from the local depot. Not a problem, as I usually set off a bit earlier on my way to work and nip in. On the Friday I was told it hadn't yet been returned to them so to try tomorrow. "No probs" quipped I and I off I went.

The following day I duly returned. Due to the busyness in the town centre I had to park in a car park a couple of hundred yards away. It's a pay and display but I thought "Fuck that, I'll only be 5 minutes" and neither paid nor displayed. Back in the post office I was told that again, the parcel was not back. He had a good scout round for it and it was nowhere to be seen, so after 10 minutes he began to take my details down so he could call me when it rocked up. I noticed however that he had written my house number down wrong, so I picked him up on it. He then studied the correct number, turned his head a quarter turn and picked my parcel out of a box right next to him. Now, pardon my cynicism, but is their system so complicated that only the house number can guide them to a parcel's existence? Surely the street or even area would have rung a bell with him, but it was only when he was given the correct number that the penny dropped. Absolutely ridiculous, but I had my parcel and was on my way.

Of course, with Lady Luck already taking the piss with the Post Office episode, I shouldn't have been surprised to find a traffic warden eyeing my car with unnecessary suspicion when I returned. I naturally panicked and ran the remainder of the journey, beginning with a feeble "Am I too late?" like a schoolboy who'd been caught dawdling across the playground after break. But here's where a quite wonderful thing happened. He casually explained that he always gives unticketed cars 5 minutes to return, given the propensity for locals to nip into the PO the same as I did. Put simply, here was a traffic warden who knew the area, knew his client base and used his common sense to excellent effect. I was completely taken aback by the let-off, offered a semi-patronising "Good man" and got out of it before he changed his mind.

In the grand scheme of things, this interaction is unlikely to pull up any trees. Indeed, the BBC are refusing to return my calls about a documentary based upon the exchange, but it goes to show that despite all the hunger, rape and terrorism on this fair isle, there are still some decent folk out there. Folk who don't abuse the power bestowed upon them when they don their black cap with the luminous yellow piping. God bless them all.

Fancy growing up instead?

Usually, I qualify my opinion of something with an opening gambit along the lines of "it must be me who doesn't get it" but for once I can be completely confident that it is me who's right, and I like it.

I'm talking of course about fancy dress.

I'm 30, and therefore deem such pursuits as childish, pointless piffle. We had the occasional FD party within my circle of friends when we were growing up, and it was usually a clever way of avoiding forking out for party bags, by placing the entertainment onus on the attendees rather than on the party thrower. Even with that thrifty advantage it still doesn't appeal to me.

In the next few weeks I'm to expect an invitation to a friend's 30th, and she's decided fancy dress is the way to go. Apparently, acting like an infant isn't enough, so she's opted for the theme 'P'. I'm led to believe that means dressing up as something beginning with the letter P. If that's the case, I'm going to go in my normal garb, and if anybody asks me what I've come as, I'll declare "Piss off, I'm an adult". That starts with P.

What is the attraction for supposed grown adults to dress like aubergines and regional KKK operatives in the name of entertainment? I really can't see it, and am proud to admit that since the age of about 10 I've rejected every call to dress up at a shindig apart from one (a family do where I would have been slaughtered for not 'joining in', so I just put some of my old clothes on and went as myself from 1997). I still attended the other parties, but was resolute in my actions; "I ain't dressing up for nobody pal, I don't care how much I stand out. It's a childish pursuit and I won't be any part of your pathetic excuse for a party. Happy birthday, by the way".

Don't get me wrong; I've got nothing specifically against people who want to do this, regardless of their age (I do think however that there is an age range where it's not acceptable; 14 to 40 just about covers it. After than you look like a twat no matter how you dress so it doesn't matter). What does piss me off however is when people label me as 'miserable' for not donning a carrot outfit to a drinks occasion. Sorry? How does that work? As far as I can see I didn't waste any time and certainly no money agonising over what I should dress as to a party containing a high percentage of adults I've never met before, but I'm still smiling and enjoying myself. How exactly does that make me miserable?

I think what I'm saying is live and let live. If you want to dress as a pervy doctor, complete with 'boob inspector' hat, be my guest. If you want to wrap yourself in a piss-stained undersheet from your grotty little bedsit and pretend to be Julius Caesar, help yourself. Don't, however, expect me to participate. If that means not inviting me to avoid damaging the ambiance of your party then so be it; I won't be offended. If you lose your magic wand or one of your cowboy pistols, though, don't come running to me. Tossers.

The Fop and Dot Cotton vs. Manuel

So, Brand and Ross are up to their zany, madcap antics again, eh? Makes you spunk blood in pure rage doesn't it?

OK, let's deconstruct the whole sorry story blog-style. Two of the most notorious, well-paid and therefore popular of the BBC's employees thought it would be a good idea to call up an elderly man and leave lewd and inappropriate answerphone messages for him. The content is thought to include references to his granddaughter's sexual proclivities with Brand and suggestions that he might hang himself because of the bad publicity. Given their ages and stature, it really is a pathetic state of affairs.

My initial opinion was 'you daft apoths', and to be fair it's not shifted far from that. Yes, it is moderately newsworthy for one day and undoubtedly upsetting for Andrew Sachs, but the obvious little-Englander badnwagoning to the complaints received is bugging me. Apparently, the pre-recorded show drew 2 complaints when it was first aired, but since it's hit the news stands more than 10,000 people have complained. Even Gordon Brown has got involved. Not since the days of 'Free the Weatherfield One' has the House of Commons' time being so ridiculously misspent.

Seriously, who gives that big a shit about this story?

In these times of financial uncertainty and people being slotted for preaching Christianity (probably shouldn't ask for my opinions there), is a story about a limp-tongued fop and his Dot Cotton lookalike sidekick really that important? Really?

A lot of the vitriol stems from the fact that these two (particularly Ross) earn an absolute shitload for their dubious services. A fair wedge of the complaints seem to be that we pay their wages, so they should act more responsibly. That's fair enough as far as I'm concerned, although I put towards their wage as well and I couldn't care less what they did, as long as they leave my car alone and don't dawb 'QUEER' on my door in dog shit.

The act itself was despicable, especially when they targeted a former BBC employee and much-loved comedy performer. True, his granddaughter has bumped uglies with Brand, but that's no reason to leave messages proclaiming the fact; I very much doubt he gives a rat's ass. In my opinion, the pair should be suspended and docked wages which should be paid to a charity of Sachs' choice. When they return they should issue full and frank apologies and explain why they did what they did. All of this media-based tut-tutting and claiming of the moral high ground is doing nobody any good, and misses the point spectacularly. I'm pretty sure if John Suchet or David Dimbleby had done this they would be out on their ear; the fact it's two of the brightest stars on the station is preventing the Beeb from showing some balls and giving them a slap. This blatant lack of decisiveness is what's pissing the general public off so much. It was an opportunity for Auntie to show they are in touch with the people by carpeting them, but anything they do now will just be locking the door once the horse has bolted.

The thing is, as already stated this was pre-recorded, which meant the show had to go through what the Beeb laughingly refer to as 'editorial guidelines'. Dropped the ball a bit there didn't you fellas? Nobody's sure how far up the chain of command this goes, but somebody in a higher position than those two clowns gave the OK for it to be aired. Regardless of the responsibilities of the presenters, somebody further up has to take responsibility for it ever being broadcast. And I'll bet my bollocks to a barndance that we've never find out who.

Anyway, the granddaughter isn't getting out of this scot-free. I'm not saying she's to blame, but shagging Brand was a bit of a daft thing to do wasn't it? And she's in a burlesque troupe called Satanic Sluts or summat, which brings its own set of questions. She's upset that they've effectively picked on her granddad and rightly so, but she might want to reconsider her future bedfellows to keep the peace at the Christmas dinner table.

All in all, a sad way for two genuinely talented personalities to conduct themselves. It was quite funny though...

Carbon Footprint: Another Problem Solved

Hold on.....no.....wait.....yep, it's true. I've got another idea. And it's another beauty.

You know me - I'm a big fan of the environment. I recycle (well, I go through that many wine bottles that my bin would be full if I didn't, but it all counts). I'm worried about my carbon footprint, to the point that I spelt out "SAVE OUR PLANET" in burning car tyres on the local park the other day. In fact, I think it's fair to say that after Geldof and that Ghandi character, I'm the most important exponent of change on this planet. And it's about time I started pulling my weight.

