Call Me Lucky

Things have been going well for me lately. A little too well. And this makes me nervous. The new job, the tasty redundancy cheque, Arsenal in the Champions League Final, the 100-1 horse coming in… I thought I was the eternal optimist, but then I don’t normally have this much luck. It made me realise that when you’re flying high, you’re at some point going to run out of fuel, then there’s nothing much to look forward to other than a horrific fiery death.

I was absolutely convinced that I was going to crash and burn today. In the morning I had a dentist’s appointment scheduled to have my tooth rebuilt, and in the afternoon I was having a mole examined to see if it was cancerous. You couldn’t pick a horror movie with a better premise.

The hour at the dentist went without a glitch. The only bit of excitement was when I dribbled down my front, but the new tooth looks fantastic (compared to the others at any rate, which as Marilisa points out, should be owned by National Heritage). This, I figured, meant that I was definitely going to have cancer. But half an hour with a dermatologist and there was no hard evidence that my mole was going to consume me alive.

The one thing that struck me as slightly odd was that the dermatologist didn’t use a normal camera to photograph my mole. He used his mobile phone. Which he then sent to the printer via Bluetooth. I have also noticed that Vodafone adverts are appearing on every webpage I visit. Then it struck me - I’m cursed. I’m going to be followed by Vodafone wherever I go for all eternity. I knew all this luck had to come at a price. So if anyone knows how to break a curse inflicted by a mobile phone giant, can you text it to me please? Thnx.

End Of An Era

Well, here I am. Half an hour left of employment. It’s been a surreal sort of day – normally when you leave a company, things keep ticking along; the people you worked with will still be there, doing the same old things. Not so this time – everyone’s going. It’s been a bit like the last day of school before the summer holidays: no one can be bothered to do any work; all your old folders and books get chucked in the bin; people spend most of the day throwing screwed up bits of paper at each other and graffitiing the desks. So far I have:

1. Deleted 1500 emails
2. Won £50 on a 100-1 horse
3. Had a photo that looks like I’m receiving head from a man in a balaclava emailed to my mother. By my boss.

And that’s just about been the extent of my day. I now have two weeks off, then I start a normal 9 to 5 at an office I can cycle to. It’s going to be bliss.

Employment Beckons

Well, dip me in honey and throw me to the lesbians! I have a job! Fye thee, chemical sandwich, you'll not stop me now!

Whoop! Whoop!

Apocalypse Lunch

For lunch today, I went for the Roast Beef Bap. Here is a breakdown of events:

Bite 1: Things are going well. Very yummy.

Bite 2: Succulent and cooked to perfection. I'm beginning to enjoy myself.

Bite 3: A grenade goes off in my mouth. Beef snorts out of my nose. I start to cry. I cough up the rest of the bap but my head still feels like it's dissolving. My life starts flashing before my eyes. I'm just up to my 20th birthday when the pain begins to subside and the surrounding office comes back into focus. I dizzily look down at the remains of my meal; nothing looks out of place, other than the sauce that is now oozing out and attempting to burn it's way through my desk.

I get my breath back.

Bite 4: My head explodes. The office catches fire. World War III starts. A million voices scream out "Why didn't you stop at bite 3?!" I scream back at them "Because I was hungry and this fucker cost me £2.95!" The sun goes supernova. The universe implodes. Everyone dies. The end.

And all because I asked for horseradish on my bloody bap. I'll go for ketchup next time.

Worst Album Covers (Part 2)

A while back I promised to post a few more of the worst album covers... Well Devastatin' Dave gets a special mention today because he just made Minger of the Week. Dave, we salute you.

Tax Return Evasion

It’s emerged today that the Inland Revenue has overpaid tax credits for the second year running, to the tune of £2.2 billion. This must be an entirely different Inland Revenue to the one that I use, because my Inland Revenue are a stingy bunch of bastards who can’t even be arsed to do their own work, let alone dole out free cash. Last year, they sent me a self-assessment tax return. So I phoned them.

Me: You’ve sent me a self-assessment tax return.

IR: Yes. We’d like you to fill it out.

