Shower Alone

Captions on a postcard please.

Digest This

Reading has just been voted as worst place to bring up children in the universe, in a scientific Reader’s Digest poll. I’m not too fussed by this, since the 1000 people polled are the only reprobates left in the country who haven’t figured out how to cancel their Reader’s Digest subscription. They were asked questions about crime rates and schools, when the only question that should have been on anyone’s mind is “will my kid grow up to be a thieving scaghead?” And any self-respecting parent from The ‘Ding knows that the only place where every kid grows up to be a thieving scaghead is ten miles down the road in Bracknell. I should know – I was brought up there. And if anyone wants any quality stereos or mind-blowing horse, I’m your man!

Bon Anniversaire, Mon Petit Blog

Great Googly Moogly! I've been so busy not writing this blog, that I completely forgot that I've been writing it for a year!

So, happy 1st birthday, HTCC, and I'm sorry that I missed it by over a month (now you know how my family feel).

Be Afraid Of The Ad Man

There’s currently an advert on TV for some hideous Febreze/Ariel hybrid, in which an adolescent boy sticks his head down the back of a sofa, then proceeds to walk into a wall with a pair of underpants on his head. He is suffering from what I like to call the ‘fucking penis effect’, or as it’s more commonly known: ‘They’re Gonna Taste Great Syndrome’.

In 2006, the star of a Frosties commercial was reportedly murdered to death for pissing off just about everyone on the planet. His crime? Listening to some fucked-up ad man who promised him fame and fortune by uttering the immortal phrase “They’re gonna taste great” over and over, in an incredibly annoying monotonal voice. Oh, and the dance – don’t forget the dance. What it actually did was ruin his life. And quite right too, the loser.

The problem is this: kids at that age are desperate to get on TV, and when they get in that audition room they will do just about anything they’re asked to (not that, you perverts). What they need is someone telling them that acting like a cockmaster on peaktime national TV is not going to get you much pussy. In fact, you can write off beaver for pretty much the rest of your life. You think that Jade, Jo and that scouse bint had trouble after Big Brother? Well just imagine the grief that the Febreze-loving panty-sniffer got when he went back to school. Murder, I tell you, murder.

Too Close To Call

They’re a security-conscious lot at my office – there are swipe card readers on every door (it has something to do with the highly-confidential, world-changing work that we do…). In almost complete contradiction to this, all of the doors have a soft-close mechanism fitted, meaning that once you’ve gone through, at least 14 people, two tea trolleys and a lost golf cart could follow you into the office before the door has even begun it’s leisurely, arc-ing back-swing.

It also presents a little dilemma. Having been to the drinks machine the other day, I rounded the corner to see the door at the end of the corridor coming to a close. I nonchalantly walked towards it, thinking to myself “I’m not going to make it. It doesn’t matter. I have my card with swipe capability.” Half way there, and it’s still not closed. This is a problem. What am I going to do if I get there and it’s still not shut? I could wait by the swipe card reader and listen for the ‘click’. But then I’d just look like a knob. Or I make a dash and catch it before it closes… but what if I don’t make it?! End of the corridor and the bastard door is still open; in a hastily brash decision I opt to leap for the handle and catch it just as it shuts, pulling myself into the door with such force that my face thumps hard against the glass, scaring the bejesus out of three people in the next office, who until now had been snoozing through a conference call.

“Huh!” I say, and throw them that knowing look. They stare back at me like I’ve just shut a baby’s head in the door. I swipe my card and make a hasty exit. I actually think this could be a direct ploy by my company to see if they’re employing idiots. I’ll be awaiting my P45.

Why Play The Lotto

You know, people often say to me: “Matt – what are the chances of me spontaneously combusting?”

“Well,” I say, with a wry smile, “That would be about 14,000,000 to 1. Approximately the same odds as winning the lottery.”

“But- ” they respond anxiously, “what are the chances of me winning the lottery, then spontaneously combusting from sheer frenetic joy?”

“That would be 196,000,000,000,000 to 1,” I retort. “Approximately the same odds as you travelling back through time, to wake up one week earlier, alive and well. Of course, if all of this were to happen, you could go and warn yourself not to play the lottery.”

Realisation passes across their face. “So you mean the chances of me telling myself not to play the lottery this week are-”

“That’s right,” I say. “38,416,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 to 1.”

“I guess I’ll go and buy a ticket then.” And off they go.

New Year's Resolution (Mk.II)

I actually had another New Year’s resolution – abstention from booze. I realise that this is probably the most common (and most commonly broken) promise that New Year fad-followers make to themselves, but sod it – I’ve got spots on the insides of my eyelids and fur growing on my tongue so it’s definitely time for a detox. I set a reasonable time-frame: one month. In fact, I only lasted 18 hours.

“We’re going to start cooking properly – it’s one of my New Year’s Resolutions.”

Excuse me? Chicken, rice and peas is proper fucking cooking. You have to use pans and everything. Marilisa, however, was on a roll.

“This recipe of Jamie’s looks good: The Best Boozed Up Risotto With Booze, Diseased Livers and Booze.”

“Er, does it have any alcohol in it?”

“Just a splash of wine. Of course we’ll need to finish the bottle – it was a gift from my parents so I’m not letting it go to waste.”

So on day one of not drinking I washed down an alcohol-fuelled rice dish with two glasses of alcohol. But resolutions broken by other resolutions don’t count. If they did, time would start going backwards, the universe would implode and the only thing left would be unsmoked gym memberships and diets trying to be nice to each other. Or something.

I'm A Liar

Well, I did say maybe, so technically I’m not a liar. Anyway.

There’s only one thing that makes me cry more than Big Brother and that’s Celebrity Big Brother. Who the hell are these people? Where did they come from? I thought that being a ‘celebrity’ meant you had to be famous - and doing something famous 30 years ago on the Indian sub-continent doesn’t count. I realise that the over-exposure of nearly-nobodys is hardly anything new – we had Who The Fuck Are You Love Island and Strictly Come Who The Fuck and I’m A Fucktard, Get Me On The Telly. I can understand why the old ex-celebs do it – making a knobend of yourself for three weeks will get you in the public eye again and may even make you popular (or maybe not, George Galloway! Ha Ha! Fool!). But this famous-by-association bollocks is just too much – I couldn’t give a fraction of a gnat’s shit about someone who once wanked off David Beckam’s dog or bummed some footballer’s monogloid uncle. They are attention seeking scum. But even they are not as bad as the amoebic plebeians who make the journey to the house on the first night to boo people they’ve never heard of who haven’t even done anything yet. Do you really have nothing better to do with your pathetic little lives??

New Year's Resolution

1. Reacquaint myself with the vigours of blogging.
2. Try to think of something to write.

More tomorrow. Maybe.

Gay Spidey Has Infiltrated My Mind

So I'm sitting there at work, beavering away, listening to my iPod, when somebody walks into my periforal vison. Suddenly I start visualising them doing this:


in time to the music I'm listening to. And I can't get it out of my head. This happens every time somebody walks past my desk.

I need help.