My plan was formed when I noticed a thrifty driver closely tailgating a van on the motorway the other day. Clearly he was saving himself 22p in petrol by driving perilously close to the van's bumper and taking advantage of his slipstream. The van cut through the air creating less resistance behind him, allowing the following car to move at the same speed for less fuel. And it got me thinking.

Why not do the same with planes?

Think about it; we send 3-4 planes up in quick succession which are going in roughly the same direction, and they each sit on the tail of the one in front, using slipstream to keep up using less fuel. When the plane nears its destination, it simply drops out of the chain and lands. Fuel saved; planet saved; me lauded.

Now, there is a downside. In some cases, the disturbance in airflow can create 'dirty air' behind which royally fucks up the engines of the following aircraft. We've all seen Top Gun and we're familiar with the plight of Maverick and Goose when they succumb to a flat spin during training (not a day goes by that I don't think of our fallen brother Goose). There is a reasonable possibility that a few planes would drop out of the sky, but think of it this way: We're running out of fuel, not people. That's the sort of tagline that gets you into Government.

To combat the whole 'loads of people dying' issue, we would only queue the planes up over the sea to minimise the risk to folk on the ground. Secondly, we could create a class system of flights, meaning celebs and important people aren't subjected to the queuing system, while package holidays to Magaluf were bundled together like airborne battery hens. These flights would be much cheaper as an incentive, and the passengers would have to sign a disclaimer before they boarded stating that if their carcass ends up in a crumpled, burning heap in the Med, they were fully aware of the risk of not forking out for an upgrade to 'Non-death risk class'. That's the legal element taken care of.

Usually, my plans are firmly stored under 'hare-brained' or 'slapdash', but this one is erring dangerously towards 'genius'. If we could just get Branson or Bono on board to give it the PR push it needs, we'll be picking chavs out of the sea quicker that you can say '18-30'.

In the words of albino monkey-botherer Michael Jackson, "Make that change"...

Is "busybody.com" available?

A high percentage of the irks I experience come from listening to the radio, specifically when the public are allowed to voice their laughable theories and opinions. Quite apart from the issue of why these people haven't got jobs, they are narrow-minded lunatics who think 5 minutes on a radio phone-in makes then some kind of modern-day Confucius or Martin Luther King. Trust me, it doesn't.

For a change, though, I've got an e-cob on because of a frankly ridiculous story concerning a website where members of the public can report incidents of dangerous driving from the safety of their PC. Other like-minded losers can then pore over them and tut-tut into their camomile tea.

How petty is this, really? You are able to search this database by registration number (see, I've done some research before mouthing off for a change) and list the motoring misdemeanours of some unsuspecting soul. Now, don't get me wrong; if you're a dangerous driver you deserve to be punished and/or taken off the roads before you kill someone (even more so afterwards). So why don't these busybodying snitches report it to the Feds, instead of getting off by spragging on someone anonymously? Oh yeah, didn't I mention that the grasser doesn't have to leave any details, while the grassee has their reg plate splashed all over the shop? It's a joke, man.

If this site was a Government-backed scheme like "Dob in a dealer" (God bless you, Kirklees) then I could see some value in it, but this is clearly the work of those folk who run Neighbourhood Watch schemes and have leather patches on the elbows of their cardigans. They're not bothered about road safety; I bet half of them don't even own a car. They're just using it a an excuse to get another snivelling load of their pigeon chests.

Personally, I think we should fight fire with fire. Us right-minded folk should start an opposing website called "Grass up a small-minded, petty, socially-impotent tosser" or summat, where we (anonymously, of course) detail the telephone numbers of people who report driving offences. That way, there's a right to reply, and those reported for driving dangerously can call the reporter and have a friendly chat about the error of their ways. Surely that's a much more sensible way to deal with these automotive indiscretions. There's no way that could end badly.

The Hobos in Cars Initiative

I've got a great idea.

An idea so great it solves two of society's problems in one go, making the streets both safer and cleaner at the same time. In fact, I think it's the greatest idea since Leeds employed Peter Ridsdale to hold the purse strings. That's how big we're talking.

Presenting - The Hobos in Cars Initiative

It's simple. The Government sets up a department who's sole task is to allot a homeless person to a car owner. The homeless person then lives in the car during the night, providing two advantages:

- The hobo has a roof over their head
- The car is less at risk from being stolen (would you nick a car with Worzel Gummidge in it?)

The hobo won't be allowed the keys to the car and is not allowed to leave it during the nocturnal hours. In the morning, the owner returns and takes the car to his or her place of work, while the homeless chap lives off the land like the dignified creature he is. To aid the hobo's plight there will be Government-funded "hygiene stations" available in the vicinity, for showering and pooing and what have you. The hobo must sign a contract to say they won't make a mess or invite any tail back to the car and in turn will get meal tokens which can be exchanged at the local Late Shopper.

Think about the benefits - the streets no longer crawling with two-legged vermin pushing a shopping trolley full or empty Skol cans; car owners safe in the knowledge their pride and joy is being looked after. The chasm between bum and civilian will finally be breached as we embrace our dog-on-a-string cousins and give them a vocation, a meaning, a reason to be.

There's bound to a be some initial problems, like a few of the more 'eccentric' exponents of the homeless trade not adhering to the contract and nicking the car, but with enough attention to detail, plenty of funding and an understanding nation, I see no reason why The Hobos in Cars Initiative can't be the cornerstone of Labour election campaigns for years to come. Either than or I'll be thrown in jail for wasting Government time.

Whatever happens, society is the winner.

Dead Frog vs. Dirty Munter

I was watching the music channels the other day when one of Maroon 5's 'hits' came on. It immediately reminded me of the time frontman Adam 'Latrine' Levine was dating (i.e. shagging) Russian perv-magnet Maria Sharapova. After their split, old Levine went on record with his opinions of Maria sex-wise, as follows:

"She wouldn't make any noise during sex. I can't tell you how disappointed I was. I really thought, like a lot of guys, that she'd be the loud screaming type. But instead, she just lay there like a dead frog. She even got angry if I started to moan, said it 'ruined her concentration.' It was so disillusioning that I went on Paxil (an antidepressant) for a month afterwards. Really, it was much more of a shock than when I found out there's no such thing as the Easter Bunny."

Ignoring the bizarre Easter Bunny quote, you have to admit it is an amusing end to their tryst. Sharapova is clearly one of the most attractive women in the world and not only did he enter her ladygarden, but he then told everyone how shite she was in the sack. What a gent of the highest order.

Anyway, it got me thinking; everybody wants to shag a fit celebrity don't they? Be it Sharapova, Beckham or Winton, most people wouldn't mind 5 minutes in the broom cupboard with one of the beautiful people (or 30 seconds if they pick Boris Becker). However, if you knew in advance that said celeb was lame in bed, would you bother? Furthermore, if you could guarantee a steamy romp with the local 5-out-of-10 bike instead, would you choose that over a star?

I suppose it depends what you want to take from the experience. If you just want to tell everyone you bagged a celeb, fair enough; if you're after a more passionate encounter however, maybe Tracey from the Horse and Spoon would be a better bet.

Throw in the proviso that your mates would know both who you were shagging and their purported qualities in bed and you muddy the waters further. The whole thing becomes a dragged-out, over thought waste of everyone's time. A bit like this blog.

Have a think and let me know - dead frog or dirty munter? Or put it another way; Daily Star or clap clinic?

We're gonna run out of Marks at this rate

Children's names - not a massive bone of contention it has to be said. Aside from calling your firstborn Adolf Judas or trying to work 'Glitter' in there somewhere, you can't really go wrong.

You would expect that this blog to be aimed at that cretinous element of society who see their kids' names as something of a status symbol, and insist on calling them exotic or frankly ridiculous names even though they live in Widnes. Try it - go to your local high street (if you can stand the smell) and shout 'Oi, Destiny'. I'd be surprised if less than a dozen toddlers turn round.

Anyway, my gripe name-wise is nobody's using old-fashioned names any more. What with all this R'n'B and Yoof Culture all the good names are being passed over. We're in serious danger of running out of Anitas and Denises if we're not careful. "That's hardly a bad thing" I here you splutter, but I think it is. When I was growing up, everybody knew a couple called Denise and Steve. It was like some kind of social law, and stood for all that was stable and true in my formative years. That's all gone out of the window now, as Justins and Anthonys take over.