Me: But there’s nothing in here that applies to me. This is for people who have lots of money.

IR: And you don’t?

Me: No. You’ve already taxed me dry.

IR: Well, we’ve sent it to you, so you better fill it out. Otherwise we’ll charge you £100.

Me: But there’s nothing on here for me to fill out! I’m going to have to write ‘not applicable’ on every page!

IR: Yes you will. And we’ll charge you £100 if you don’t.

I furiously filled out the form, writing ‘not applicable’ on 40 pages of nonsensical tax bollocks, then copied my P60 onto the final page. Not long after, I received a letter saying “Oh, looks like you didn’t need to fill this out after all” so I assumed that would be the end of the matter. A few weeks ago, they sent me another self-assessment tax return. So I phoned them.

Me: You’ve sent me another self-assessment tax return.

IR: Yes. We’d like you to fill it –

Me: Listen, you little fucker, this is what you said last year and it doesn’t apply to me. I might as well write ‘stick this up your shitter’ on every page, because that’s all it’s going to be good for when you get it. If I had any money it would be a different matter, but I don’t because you’ve already lined your stinking pockets with it. Now piss off back to playing solitaire in your dirty grey cubicle you weasely little snotbag.

That’s how the conversation went in my head anyway. They eventually conceded that perhaps I wasn’t the high-flying entrepreneur that they had mistaken me for and told me to ignore the tax return. A few days later, I received a letter saying “Please ignore your tax return. BUT IF ANY OF YOUR CIRCUMSTANCES CHANGE OR IF YOU FIND SOME MONEY DOWN THE BACK OF THE SOFA, YOU MUST GIVE IT TO US.” A few days after that, I received another letter saying “By the way – if you’re lying, we’ll get you.”

This is why it surprises me that the Inland Revenue seem to have let £2.2 billion slip away. Having said that, in 1991 a bunch of postal workers managed to fleece them for £7 million by setting up a bank account in the name of Inlandi Revendi and rerouting any cheques that passed their way. Perhaps if they got off their arses and started checking the figures by themselves instead of asking poor sods like me to do it, they might realise when they’re missing the GDP of a third-world country.

Technorati Tags: tax, money, self assessment

Top Gaffe

I always knew that Tom Cruise was a mental, but naming your daughter a pointy nosed pickpocket? That's taking things a bit far...

Ego

A list of mildly interesting things about me that you were never going to ask about, but I’ve decided to tell you anyway

1. I’m a qualified journalist.
2. But I failed my shorthand exam miserably.
3. I have double-jointed thumbs.
4. I can play New World Symphony on the piano while facing in the wrong direction.
5. A naked woman was once found lying in my bed at boarding school.
6. Unfortunately I wasn’t in it at the time.
7. I lived in Bracknell for the larger part of my life, but never once regarded it as my home.
8. I reserve that accolade for the beach in Bournemouth.
9. I have been 6’2 since the age of 14 and haven’t grown an inch since.
10. Every person I’ve met more than once since the age of 14 tells me that I’ve grown.
11. I once spent a night in a police cell.
12. I still have no idea why.
13. Will Self has been for a ride in my car.
14. When I was 7 I swallowed a Cadbury’s Creme Egg whole.
15. I was Head Boy at school.
16. Amidst a scandal that the vote had been rigged.
17. I’ve climbed an 18,000ft Himalayan mountain.
18. Alan Titchmarsh once called me handsome.
19. Kate Adie agreed with him.
20. I’m terrified of medium-sized spiders.
21. Really small ones and tarantulas don’t bother me. I think they’re cute.
22. I won a three-legged race dressed as the Terminator. My partner was Rambo.
23. I hate nothing more than being called a liar.
24. Unless I’m lying, in which case it’s absolutely fine.
25. I was once threatened with libel action by my headteacher.
26. I have a Blue Peter badge.
27. Which I didn’t buy on eBay.
28. I am a huge Arsenal fan, but rarely get to see them play live.
29. I live two minutes from the Reading FC stadium but haven’t bothered going to see them once.
30. I once won a national maths competition by guessing half of the answers.
31. I played a Parliamentarian in the Tim Roth film To Kill a King.
32. I have an extremely low boredom threshold.
33. This list is really getting on my tits.

