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.