Peters. Colins. Grahams (and to a lesser extent Graemes). They're all going. Lindas. Lauras. In grave danger. It's all bloody Jacobs and Thomas' now.

The biggest problem we're facing is the Government is always banging on about the environment these days. Apparently, being 'green' and watching your carbon footprint wins votes, so they're not arsed about the fact there are less than 16,000 Darrens left in the UK. I'm bringing this to your attention now before it's too late. When the Prime Minister is called Jake, don't come running to me...

(Fog)light up my life

It was a bit foggy on the way to work today, so you know what that means. People who can usually be filed under 'normal' or 'right-thinking' suddenly become rebranded as 'cretins'. Every possible light is on, including foglights. Check previous vitriolic posts about that very subject, but prepare for coarse language.

The thing is, the hilly nature of my route to work means you start off in fog and rapidly move out of is as you descend. This doesn't seem to make any difference to the other drivers though, who adopt a 'better safe than sorry' policy of leaving their lights on despite the fact they're now being blinded by the sun.

What really gets me though is when I'm in a line of traffic, reasonably well spaced out (distance-wise, not mushroom-wise) and travelling at a decent speed, so I only bother putting my sidelights on rather than the full gun. There's drivers within a few metres to the front and the back so I'd be very disappointed if they couldn't see me and we had some kind of collision. However, there's always one jackass coming from the other direction, sporting the aformentioned Wembley-on-wheels light configuration, who flashes you as if to say "You've not got enough lights on. You'll end up killing someone, possibly of the middle class. Oh the humanity!". Or summat.

If I had the time, the next time this happened I'd U-turn, pursue the braindead wankjacket, accost them at the next junction, pin them up against a wall and politely ask them the following question:

"If I need to put more lights on, squire, how did you know I was there?"

There's a problem, but I can't put my finger on it

Has anyone heard this story of a Labour MP who is suing some bloke who's dog allegedly bit his finger off when posting pamphlets? I say 'allegedly' because of the utterly bizarre nature of the story, as follows:

- Bloke gets home and finds a severed finger on his doormat
- Lobs it in the fridge and rings the Feds
- Nobody comes forward so after a few months he chucks it away
- 18 MONTHS later, this clown rocks up demanding his finger back and some compo

How the hell has he gone 18 months without complaining about this?! Did he look down at his hand one day, notice the missing digit and start hunting around the house, assuming he'd put it down somewhere without realising? I'm not a doctor, but I'm going to go out on a limb and suggest that if you had your finger bitten off, you'd know about it pretty sharpish. The blood and missing finger would be a clue for a kick-off.

Having thought about it for a while, I've only managed to come up with 2 reasons why he delayed making contact:

1) He managed to chop his own finger off (or somebody did it on his behalf)- possibly as a drunken prank or ninja-style revenge attack - and it ended up being posted through this bloke's letterbox. Fearing the cops would laugh at him, he went home and cried. 18 months later he noticed the owner of the house had a dog, so hatched a plan to blame the pooch for the incident.

OR

2) He was unable to dial the cops until he worked out how to use his other fingers, which took him 18 months.

Over to you, reader...

What not to say at an airport

You know those moments when you say something, but even as the words are still leaving your mouth you realise the mistake you're making, but you carry on anyway? Be it mentioning how legless you got to a person in a wheelchair, or how you're more of a boob man to a hot young lady with aspirins-on-an-ironing-board, you can't help finishing the sentence and making a bad situation exponentially worse.

I did that at the airport the other day.

Long story short, my hand luggage was full of network equipment. We didn't have time to post it to Dublin so I filled my bag with a firewall, plugs and enough cables to sink a moderately-sized fishing vessel. The bag went through the scanner and was unsurprisingly put in a red box for further analysis.

I half expected this so played the waiting game, then two friendly ladies took me to one side and explained that they'd have to swab the bag and its contents to ensure I wasn't Robert Reid. "No problem" says I and they cracked on.

Given the amount of stuff to check it was taking a while, and it got to a stage where nothing was said for a while. Usually this isn't an issue, but when you're in this situation, it somehow feels like not saying something is worse than actually saying something. So I piped up. And I wish I hadn't, because I said:

"I'm only bringing this over as a favour to somebody"

Oh, well done, jackass. They'll love that. Why don't you go the whole hog and shout "It's a motherchuffing BOMB, sister"?

Nothing was said for a few seconds, then she casually mentioned it and I had to quickly (and expertly, it has to be said) backtrack and explain that we should have posted it but we missed the last post so I agreed to take it as a favour for a colleague. It's a good job I'm a staggeringly handsome man or they might have been kicking seven shades of shit out of me behind the wooden partition within seconds.

They didn't, the stuff passed the test and I was on my way in minutes, but God only knows how I got away with that one. Next time I'll swim across.

Slag + Email = Sympathy

I made the mistake of listening to omnipresent dirge-fest Radio 1 the other day. To be fair, I'd missed Moyles and Whiley was off so they were basically playing decent tunes from the last 10 years or so, which almost made the identikit blithering idiot's witterings between the tracks almost bearable.

One feature I do like about this late morning show is "Changing Tracks". For those of you not in the know, this is where someone emails in a story about themselves, usually sad or inspiring and preceding a track which reminds them of this particular time or person. They're often tragic tales but the tunes tend to be nostalgic classics, which seems to heal the pain slightly.

Anyway, the track on this particular day was chosen by some bint. I refuse to be pleasant towards here because her story was absolutely pathetic. It went something like this:

- Went travelling for a year with her boyfriend. Had a "wonderful time" (her words)
- Got home and remembered some bloke she used to work with for whom she had feelings
- Texted him and they agreed to meet up
- Had a "wonderful evening" (note the repetition here) but pulled away when he tried to kiss her because she had a boyfriend
- Spent an extended length of time to-ing and fro-ing about the other dude
- Texts him and gets no response
- Gives up then gets a reply from his sister. He's only gone and had an accident and is laid up in hospital. They agree for her to visit
- He carks is overnight before she's due to see him
- She tells her fella and he does one. She's dead sad and needs this tune to cheer her up

So basically, this bird had such a wonderful time travelling that the minute her feet touched the tarmac at Heathrow she was on the blower organising to meet some other bloke. At no point did she express sorrow about upsetting her boyfriend; the entire thing was geared towards how terrible it was for her. Just a few points:

- She dumped her fella, not the other way round
- She set up the date with the other bloke behind boyf's back
- The other bloke actually died, which is probably worse than not dying (like she did)
- She started all of this

I have absolutely no sympathy at all for her. I'm not saying she deserved it, but those who believe in karma must be nodding knowingly as they read this. I feel sorry for the poor bastard who joshed it (no idea if he knew she was already attached) and her boyfriend who was oblivious to this having spent 12 months travelling with the adulterous tart.

What made matters worse was the presenter felt sorry for her. Jesus wept. I'm seriously tempted to send in a tale about how I've murdered loads of people but my machete blade broke off in my last victim so I can't kill anyone any more. Woe is indeed me.

And the song was shit. What a gyp.

Draconians 1, Defecators 0

I recently visited a new shopping mall complex just up the road from BBC Television Centre (don't bother, dump) and as part of the process had to sit through an arse-numbingly dull health and safety induction.

To be fair, it is a necessary step in this process, but it wasn't really aimed at people like me who were nipping onto the site for half an hour to check on progress. It was more aimed at construction types, as references to rat urine-borne diseases and vibration white finger were discussed. All very important and serious for the hard hat brigade I'm sure.

However, to say this induction erred on the side of overkill would be something of an understatement.

For example, you're not allowed to rape people. Straight up (pardon the pun), if you are caught sexually abusing someone then you're booted off the site (no mention of prosecution was made, leading me to believe that it's worth the risk to perverts if they know the feds don't get involved).

You're not allowed to have a cack in the street. You read that right; your are forbidden from "urinating or defecating anywhere but in the facilities provided". I'm not overly sure of the types of people hired to work on these projects but you have to wonder what's gone before to make this warning necessary.

Another point that drew a titter from around the room was "don't smoke near flammable liquids of gases". Thanks for that, squire. I was just about to check on my petrol collection by lighting a match. Idiots.

All in all, 45 minutes of my valuable life were wasted, as 30 minutes after that I was off the site and going home. However, when the urge struck me in White City tube station, I made my way to the toilets rather than dropping my trollies in the middle of the platform. Maybe it wasn't such a waste of time after all...

