Friday, 18 November 2011

Post Dramatic Snip Disorder

There is no denying that I have saved the world.

Having a vasectomy was sure to put the world’s population numbers on a plateau. You can all thank me later because right now I’m dealing with something of a growing problem. Anyone who has read the blog below, followed me on Twit’n’Facebonk will know the operation was a flawless success. Going in with eyes wide shut and outstanding naivety had paid off massively. However, rescuing mankind it would seem was not without its cost.
Becoming a jaffa can result in more than just losing your pips. Post Vasectomy Pain (PVP) and infections are the biggest nutaches. There are other possible ‘complications’ as well such as scrotal hematomas or allergic reaction to the chromic acid in the stitches. It’s well worth reading about…after you’ve had it done.
My little swimmers can give David Walliams a run for his money and they were none too pleased at being told they couldn’t go on the tube slide anymore. They aren’t suited to a life in the shallow end so they're taking their revenge.
In my case Day +12 was where the fun began. From nowhere I started to get plumpain on a par with giving birth to twin Zepplins. There was also a swelling in my pants, and not the good kind! The swelling briefly looked like a third love spud and I considered what it would be like to have trip-locks. A third more testosterone would get me kicked out of the Tour De France so it’s a blooming good thing I’m not a pro-cyclist. I decided that no good can come from having tiddlies that resemble a New Delhi train during rush hour and that I should probably get help or something. I won’t mention the oozing around the stitches, it was just too gross. The awesome Dr. M who had performed the surgery agreed to see them for a second time. His bravery was made even more impressive when you factor in the appointment time was after lunch. After a quick fondle he concluded that I had an infected man udder. He also suggested taking the stitches out. I agreed because apart from having a slowly inflating space hopper in my scrotum “all looked good”. Putting them in didn’t hurt, why would taking them out be any different?


Naivety it would appear only works pre-op. It smarted a bit I can tell you but I’m glad he did because within minutes the vast majority of the pain had gone. Vanished like the prospect of becoming a daddy again. He made out a prescription for some anti-bi-ollocks and I was away at the speed of a legless sloth.
Space is still at a premium ‘downstairs’ but at least it doesn’t hurt anymore. I will just have to wait for the drugs to kick in and the swelling to unswell. I've single handedly halted the population growth, there’s no way I’m gonna let my plums fill the void!

to be continued...(hopefully not)

Monday, 7 November 2011

7 Billion and NOT counting.

Our species had hit the big 7 billion the media announced; it was time to commence Operation: Deweaponise My Nads. Codename: Seedless. Project: Blank. Objective: De-Plum. Mission: Unleaded !!!
This is the story of my journey to slow the population explosion by having my bollocks taken off the grid. A gripping tale of transformation from Optimus Pomigranite to Bumblejaffa. A quest to defuse genitals and turn the tide by having “the snip”.
However you want to put it a vasectomy was the only way to protect our planet from my baby making love spuds. For too long they have threatened people numbers with a ‘semenly’ limitless ammo of man fat. This was the double dip the world needed.
Making the arrangements was easy and there were no end of local GP’s that could do it. I visited one and they told me in detail what was involved. However, all I heard was blah blah blah, no more babies. After four years of two babies and zero sleep this was all the incentive I needed. Being a bloke I naturally went into this the only way we know how, with eyes wide shut. I booked a date and began the countdown. At Day minus 20 all I could think was: ppff, I’ve got ages yet. At Day minus 7 this had been upgraded to the more serious: ooh, me thingy is next week, I should probably read the leaflet or something.
On the bloke scale of panic there is very little time between DEFCON 5 and DEFCON 1. From vague concern to headless chicken can sometimes be just nanoseconds. It was this realisation that made me read the leaflet at Day minus 1. My conclusion: yeh I’ll be fine. I’ve found that it’s very easy not to be worried when your head is in clouds of blissful ignorance and a fog of naivety.