Talking Cock

An argument that had been simmering on Notoriously Fickle Girl’s blog has since boiled over like a giant cyber-saucepan, the contents of which are now splattered across the kitchen work surface of my comments page. It’s not every day that someone visits your blog with the sole intention of telling you that you are ruled by your penis, but hey – at least I’m expanding my global audience.

When I was eighteen, I thought I ruled the world (and yes, I was probably receiving a good proportion of those instructions from my loin area). I’m old enough and wise enough now to know that there is a great deal that I have to learn about life, so I keep an open mind about everything (and that means looking further than the pages of a textbook…).

I think as we grow older, we forget what it was like to feel like that – you’ve just left school; you’ve got your driving licence; you can go into a pub and cry “bring me some ale, wrench!” without the fear of being ID’d. It feels like the world is your oyster and anything is achievable. Of course, as you grow older, all your dreams slowly fade away – I’ve already had to tick off the possibilities of being an F1 driver or an international DJ (although I’m still clinging on to the hope of finding my feet and ending up as a late signing for Arsenal…).

Anyway enough of the misery – I’m only 26 and my penis still works (although I let him know who’s boss these days). Life is like a plate of oysters – you never know which one is going to make you vomit. Or something like that. I’m just going to carry on as I am and see what it throws up.

Do You Really Know Whose Blog You're Reading?

One of the most interesting things about blogging is that you get inside the heads of people you would have otherwise never met. You don't really know who they are and you don't really know what they're like, but you get familiar with their online persona. And then one day one of them murders a 10-year-old girl. Pretty fucked up.

Killing Me Softly With Their Song

Taste is a peculiar thing. It’s very subjective – for example, I can’t stand Natasha Bedingfield, but I can see why people with no ears might like her. I don’t personally like to wear my jeans around my ankles, but teenagers think this low-slung look makes them look ‘wid it’. Taste is never black and white – there are varying shades of grey, but there are, however, moments when vast majority of sane-thinking people turn to each other incredulously and silently scream “What the fuck were they thinking?”

I had a “what the fuck were they thinking” moment the other day when I walked into Clinton Cards and was greeted by the Spice Girls ‘Wannabe’, being played on the pan pipes. I wouldn’t have thought it was possible to murder a Spice Girls number, but this one was being positively bludgeoned to death with an over-sized Care Bear. I had to leave before started vomiting out of my ears. Some of you may say I was asking for it by walking into Clinton Cards, but they’re not the only ones at it. I went for an Indian over the weekend and the backing music seemed to be a loop of ‘A Groovy Kind of Love’ arranged for the Casio keyboard (you know - one of the ones that you had as a kid and used to play the demo when your gran came round so she thought you were really good and gave you some money).

It’s almost as if they’d thought “What would our customers like to listen to while savouring an onion bhaji or perusing a selection of inoffensive yet affordable greetings cards? I know – how about this melee of aural bile and sputum that will cause them to fit uncontrollably and vomit out their own intestines? Yes, that’s what they’d like.” The only good thing that I can draw from being subjected to such tripe is that it causes such a violent reaction in my guts. The day that I find myself in Clinton Cards and actually tapping my foot is the day that I pick up the stupid over-sized Care Bear and suffocate myself by swallowing it whole. I pray that day never comes.

Technorati Tags: cards, Spice Girls, murder

Questions Answered, Mysteries Solved

Do you have a burning question at the back of your mind that no one has been able to answer? Who’s got the biggest shoes, for example, or where did all the white dog poo go? Lily introduced me to a service last night that can answer all of these and more – you just need to text your question to 63336. I thought I’d done them with my second question (what was the average price gain of houses down my street over the last two years – yes, I know I’m a nerd), but two hours later the answer came back. And it was more than I expected. Hurrah!

On to more important matters – have you ever wondered who was better out of Batfink and Hong Kong Phooey? There’s only one real way to find out – fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight!