Olympic breaks? Give it a rest...

It makes a nice change to moan about something topical. Usually I wax aggressively about stuff I've seen on my way home or on the Internet with only the slimmest of connections to my awesome readership, but today I can talk about something that's actually happening: those Olympics everyone keeps banging on about.

I've got nothing against the Olympics; it's a great sporting event. The time difference means I've not seen a great deal of what's happened but I'm picking up the main bits on the radio and to be honest, the good stuff (running and throwing and that) hasn't started yet so I'm not really that arsed.

However...

Why are the swimmers being rested from races? The GB women's team, who were a good bet for the gold, failed to qualify from the heats cos they'd rested two of their better swimmers who'd already swam that week. That's right - earlier that week a 19-year-old career swimmer who trains every day had to have a bit of a rest from racing. Presumably because she was a bit tired.

I wish I could do that; I've had a difficult day at work so I get rested by my boss until a more important job comes along. In a word, absolutely pathetic. If you ask me (which you won't), if you need to have a rest having swam 2 days ago you're either not training properly or you're shite at it. Good day.

Good video + reasonable product = horse

Has anybody seen the new DFS advert? It's basically set to "Rock star" by Nickelback but pinches their video idea by having several different people miming the words to the song. The only subtle difference is in the original there are Playboy bunnies and famous rock types whereas the advert contains middle-aged blokes and tubby women from Keighley.

I suppose some people (namely the people who put money into this bilge) could argue that the fact I'm talking about it proves that it works as a marketing ploy, but I can genuinely say that I was so transfixed by the utter cackness that whatever product they were hawking completely passed me by. I dunno, settees or summat.

There's a fine line to be drawn between memorable adverts and shite in my opinion. Take the gorilla playing the drums for example. Utter tripe (except for the song - a tune regardless of Collins' involvement) but because it was kept simple I know it was for Dairy Milk. You see - simple but effective. Sadly I've got no interest in chocolate but it's a start. Their next effort was an utterly bizarre scenario of airport vehicles having some kind of a race down a runway. The whole thing was saved by setting it to the awesome "Don't stop me now" by effeminate vest-botherers Queen, but even then you're so frightened by the whole experience that you've probably turned off before the slogan is shown.

In conclusion, the only place Nickelback should be seen and heard is the hit parade, and even then you should exercise caution. I'm off to buy a sofa.

Good news: Suffering will end...in 1996

In a not completely surprising story, I was a bit hungover this morning. 2 bottles of wine (each) and a few shots of Sambuca while watching James Bond and playing rummy had left me in a delicate state this morning. That said, I managed to drag myself out of bed, take the piss out of the Mrs for feeling worse and head home.

You can imagine I wasn't entirely enamoured, therefore, when a little old couple knocked on the door. Before I'd opened the door (the window was open and the telly on so I couldn't cower) I spotted the small colourful pamphlet in her hand and knew what was about to happen. They were Jehovah's Witnesses.

To be fair the conversation was done in 30 seconds. They were very friendly and pleasant, passed on the pamphlet and told me to get in touch if I had any questions. I closed the door, fed the paper to the cats and went back to what I was doing.

A bit later I thought I'd have a read of this tripe and was amused to read about how the Bible tells us that suffering will soon be over. Terrorism drugs and STD's are rife in today's society but The Good Book has told us we'll all be alright in a bit. All we need to do is hang on.

All very feasible (if you're a brainwashed prick with tunnel vision) but there was one slight problem. It was exactly the same as the pamphlet I was given by another old couple at my mum and dad's house 12 years ago. As far as predictions for imminent endings go, this was pushing it a bit.

I got the same spiel last time; did I want world peace? Did I think it was possible? Blah fecking blah. It doesn't matter how much you profess the Bible as the universal answer to everything - the simple fact is it's a load of old bollocks. There are no dates or times specified in these amazing predictions, so why should anybody buy the concept of world peace being just around the corner. I was never going to be taken in by something as pathetically myopic and self-serving as this, but for those of a weaker mental structure, you're going to have to work a bit harder to convince them if you ask me.

Nobody I know has any real religious views so I doubt I'm going to upset anyone, but if these God Squadders want us to take them seriously, it might be an idea to update their promotional material every once in, oh I don't know, a decade. Amen.

Camp as a....well....campsite

"Holiday, celebrate" wittered Mockney sex-fiend Madonna 20 years ago. And she was right. Going on your holidays is a time to celebrate. It's that time again, and I strong-armed the Mrs into staying in this country again, so we went camping in North Yorkshire.

In a phrase, it was quality. I could've easily killed half a dozen people in cold blood with a rubber mallet but eventually everyone left me alone and we were cool. The tent flew up, the fold-up grill was spectacular and I went to the pub every single day I was there. That's the holiday of kings.

Interestingly, we had a celebrity aside while we were there. Returning to the site from another pub trip we noticed a Rolls Royce hooked up to a tiny caravan. As a labelled the driver 'eccentric' it dawned on us that Top Gear's finest James May was in our vicinity. We had a good old gawp as we went past but that was pretty much the end of it, save for most of the other campers trying to be the most informed about his attendance.

A few minutes later we went to the loo and en route bumped into Oz Clarke. Then the penny dropped; they were filming another series of their wine adventure. This was confirmed when I spoke to the man himself, who was massively anti-Scot and and anti-Welsh in the 60 or so seconds we chatted, but we parted on good terms and left them to it.

They filmed for a little over 24 hours then disappeared, although as the Mrs said "the shine has been taken off slightly". It is clear that filming is a drawn-out process, but this was just silly. The final cut may be different, but I reckon they will use about 10 minutes of the footage they took in their programme. They kept restaging scenes and at one stage I'm sure they faked a puncture. Time will tell but it's clear that all that on-screen chemistry is manufactured for the good of the show.

Anyway, in summary, a good time was had by both. We got a lot of reading done, went wandering and the Mrs even turned to Carlsberg when her wine ran out. If that's not slumming it, I don't know what is...

It's not hard when you're mint

If there's one thing I know about women (and to be honest, it's likely to be the only thing) it's that they all have hang-ups about their physical appearance. Not exactly a mind-blowing breakthrough I know, but just lately there's been a glut of programmes and magazine articles dedicated to the fact that all womenfolk dislike at least one part of their body. I wasn't watching them, by the way; a woman I know told me about them...

Anyway, here's the thing - the women they get to present and exemplify these issues are some of the most desirable women in Britain. Which sort of takes the shine off the point.

There was an article in a magazine which basically got loads of celebrity women to do a photoshoot without any make up on, to prove that they're just as imperfect and fallible as you or I, despite living in a mansion in Islington.

The women they chose were all well-known, but see if you can see a theme here. They chose Davina Macall, Myleene Klass and Fearne Cotton. All of them (to a greater or lesser extent) are universally fancied in this country, so it sort of spoils the illusion. I have no doubts that they have hang-ups as well, but when you're a great-looking bird it sort of smacks of hypocrisy to your ordinary Joanne Normalface or Lizzy Bigbum.

Then there was a documentary highlighting the frankly ridiculous level of touching up done to magazine photography to the extent that 8 and 9 year old lasses were being given the impression that only perfection was acceptable. It was genuinely tragic that junior school children were bemoaning the fact that their teeth were crooked or they simply weren't pretty.

The thing is, though, they got Alesha Dixon to present it. Now don't get me wrong, she wwas an excellent host and her determination to get a magazine to shoot her without any touch ups showed just how widespread the phenomenon is, but let's face it - she's one of the most beautiful women in Britain. After she'd had her hair and make up done she looked stunning in the pictures, and although critics pointed out the number of touch ups they would have done to make the picture cover-ready, to the untrained eye she still looked like a serious piece of ass.

In conclusion, it's about time people started taking a stand against the stupid ideals portrayed in the media that make all but the most rhino-skinned females feel ugly, but try using ordinary, less-than-perfect celebs to get the point across.

I'm sure Tricia Goddard is affordable...

Is this as childish as I think it is?

We've got this bloke at work who, not to put too fine a point on it, takes the piss. He's out of the door on the dot of 5 no matter what he's working on and he's always got something to say about everything discussed in the office.

I can just about live with this, but he's got a habit which proper rubs me up the wrong way. He goes to the toilet, every day, bang on 1 o'clock when his lunch hour is over. The company is effectively paying him to have a cack, and I think it's a disgrace.

It's been something of an in-joke between a couple of us in the department, labelling this clockwork occurrence as 'stool time', but in all seriousness, it just goes to show that he doesn't give a monkey's about the company and is out to get all he can from it.

So we decided to get our own back.

At quarter to one the other day, my colleague (under my duress it has to be stated, for fairness' sake) nipped into the bogs and locked the doors from the outside, giving the illusion there was no room at the inn. The doors were locked, the trap (no pun intended) was set and we sat back to enjoy the magic.

He did not disappoint.

Seconds after he'd gone for his daily and unnaturally well-timed ablutions he was back, asking us if we knew what the problem was in the toilets. Apparently both cubicles were occupied, which is quite a rare event according to him. Luckily for me I'm hidden behind from this guy so my childish giggling went unnoticed, but then my colleague (in full view) corpsed and for a second I thought the game was up. Fortunately it wasn't, and I lived to tell the tale.

The thing is, it proved beyond any doubt that he is taking the piss. If he was that desperate he would've gone to the bog upstairs. Serves him right, says I, and I hear on the grapevine that further 'attacks' are scheduled to fully ram the point home.

I'm 30 years old, by the way.

Not my best day

Today marks the 1 week anniversary of one of the cackest days of recent times. To say it was my 9/11 would border on sensationalism, but sometimes you have to bite the bullet and say "Yes, today was as bad for me as for the 5 thousand or so victims of the Bush administration's attempts to put a pipeline into Afghanistan. Or summat."

It started off with something that's never happened to me before, but the increasing economic downturn leaves me open to further attacks. Some (and I choose my words carefully at this point) complete and utter fuckbag nicked all of the petrol out of the company car I was borrowing for the day. Cheers, you thieving shitehawk - you could have left me enough to get to the station. Twat.

The recovery gent who attended (for ninety quid, mind) told me it was happening all the time, and that Halifax is the epicentre of this particular phenomenon. Not high on the list of life's big surprises, I thought.

Anyway, £5 of fuel later and I'm on my way to Manchester, on a thankfully uneventful trip. Having said that, some uber-gimp in a Porsche Cayenne nearly rear-ended me and celebrated skidding round the queuing traffic by giving me a right mouthful. I still fail to see the correlation between his myopia and it being my fault. Luckily his wife began to kick off with him so he literally had to pull to the side of the road while she gave him a bollocking. Serves him right.

A few minutes later and I'm parked up and on my way, walking through the streets. I know what you're thinking - "But nobody's sneezed on you yet". Patience is a virtue, my friend, as no sooner had I stepped out of the car park than some prick sneezed at me. Picture the scene: we're walking past each other in opposite directions with him engrossed in a phone call when he stops dead and holds his hands out. Assuming he was about to embrace me as a long-lost relative, I took a side step, only for him to open it up nasal-style. Had I continued my original path I would have been coated Venkman-style, but my cat-like nimbility avoided a case of emphysema. Calling him a 'dirty bastard' didn't seem to make much difference, but he was on his mobile and iPod at the same time, so it's only right to cut him some slack.

After an uneventful couple of hours doing some actual work I headed home and was nearly taken off the road by some students in a Punto not paying attention to basic road signs. By now I was used to it, and laughed at their pitiful attempts to frighten me. Maybe they had a gun. Maybe they were high. Maybe they were saying 'braap'. We will never know.

So there it is; a complete donkey's arse of a day. Given that the best suggestion the loaner of the car could offer was 'get a taxi to the nearest petrol station and hire a can' (cheers for that, pillock) I can count myself lucky I didn't get killed or raped or worse. It makes you think, though; one minute, you're cruising through life in your own little world and the next, somebody punches you in the face for sneezing near them. Scary stuff.

Class Vacuum

And I'm not talking about a Dyson. I'm talking about Tescos. Not to put too fine a point on it, it does my fucking head in.

I usually go in after hours but I finished at lunch yesterday so I 'nipped' in for a few things. I've put quotes around 'nipped' there cos you can't do anything like nip in there. It's a tortuous, drawn-out affair. Here are a few scientific facts about good old Tescos (or at least my local branch)

- It's a hangout for the socially alternative in the area. Have a quick look in the cafe; it's full of life forms yet to be ratified by science. They sit there in their ill-fitting suit jackets (why do they all have suit jackets?) supping tea for 5 hours to keep out of the cold. Get up, get out and get a job. Losers.

- 1 in 3 customers have a lazy eye. It's absolutely astonishing, but exactly 1 in every 3 patrons has some kind of eye condition, ranging from a tic to having one missing. I've no idea what goes on in the local area that could cause this, but the extent of eye-based trauma in beyond belief.

- The trolley 'boy' is a frustrated oil tanker captain. And a jobsworth twat. This prepubescent gimp in half-mast trousers gathers 86 trollies into a line then fails spectacularly to get them back to the pick-up point without veering wildly off course and nearly taking out the pensioners in the taxi queue. Try taking fewer at a time, you jackass. And a smile wouldn't kill you.

- The car cleaners are idiots. There are a bunch of twentysomething lads who clean your cars for a reasonable fee at your request, but they only have two sayings:

1) "You like car wash, sir?"
2) Scream at each other across the car park in aggressive, enthusiastic tones

Calm down fellas, please. You're giving me a headache.

- The till staff come to work on the Sunshine Bus. They're absolutely useless, the lot of them. The last time I looked Tescos didn't need 10 A levels and a Masters to operate their tills, but you'd think they were trying to split the atom the way they carry on sometimes. Just scan the item until you hear the beep, then pass it to me, OK? And blowing your nose enthusiastically between customers is a no-no too.

- It's home to the world's slowest walkers. If Norris McWhirter was still with us, I'm sure his stopwatch would be seeing all kinds of records broken, when the people leaving the store (usually pensioners) travel so slowly that they actually begin to go back in time. For someone like me with a purpose and place in society it is unbelievably frustrating. Stick a slow lane in for them or something.

I'll call time on the Tescos-based rant-fest there I think, but spare a thought for me the next time I have to tolerate this hovel of idiocy and slack personal hygiene.

Presumably they'll Shell out...

Have I missed something? When did driving a truck become an executive position?

Now before we start, let me make it clear that I've got nothing against lorry drivers per say. They do a good job and are vital to the movement of goods around this great land of ours. However, it's not exactly rocket science is it? Other than the HGV licence you don't need any special qualifications to my mind.

Therefore, why the hell are Shell lorry drivers demanding (that's demanding) £39k a year just to drive petrol around the country? What a bunch of greedy bastards. That's a shitload more than I get paid and I know for a fact that I work harder than this lot put together on any given day. Fair enough, their hours are unsociable, but that's their choice. They can't say "Yeah, I'll work late doing a boring, repetitive job. Forty grand should cover it". Cheeky gets.

Of course, this being England, they've gone on strike. And this being England, and despite Shell making allowances for it and telling the country there'll be enough fuel to go round, that cretinous, fuckwitted element of society was out in force today, clogging up the petrol pumps (none of them Shell stations, mind) so they can get their greedy mitts on something that's far from going out of fashion. Wankers. I hate the lot of them.

It doesn't help that Shell don't employ the drivers. They get a third party company to provide the manpower, so they can happily sit back and let the argument rumble, which isn't helping anybody.

Maybe, just maybe in the future, companies and their employees will sit around the table and thrash out these problems in one go, rather than employees demanding ridiculous figures for brainless work and companies treating their workforce like shite.

That said, the vast majority of this nation's public are thick as shit, so it makes no difference what you do. Who knows what would happen if the Government said jumping off bridges onto big metal spikes was in danger of running out...

I've got this stabbing pain...

A year or so ago I wrote a blog decrying the sudden upturn in gun-related deaths, especially amongst teenagers. Little Rhys Jones had recently been shot in the street and I wondered what kind of people could carry out such an act.

These days we hardly hear a thing about gun crime. Had you nipped down from a parallel universe you'd think we'd cracked it. Except of course, we haven't.

Earlier this week the 16th teenager this year was stabbed to death in London.

It simply beggars belief. Literally every week we're hearing stories of stabbings, often gang-related, but always tragic. It's nearly always youngsters, and it appears that the attacks are becoming more and more indiscriminate. When I was at school, only one stabbing took place (one too many, granted, but you get my point). That was in a fight between two long-standing rivals where one had tooled himself up with stuff from CDT just before it went off. The victim took several wounds to the legs with scissors but survived. His assailant ended up in Juvie.