Technorati Tags: questions, answers, fighting

Cars, Cameras And Cows That Shit Cash

I love driving. I fucking love it. I’m what you might call a petrolhead. Which is why it broke my heart to sell my beloved Clio 172 last year in favour of a motorised lawnmower (otherwise known as a Seat Ibiza). The reason for this? Speed cameras. Now, don’t get me wrong – I’m a responsible driver. I’ll only run over people who look like burglars. But I was caught twice, in quick succession, doing 37mph on a deserted four lane road by one of the bastard tinpot cash cows masquerading as a bush. The consequence of this was that I had six points added to my licence and my insurance went through the roof. So I had to trade my car in for a Tonka toy.

I have nothing against speed cameras in the right places, for example, in front of schools. Of course, this means that the driver will be staring at his speedometer as he approaches the danger area, dramatically increasing the likelihood of him missing the lollipop lady and scattering children like bowling pins, but it’ll keep the parents’ association happy. What I do have a problem with are random cameras, situated in pointless places along the M4, because they’re ‘accident blackspots’ (bearing in mind, that someone jumping off a bridge into the oncoming traffic below is classified as an accident).

Anyway, the point I was going to make is that my crappy Seat, which will only do 0-60 if it’s being towed, actually drinks more petrol than the Clio. So much so, that I don’t think I’m actually saving any money. I’ve therefore joined the Pipeline Card scheme, which is pushing to get cheaper petrol for members. The idea behind it is strength in numbers, so I implore anyone reading this to do the same. It’s not going to get you to work any faster and it’s not going to save you from the Gatsos, but it might just save you a bit of dosh.

Technorati Tags: petrol, driving, speed camera

The Concept Of Cool

"Stardate 29263.8 - Mr Snuggles had a bad night's sleep..."

I was never one of the cool kids at school. I liked too much geeky stuff - heavy metal and computer games instead of smoking and fighting. I was never much good at smoking – the first time I tried I put the wrong end in my mouth and when I eventually got it the right way round, I inhaled so hard that I coughed my lungs inside out. I wasn’t much good at fighting either because I never really practiced – I only had two notable fights during my secondary school years, both with kids younger than me (look – I said I wasn’t very good, ok?), but I thankfully came out the better on both occasions (girls are pretty easy to beat).

I suppose I’m not so different now, but the concept of cool has shifted. It’s suddenly fashionable for a guy my age to have a PSP. I may no longer be into The ‘Maiden and Metallica, but I collect vinyl and because I mix it with a pair of oversized headphones, it makes me hip. I think this is something that happens with age – what was perceived to be cool during your school years i.e. being a dropout, suddenly isn’t quite so appealing when it means having to wear a uniform with a name badge (no disrespect to people who wear name badges by the way. I won’t judge you as long as you don’t judge me when I ask for extra large fries).

Sadly there are some people who will never snap out of the geek stereotype. Take sonny-jim with the teddy in the picture above. Let’s be honest – there was never really any hope for him. Destined for a life of conventions and seeking rare trading cards on eBay from the confines of his mother’s basement. But as long as it keeps him happy, eh? That and a steady supply of internet porn.

The concept of cool is a strange thing. All it’s really about is acceptance by our peers. And if your peers are a teddy called Mr Snuggles and a life-size cardboard Dalek, I guess you’ll always be cool to them.

Technorati Tags: cool, smoking, fighting

Travel Sickness

An enterprising Hungarian travel firm is cashing in on the recent floods in Budapest by offering “disaster holidays” to tourists. Book a trip through Popeye and you’ll be taken on a fascinating tour of all the best flood sites (who knows - if you're lucky you may even spot a corpse!).

“Everybody loves a disaster!” chuckles the company spokesman, but with the river levels declining, this niche market may soon be heading for troubled water itself. One idea to keep the company afloat could be to sell earthquake holidays - you wouldn’t even need to leave your house; the firm would simply come round and demolish it for you, burying you alive! For those people wanting something a little more pandemic, how about a Bubonic Bonanza - infecting the entire family with the Black Death for two weeks of sneezy, wheezy fun?