These days though it seems every kid is tooled up, just in case. It's quite obvious that if they all stopped carrying them, they'd feel (and be) safer and the killings would all but stop, but that's never going to happen is it? As usual the Government are clueless, imploring parents to ask their kids if they're carrying a knife before they go out. Brilliant. That'll unearth them without fail, brainiacs.

I've given up trying to work out why it happens now. The oft-bleated reason is broken homes, but as I've said before, that's doing a massive disservice to those people from single-parent families who study, work hard and make a life for themselves without feeling the urge to cut someone up on the way. The simple fact is that no amount of breaking a home makes a person think that stabbing someone (often to death) is a suitable riposte to anything they suffered in return.

Apologies for the use of the word 'person' there, cos they clearly aren't people. They're scum.

Eurovision? More like Euro-mutual-wankfest

What a pile of shite. I mean, what a stench-ridden, cyst-riddled load of old cobblerage the Eurovision Song Contest has become.

Now, before we start, let me state that I never thought it was some kind of European musical barometer. Well, to be fair it is, insofar as it showed how utterly awful any European music that isn't from these shores is. That said, Eurovision evokes images of badly-moustachioed men and equally hairy women from a long-lost Balkan region oom-pa-pa-ing their way to European mediocrity.

Not any more, though.

Firstly, they're trying. We usually put out a right load of horse. Not since Katrina and the Waves have we actually tried to win the thing, but now they've got proper music; proper performers; even proper producers (if you consider Timbaland any good). If anything, it's become cool to be involved.

However (as you would expect me to say), approximately 90% of the acts relied upon a fit bird to get votes. Greece's in particular was an absolute corker, but that's hardly the way to judge music is it? Imagine what it would be like if today's musicians filled their videos with scantily-clad women to further their success. Oh...

Anyway, my real gripe with this 'contest' is the 'voting'. The Mrs instigated a game where you had to guess who each country would vote for. I'm rubbish at Geography (my 'D' at A-level tells you that) but even I could work it out. The simple formula is this:

Who are they near?
Who do they used to be part of?
Who are they scared of?

These 3 questions gave you most of the answers. At first I thought it was amusing, then I realised it's fucking pathetic. I have no doubt whatsoever that a few misplaced votes between supposed friendly nations could kick it off big-style. It's that ridiculous.

Our entry was some dude from X-Factor (not a great start) but to be fair he was pretty good and stood a decent chance, but one simple overriding fact stopped him from scoring. We invaded Iraq. As a result, we were overlooked by all but 2 countries (one of whom was Ireland) and ended up last (albeit alhpabetically). The whole thing stinks of petty, overly-political bother-booting. I guarantee if we pulled out and stopped broadcasting the whole thing would fold in a matter of minutes.

Are we that petty? God, I hope not. If that isn't on they might broadcast Casualty instead. Think on...

Growing up? Just grow up will you...

I recently went to a very pleasant engagement party for a friend of the Mrs. She knows the bride to be from Uni so predictably there were many of her former student colleagues in attendance. Being a few years younger than me, the average age of the attendees was around th 24-25 year bracket. Much drink was taken and much injokery ensued.

Early in proceedings it became clear that some kind of contest was being staged, where 'competitors' were judges on how far thery had progressed socially to decide who was the most grown up. Bizarrely (in a non-offensive way), my Mrs won, simply because she was engaged and was in the process of looking for her second house.

To me, this is odd. At her age I already had a mortgage, car and was forging a fledging career, but it seemed this group (many of whom have glittering careers in the upper echelons of society to look forward to) were simply unprepared for the world at large, and deemed any kind of security as a sign of being grown up.

I think a percentage of that is purely financial. I bought my house just before prices rocketed 5 or 6 years ago, so a mortgage was not the financially-crippling millstone it is now. But engagement? I knew 2 engaged couples at Uni, and I didn't deem them particularly grown up. Naive, certainly; stupid, possibly, but grown up? Not really.

I think the simple fact is that despite the fact I'm only 5 years older than this group, society and its outlook has shifted so far as to almost deem it another generation. Don't get me wrong; I don't consider myself particularly mature (skip to the end for evidence) but I think the steps I took in my early twenties (car, career, mortgage, etc) were just the done thing; nobody considered it grown up per se. It was just what you did once you left Uni.

At the end of the day, I could judge this quasi-next generation til the cows come home, but I recently got tutted at by a middle-aged woman because I flicked the V's at a Manchester United poster in Tescos, so I don't know what to believe...

Where wit and wisdom goes to die

Can anyone remember the last time bumper stickers were funny? Come to think of it, were they ever funny? Surely there is nobody who still deems "Horn broken - watch for finger" as an amusing automotive slogan?

Well there is.

Some absolute knob on the way to work today had two of those yellow diamond stickers in the back window of his people carrier. Make sure you sit down before you read these bastions of hilarity:

"Honk if you're horny"

and

"Orgasm donor"

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH HA! How amusing! I wish I was as funny as the shithead who came up with those. Brilliant. My sides have split.

At the time I was very much in the "these are the people that are ruining this country" mindset, but having come to write it I'm absolutely livid, and it's not hard to fathom why. Let's face it; they're unbelievably shit. I mean, proper, proper wank. They're not witty, they're not clever and anybody who thinks they are ought to be locked in a room and made to eat every Jim Davidson DVD ever published, one by one.

Maybe then they'll know what it feels like to have crap material forced down their throats. Wankers.

Music? No need.

I absolutely hate Radio 1 now. Ten years ago it was great; good music, good presenters (Mark and Lard for example) and a general feeling that they were doing things right. I happily admit to listening to it to and from work every day and to a certain extent you could say they provided the soundtrack to my life for a few years.

Not any more though.

How come every correspondent they have is a camp Jock? I'm not gayist or Jockist but that's all we hear. Entertainment, movies, you name it, there's one of our softly-spoken cousins from north of the border sticking his two penneth in.

Their playlist is a shambles. To a certain extent that can be blamed on the quality of music being released these days, but instead of providing a balanced outlook on what people are listening to these days, they just stick with the most popular genre of the moment. I must admit that in the BritPop era that was ace for me, but now it's all guns and ho's I realise just how annoying it must have been for non-fans of 90's guitar tunes. For the last time, people, saying your name repeatedly and 'ice' or 'shorty' does not a good tune make.

Last but not least (mainly because it drove me to write this blog) is something omnipresent Currys-botherer Edith "I shag musicians, me" Bowman said today.

She was reviewing upcoming films with, you guessed it, a camp Scotsman, when they came to the end of the segment. This is verbatim what she said:

"OK, let's get a couple of songs out of the way then we'll carry on with the reviews"

At what point did Radio 1 stop treating music as the staple of their output? Clearly these days they're more bothered about fawning over the latest movies, Lost and B-list celebrities to bother with all that music lark.

41 years it's been going. At one time it was the pinnacle of forward-thinking radio. Now it's a shambolic old wreck limping from one bandwagon to the next. In a word, absolutely pathetic.

Presumably they flew the other way round the world...

Air travel is a regular part of a lot of my colleague's lives. With offices all over the UK and Europe it is quite common for people to hop on a plane throughout the week. I myself flew to and from Germany this week. It's no big deal and you just get on with it.

Of course, you know there is a 'however' coming...

A couple of 'ladies' from our office returned from a business trip today and were seen to be leaving the building at 2pm. When asked about their premature departure, they declared jet lag as the issue and went on their merry way.

This information was passed to me sometime later and I expressed sympathy for them, having spent the better part of 8 hours in airports and airplanes in the last week. I summised that they must have flown halfway round the world to feel like this.

Er, no.

They flew to...Glasgow.

From Leeds.

And had jet lag.

Wankers.

They're wearing make-up: kill, kill!

How depressing is this story in the news of a couple of scrotes who kicked and stamped a young lass to death because she was a goth? I simply can't begin to fathom the thought process and sheer mindlessness of 'people' who see someone who is different as such a threat that they need to physically assault them at the earliest opportunity.

Violence against minorities or groups who are deemed 'different' is widespread; it doesn't need further airing here. That said, I've never come across such a lame excuse to attack someone before. The story goes that a bunch of scum had spent the evening getting shitfaced and having relations with their scumettes when a goth couple crossed the park they were in. They immediately set about the lad of the couple who couldn't protect himself or his girlfriend. I'm not sure whether she stepped in or if they got bored of the chap but the eventually turned on her and beat her to death. Disgusting to the point of helplessness.