It's a cracking idea, because noone can ever complain to wrinkle-nosed ginger Anne Robinson and her team of moan-hounds on Watchdog, as you can claim that any misdemeanor was part of the package. "So you got radiation poisoning and leprosy? I'm terribly sorry, we forgot to charge you for those - we'll pop the bill in the post."

Run Horsey, Run

Hooray! It’s Grand National time again and a nation of non-gamblers suddenly decide it’s time to splash their cash on donkeys like Clam Royal and Fudgehunter, as they scramble down the glue factory expressway at Aintree. I’ve placed my bet on a horse called Garvivonniannnian, because like most people who nothing about racing, I just did what the people on the TV told me to. If I win, I promise to take you all out for icecream.

It Just Doesn't Add Up

I wasn’t bad at maths when I was a kid. In fact, I’d go so far as to say I was pretty damn good. Differentiation? Piece of cake. Simultaneous equations? Ate them for breakfast and shat out the answers. I had a fantastically eccentric teacher called Mrs Sheehan during secondary school, who would be leaning over my desk observing my work, then all of a sudden exclaim “Oh my goodness! I’m wearing odd shoes!” or something equally peculiar. She was quite brilliant and got me my only A grade at A-Level, so I have much to thank her for.

She probably would have liked me to go on and use my mathematical prowess somewhere in my career, but quite frankly it bored the tits off me so I went for something nice and fluffy like journalism instead. Nowadays I find it hard to do even simple mental arithmetic, so I’m dreading the day when my kids come up to me and say “Daddy, help me prove the Riemann hypothesis!” and I’ll have to say “look it up on cheating.com,” and go back to reading my copy of Razzle.

Despite this steady decline in my calculating ability, it didn’t take me long to work out that Man Utd could do with some lessons of their own. Turning down a £70 million sponsorship deal earlier in the week, all the journos and fans gave each other knowing looks and nudges, thinking “Blimey – they must have something really big on the horizon!”

Never ones to disappoint, Utd came out today with the announcement: “Aha! We have landed ourselves a sponsorship deal worth £56.5 million! Waddaya thinka that!” Well, quite frankly, I think you need to get down to Mothercare and buy yourselves a copy of My First Book Of Sums, because as far as I can make out, you’re shit at them.

Technorati Tags: Manchester United, sponsorship, football

Who's The Daddy?

That's right, Thierry - you're The Daddy. And you too Freddie, you can be The Daddy as well.

Never before have I been so pleased to sit through a football match with so few chances, so many fouls and so many offside decisions. It was tedium at its beautiful best.

And for those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about, click here.

Worst Album Covers... Ever

I know these have been around for a while, but I had them emailed to me again today and they almost had me in convulsions. Truly the worst album covers of all time.

(I can post the rest if anyone really wants me to)

The Unthinkable Happens

Official notice was served today. I’m now teetering on the edge of the gaping abyss that is unemployment; my only hope is to take a running jump and catch the polyester trousers of the last person hanging in the Job Centre queue.

Searching for jobs is a very demoralising task. I’ve seen a number that take my fancy, but they either want 10 years experience in a skill that I’ve never heard of (like merkin adhesion) or they’re so ridiculously popular that the recruiting company has rigged a shredder to its fax machine, so the abundance of CVs are filed appropriately.

Having said that, I do have a couple of promising interviews. I just need to overcome the fear and hope my charisma shines through. Which means I’m doomed.

Technorati Tags: job, interview, merkin

The Dentist (Part 1)

The day I had been dreading arrived. The determination of a filling to oust one of my molars and claim the root as its own meant a trip to the dentist was regrettably necessary. Things began well.

“You have very clean teeth.”
“Rank roo.”
“1,2,3,4,5 ok… 6 needs some work… ah.”

He put a camera in my mouth and took several photos. After some examination, whispering and several telephone calls, he came back to me.