Friends and family got the verdict they wanted (life for them both) but that's scant comfort for the loss of the life, especially someone who seemed perfectly pleasant and was obviously unable to defend herself against this kind of assault. Personally I hope the other lags get wind of what these disgraceful beings did and dish out a bit of big house justice. Maybe then they'll know what it feels like to be picked on for being different. Rot in hell, scumbags.

Who you gonna call? A psychiatrist, presumably

You know me; I'm never one to offer opinions on stuff, be they controversial or run of the mill. I don't like to get involved in arguments, and I firmly believe that everybody else's opinions are as valid and correct as mine. I'm just that nice.

Alternatively, I could stop lying and make another one of my sweeping generalisations based purely on my (usually limited) experience of the subject in question. So here goes...

There's no such thing as ghosts.

Surely I'm on safe ground here? I've never seen a ghost, and I don't know anyone who as (or at least who has admitted to it), but I heard one of the cleaners at work telling someone that they hadn't seen this particular family member in ectoplasmic form for a few weeks. You have no idea how much strength of character it took not to turn round and say "Oh for fuck's sake, grow up will you". But I did.

The thing is, if I said "Go on then clever clogs, provide evidence of their existence" they'd be stumped. In today's world of 24-hour news and omnipresent Internet information, any plausible viewings would be all of the world by lunchtime. But they're not. Inevitably the spook-botherer would counter with "Prove that they don't existthen". In which case I'd shrug and put my arms out, as if to "Look around you, assface - you see any sheets with holes for eyes?"

My opinions on the afterlife and spiritualism are at best contradictory, mainly because my scientifically-driven mind fight for supremacy over my interest in all things from leftfield (not the band). I'm pretty sure that this any decent evidence to prove ghosts exist would throw my whole belief system into disarray, but the simple fact that after all these years not a single respectable recorded case of bumps in the night has been seen, I'm pretty secure in my convictions.

Now clairvoyants, don't even get me started on them...

Big cock day

People who know me will also know that I subscribe to the notion of the big cock day. That is, a day when you feel sexually irresistable to the opposite sex and feel that you're being checked out wherever you go.

Now let's get one thing straight. I don't profess to be a stud (our lass would go up the wall for starters) but I'm not exactly David Mellor, so there's bound to be some people out there not completely physically repulsed by me. Therefore, I don't feel bad when I get the impression that the 48-year-old battleaxe at Tescos petrol station is thinking "If I were 25 years younger"

I'm not arrogant. I'm confident, mainly because I'm secure in my own skin and have got what I want from life, but I would never profess to be some kind of player who's beating them off with a stick. It's just sometimes I feel absolutely the dog's bollocks, sex-wise.

The opposite is of course true. Sometimes everywhere you look the women are fit. It happened today which reminded me to write this blog. On another day we'd be talking swamp donkey territory, but sometimes, be it madness, celibacy or plain old cataracts, the opposite gender look like a collective of pieces of ass.

Far be it from me to get all Desmond Morris on your ass, but I'd say that's human nature. Personally I don't care whether you agree with me or not, cos I'm one of the beautiful people. Fall silent at my handsome feet.

Rantathon

It's been ages since I had a proper good clearout of the old anger pot, and where better to do it than online in front of you two? Enjoy...

Mary Poppins: World's smuggest woman

She really, really is. Let's get one thing straight - it's one of my favourite films of all times; a classic with loads of quality songs, but the years have taken away some of my innocence, and it's clear that she's a right arrogant get. "Practically perfect in every way"? What sort of attitude is that to teach kids? And she's always got something clever to say in every circumstance. And the ability to fly? Don't even get my started. An absolute disgrace.

A good day for common sense

A couple of weeks ago two high-profile court cases were won by the defendants, and it's about chuffing time. One was a bloke who sued William Hill because he warned them he was out of control betting-wise, but they refused to help him and he lost shitloads. The other was some twat who slipped on a grape in a supermarket and claimed a) it'd bust his knee and b) he had suffered depression as a result. Clearly on that day a normal human being with an ounce of common sense was in charge, cos both got slung out big time, and rightly so. It's about time society stood up to these cretins who flat refuse to take responsibility for their actions, and see pound signs every time they do something completely cockworthy. If I was in charge of the courts, these sort of people would be put away as an example to the rest of society's scummy underbelly: cross me with your pathetic excuses and you're in the slammer, bucko.

Everyone's called Jack

Writing TV and film scripts (despite 80% of what you see these days) is undoubtedly a skill. So why is everyone called Jack these days? Leaf through a Sky mag or a movie listing and all the heroes are called Jack. It seems every Tom, Dick and Harry is called Jack (arf). I presume it's the sort of name that gives off a feeling of danger and confidence, tinged with a hint of sexiness. Possibly. Either way, it's clear that the Arthurs and Jemimas of this world are never going to be recognised on celluloid for their heroism or achievements. Which may or may not be a bad thing.

That'll do for now I think. Word up.

What a guy

It's a sad fact of life these days that barely a month goes by when someone (usually a bloke) does his immediate family in. Murder and domestic tragedy and shit are all we seem to hear about these days. We've all heard the stories of a chap flipping and opening a can of whuppass on his significant other, but the latest one takes the biscuit.

The 'gentleman' in question has just been sent down for a minimum of 38 years for killing his ex and her 2 kids. Brutal stuff, but it gets worse when you read what actually took place.

- He turns up at his ex's house, and demands sex
- She refuses, so he
- Brutally rapes her
- Brutally rapes her 18-year-old daughter
- Brains the pair of them with a hammer
- Stoves the son's head in in similar fashion

I'm not usually one to react to these sort of stories, but even I was like "Bloody hell" when I heard it. It's one thing to flip and murder the family, but what sort of sick fuck rapes the females first? A woman he once loved and her daughter who he had a hand in raising. It's nasty stuff, and I personally hope when the other cons get wind of his actions in the big house, they give him the good hiding he deserves. Each and every day for the next 38 years. See how he likes it.

Men: Nature's SatNav

I spent a couple of hours wandering around Meadowhall today and a thought struck me which I professed to my Mrs. Her response suggested it was a blogworthy point. Presenting my scientifically-qualified question:

1) Two men are walking towards one another in a busy street. Without even looking at each other, they managed to pass without so much as brushing shoulders.

2) A man and a woman approach each other. The man analyses the situation, creates the passable space and they (usually) manage to avoid contact.

3) Two women approach each other. Carnage. Chaos. Bedlam.

Ergo:

Why are women so utterly useless at walking past each other in public places?

I really can't understand it. On more occasions than I can recall today, two women did that awkward joint apology because they'd got in each other's way. I myself had a couple of apologies from women who got in my way, despite my best efforts to avoid them. They seem to be wired wrongly, to the point that their spatial and directional awareness is practically nil. What I found most surprising was their seemingly aimless wandering which leads to these collisions. As red-jumpered mock-Scouser Neil Buchanan once quipped, "Try it yourself": next time you're in a busy street or shopping centre, watch how many women barrel into each other. Once you get good at it, you'll be able to predict collisions in advance, and watch in amazement as they amble towards each other seemingly oblivious to their pending doom. Absolutely insane.

That said, they look good and often smell nice, and they're soft to the touch, so just lay off 'em, alright?

Did the earth move for you? Snigger...

OK, can we just draw a line under this whole earthquake palaver now please? Given the time it occurred the only real footage we've got is from CCTV cameras, which is fair enough. However, after a quick scout round a few video sites to see if there was any other coverage of it, all I've come across is stupid, misinformed gimps who really should have been in bed at the time.

I can't have a go at bloggers too much for obvious reasons, but this video blogging is taking it a bit far. Do a quick search of 'UK earthquake" and you'll be inundated with dozens of fat pillocks from Leeds swearing copiously and blaming the earthquake on global warming.

That's right, folks: global warming caused the earthquake.

I'm not sure if you've studied natural history, but the first earthquake actually happened in Los Angeles in 1974, and was directly linked to the smog which choked the city at that time. In 1982, Lancashire also suffered a quake which was measured at 8.4 on the old Scale de Richter. Science types eventually traced the cause back to the Industrial Revolution. Unbelievable, isn't it?