“Right. This is the tooth that you’ve cracked.”
“Ok.”
“This dark bit here is where decay has got underneath the filling.”
“Oh dear.”
“These two green things are lichens, the species of which where having some difficulty in determining.”
“Right.”
“And over here you’ll see a portable barbeque and wagon tracks which would suggest evidence of Romany travellers.”
“Excellent.”

It would appear that my tooth was not displaced by the filling; rather a collection of unwelcome lodgers who were trying to nestle in underneath it. After a good buffing that left my pearlies whiter than white, I had to book in another appointment to have the filling drilled out and replaced. But not before National Geographic comes round to inspect my lichens. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Technorati Tags: dentist, filling, pain

Here's One I Made Earlier

Scientists. Is there anything they can’t do? Today they have announced the successful transplant of bladders grown from the patients’ own cells in a laboratory. The seven people who required surgery had a sample of cells taken and placed on a special scaffold (i.e. a party balloon), then grown into a new bladder, whereas the standard procedure involves taking a tissue graft from the small intestine.

Five years down the line and the patients in question have all been able to take jobs without ready access to a toilet. Now that this has been proven to work, they’re going to start work on hearts and other organs and because it doesn’t involve the use of stem cells, it should keep the deeply confused “pro-life” campaigners at bay. By the time my organs give out (which will be sooner rather than later), I should be able to grow new ones and have them replaced at will. I think I'm going to take up smoking.

Technorati Tags: science, transplant, bladder

Because I've Got Nothing Better To Do

Bill Sticker has led me to a nifty little game, where you can design your own South Park character. Well, this is me:

I don't own a gun by the way. I just think it makes me look cool.

When I Die, I Want To Be Remembered As...

Excerpt from this morning’s breakfast:

“You did have a one night stand – with that bloke from work.”
“It wasn’t really a one night stand. It happened twice.”
“And was he any good?”
“Erm… he was very… passive.”

Passive? What a bloody awful word to have describe your sexual performance. I can think of plenty of things I wouldn’t want to be called over a bagel and mocha the following morning: useless; crap; Mr Floppy; but passive – there’s just something so… analytical about it.

It’s not even like being called lazy; I mean, everyone’s been lazy in bed at one time or another and lazy Sunday sex – well, I’m one of its advocates. Passive says to me he didn’t really know what to do, so he just kind of lay there and hoped to high heaven that all the machinery worked. Yuk.

If anyone can think of a more demeaning word to sum up the useless sexual endeavours of a previous partner, I’m all ears.

Technorati Tags: sex, performance, passive

Breakfast For Idiots

Timmy found felching to be a real eye-opener

What in the name of all that is holy...

Has the world gone completely insane? Straws made of cereal? I don't think I ever seen anything quite so ridiculous in all my life. Apart from this. Which? obviously agrees with me, and it's not the only one.

What happened to good old-fashioned Rice Krispies? Honestly.

Technorati Tags: breakfast, cereal, advert

Everybody's At It

On my way back from town this morning, I saw on the pavement in front of me a portly young lady dressed in an excessively short PVC skirt and thigh-length boots. Bit odd, I thought. As I approached, she smiled at me. I smiled back. I then realised that her gaze was directed just past my right ear, and I turned round to see a man on the other side of the street taking photos. This could mean one of two things – either I’m about to be blackmailed (which would be a bit pointless given that I’ve just lost my job and have no money) or I was walking through the preliminary stages of a porn shoot.

I live in Reading. For those of you who don’t know it – it’s not exactly known for its glamour. In fact, if you asked me to give an example of something that was definitely not glamorous, and had no chance of being glamorous even if you shat celebrities on it and paved the streets with Paris Hilton, I would probably direct you to my home town. It is, in short, not the place I would choose to stage anything intended to be mildly erotic. Having said that, you can find a niche for just about anything these days. What this would have been for – Kerbside Sluts or Horny Pavement Plumpers, I just don’t know. But I’m still a little surprised to see it going on down my street. If I come across the photographer next time I’m in town I’ll ask him where the photos are being published and then I’ll let you, dear reader, know where you can see them. You might even be able to see my house in the background.

Technorati Tags: photography, porn, Berkshire