THAT'S COS IT'S GOT NOWT TO DO WITH GLOBAL WARMING, YOU PRICKS.

The tectonic plates which make up the Earth are constantly moving. Granted, they move more in some parts of the world, but they're always on the go. Occasionally their movements are more pronounced, causing the 'Earth' to 'quake', which is where we got the term from. Just once it would be nice if the people who posted material on the Internet had the slightest clue about what they're talking about. What next? Global warming causes blizzards? Paedophiles? Car crashes? Ridiculous.

Personally, it scared the living bejesus out of me. I was asleep at the time so my mind wasn't exactly switched on as it happened. I thought the house behind me had collapsed given the sound of falling bricks which accompanied the shaking (still haven't worked out what that was) but the house is still in one piece and there's no discernible harm done. The only problem was I couldn't get back to sleep afterwards. I blame global warming.

Be horrible, you live longer

WARNING: Some readers might be offended by this blog. Especially if they like people.

Is it just me, or is it only the best, happiest, most intelligent people who get murdered? Every time someone gets done in, their friends and family tell us they were the perfect daughter/nephew/hooker and always had time for everybody.

It gets worse when it's a schoolchild who is killed. For some reason they're always top of the class, excel at ballet or computers and were arguably the most pleasant child in the country, let alone the school. Not for a minute am I detracting from the positive aspects of people, (especially by family members who want them to be remembered as a nice person) but you have to draw the line somewhere.

I genuinely hope that when I meet my maker, be it be fair means or foul, those closest to me will be honest about their feelings for me. I'm alright; I like a drink and a laugh but I do have a robust manifesto at times (read previous blogs for example). On the positive side, I'm an ace driver and a doting boyfriend and cat owner. On the negative side I often judge music and films without actually seeing them (drives the Mrs up the wall) and have a go at pedestrians. You don't have to be nasty to tell the truth about someone.

So in conclusion, I hope that one day, when someone's life has been tragically cut short, we get to hear about the real person. The grouchy, debt-ridden soul who tried their hardest and was a loving parent or spouse. Otherwise I'll have to start wondering whether murderers are hunting down the most successful and admirable people as some sort of macabre genetic cull. Stranger things have happened.

"Single" seems to be the hardest word

The Mrs told me a story recently that's both depressing and amusing in equal measure. A friend of hers was in a long-distance relationship with a chap London way, when she found out that she'd been dumped.

Did he call her? No.

Text? Nope.

Email: Keep going.

She found out because he changed his FaceBook relationship status from 'In a relationship' to 'single'. Nice.

To be honest, how gutless do you have to be to do this? Fair enough, change the setting, but make sure the other half knows about it first. Finding out this way is just cold, albeit comedic to the onlooker.

That is all.

Holiday round-up

Those of you who know me know that any blog with the word 'holiday' in the title is bound to be filled with aggression and assertive opinions, but this is the exception. I've recently returned from 4 days in Scotland, and it was alright. However, there were a couple of things which ever-so-slightly got on my nerves...

Public Transport = Shite
Who would've thought that a couple of power lines falling down would cause so much trouble? Arriving in York for our first change we discovered some power lines had come down near Thirsk, meaning all through trains to Darlington had been stopped, and vice versa. Brilliant. To be fair to the station staff they got the ball rolling sharpish but that meant sitting on a smelly old coach for about 17 hours surrounding by some of the most cretinous people in the world (the general public). Due to an additional accident the driver had to take an alternative route to the extent that at one point we drove past my back garden. When we finally got there we had to stand on a freezing platform for ages until the train arrived. That was understandably packed but we managed to blag first-class seats and sat watching the darkness (not the piss-poor band) go past for another couple of hours. In the end, a journey which should have taken about 5 hours took 9. What a start.

Nurses = Legends
The reason for the trip was to attend a 100th birthday party. That itself was OK (I was given lager and cake so you can't really complain). I could go on all day about the old folks in the home but let's just say it was a depressing and uplifting experience in equal measure. However, what struck me was the unbelievable class of the nursing staff. To a man (well, woman) they were friendly, polite, incredibly patient and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying their work. It's a testament to their dedication that there were so many smiling pensioners about. It later transpired that they'd even had a whip-round to provide the alcohol for the do. Great, great people. And a couple of them were absolute crackers as well.

Edinburgh = Edinbeggar
That title works better if you pronounce it like a Yank, but the truth is within 500 yards of the station we'd seen 3 of the work-shy blighters. I've got nothing against them personally, but I would like it if they fucked off the main roads and plied their 'trade' elsewhere. Edinburgh is a nice place and the museum is shit hot, but the fact that my observations are based on the beggars proved that the council is getting it wrong. If I were in charge I'd have them moved on sharpish. Nobody wants to be accosted by these tramps, however unaggressively, but it immediately paints a bad picture of an otherwise picturesque city.

That's more or less it for the McHoliday. I saw Wayne Hemingway at York station and my auntie's house from the train but that's not really interesting. And I also saw Murrayfield, which is without doubt the most faceless stadium I've ever seen, and I've seen Craven Cottage.

Now with drive-in lounge...

It's not often you get to say this sentence:

"This evening, a man driving a large, American pick-up lost control, mounted the kerb and destroyed my bin and gas meter"

Not a regular occurrence, I'm sure you'll agree. Pretty much what you read above is what happened; I'm sat minding me own watching telly when I hear a loud crunching noise. Thinking there was some automative carnage appertaining I had a butcher's. I found myself staring face to face with the driver of said pick-up, as he apologetically began to reverse over my already flattened bin.

To be fair, the bin is relatively unscathed, but the box that covers the gas meter is toast. It could have been a lot worse. He could've bust my house. I could have had a gas leak. He could have severed my Sky cable. All's well that ends well to be honest. He'll pay for the damage and stump up for a new gearbox and sump (that'll be cheap). The council have sanded the liquid and the cops (God bless 'em) once again provided a superlative service getting his details and sorting the whole debacle out.

People who know my house will be familiar with this clown. He drives a giant American car which has been dubbed "The Westwoodmobile", given its gangster leanings. In reality he actually looks like Mr. Belding of "Saved by the bell" fame, and now the Westwoodmobile is dead. Bare deng, I'm sure you'll agree.

Cos I remember asking

No word of a lie, these three conversations took place between me and colleagues in one working day recently:

Morning
Me: Hiya
Bird: Hi
Me: Alright?
Bird: Will be after I've had a wee
Me: ?
Bird: You probably didn't want to know that though
Me: You think?



Early afternoon
A colleague is approaching so I hold a door open for him. He signals he's about to turn off into a side corridor, meaning I don't have to wait for him.

Me: No problem
Him: Just going to the toilet


Late afternoon
A driver and I both entered the canteen at the same time. I went to the can machine and he to the coffee machine. Nothing was said between us.

Me: *Minds own business*
Him: Might go and have a piss


Jesus Christ. Do I have a face which says "tell me your toilet details"? I never once tell anyone when I'm off to the bog, mainly because I expect they couldn't give two shiny shites, but for some reason people insist on letting me know. Thanks but no thanks.

The next time somebody tells me anything about their movements, either pre- or post-lavatorial visit, I'm going to look them square in the eye and say "I couldn't give a flying rat's cock, squire". I just hope it's not the MD...

Be impolite, it saves time

Last night I saw one of my colleagues in Tescos. She was in a world of her own so I didn't make eye contact. This morning I got to work and had completely forgotten about seeing her until I bumped into her. I then uttered a phrase which cost me 5 solid minutes of my life:

"I saw you in Tescos last night"

Now, far be it from me to be mysoginistic (how many times have I started a sentence like that?) but if I had said that to a bloke he would have done one of three things:

1) Said "Oh yeah?" in a disinterested tone
2) Ignored me on the basis of the campness of the statement
3) Faked an elaborate and sarcastic yawn

However, the lady in question embarked upon an epic tale of the various stores she'd visited, how she couldn't find what she wanted so ended up in Tescos, and she asked the woman if they had it and she said they did but she wasn't sure where it was then it turned up in a pile of them but it was priced at £4.50 which seemed a bit cheap but it was actually that price so now I've got to get her something extra for her birthday and so on and so on and so on.

As she is a lovely lady I had no choice but to listen to this drivel, each second passing with me screaming inside for this torture to end. However, I know full well that if I see her again anywhere, I'm keeping my trap shut.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot to tell you what she was buying. A Hannah Montana DVD. Christ.