Day zero : cometh the hour, cometh the man #phrasefail. In total denial of what was about to happen, my only nerves came from my lack of nerves. Fortunately me, and the Victoria Cross worthy ‘Dr M’ hit it off like two Canal Street regulars on a bender. It was important that we did, after all future lives were in his hands.
Considering this was about to be the gayest experience of my life, Dr M was awesome. He’d probably fondled more scrotums than the local bishop but he did it at F1 speeds and with the touch of a Russian grand master. Seriously, the guy was a pro. He had a blade in one hand, a soldering iron in the other and only the slightest glimpse of sadistic pleasure in his eyes. If ever I need my undercarriage tinkering with in the future I’ll know exactly who to call.

While he desparkled my crown jewels we chewed the fat about golf and mountain biking. He explained that there would be no riding for me for at least the next two weeks, and no biking either, fnar fnar. It was only a minor ballache to add to the major one I should expect after the op. While I lay there I enquired about installing Sky Sports on the ceiling but it fell on deaf ears. I explained to the nurse that a 19 inch flat screen would fit perfectly between the two strip lights but it wasn’t to be. Sorry future egg-bashers, I tried I really did, but you’ll just have to lie there starring into a world of poorly lit magnolia like I did. The previously mentioned soldering iron was actually for electrically cauterizing the offending tubes. The only off putting bit was the burning smell, it was me, it was my bollocks, they were on electric fire! Life doesn’t get any more awesome when you realise a stranger is tickling your plums with a scaled down light sabre.
All in all, apart from briefly having electro-balls it was a bit of an anti-climax #phrasefail. The whole thing from lying down to standing up took fewer than twenty minutes and was on a par with going to the dentist. The sterile environment is the same, the same anaesthetic is used, the proceeding pain is roughly the same, they both want you to jizz in to a test tube 16 weeks later etc etc. The only difference seemed to be which end they were working on.
After my bollockoptomy I found my wife waiting in reception. She was more worried than I was and was a total hero for ferrying me home during her lunch hour. She’d even prepared a ‘carepack’ for me which consisted of some mountain bike mags, some booze, some ibuprofen and a shed load of chocolate. She was awesome and in total agreement about how this procedure was way worse than child birth. I’m basing our conversation on the age old adage that when she says no she actually means yes. She REALLY meant it.
Back at home I made comfy on the sofa, but not as comfy as my now useless onions which nestled in the finest Endura chamois panelled cycling shorts. There they would lay locked down and motionless for at least the next day. If you’re squeamish I would advise not looking down for quite a few days as you might be surprised to find what looks like two rottweiler puppies chewing on a cocktail sausage. Apart from the initial change of vista in the trouser department the recovery time is quite quick. Sure, for a few days you’ll walk like you’re in Planet of the Apes but this is nothing when you consider the reward. I had done the world a massive favour by guaranteeing not to add to it anymore. There was also a second prise of equal awesomeness, the very real fact that with the current batch of kiddies growing up and with no more sprogs in the tubes, I could at last attain the parent holy grail.


Wednesday, 3 August 2011

Why I'm better than you. Part 1 of loads.

Humans are apes who have broken their instinctive programming patterns. We can easily override what natural selection has spent several billion years perfecting. We are the product of evolution, environment, nurture, nature and what’s on offer at Morrison’s.
Every now and then our baser instincts get tested to the limit, but by tolerating the stupid and not giving in to anger we make our human qualities better.
To make myself a ‘better’ person I like to test myself. I do this by listening to a short arsed mystic who seems to find it rewarding to stand aloft a sturdy wooden box in the middle of town while bellowing his witchcraft. I believe his book of spells is called the Bible…? My test is to see how long I can resist the urge to shout “Twat”. My current record is 4.8 seconds but I’m confident I can numb myself to his rambling bollocks and get my time to well over five or even six seconds by the end of the year.

“You sir, are you a sinner?” he shouts.
“Yes I am!” shouts a local completely deflating the little gobshite.

Yes he was a sinner, and proud, which is probably why no one was starring at him and thinking ‘freak’. The cards were heavily stacked against a looney with a soap box. First of all as I mentioned he was short, hence the wooden box. Secondly, he was ginger. Jaffa is the dominant gene that proves even nature can get it horribly wrong sometimes. Next up, he was wearing glasses. Finally, he was yelling the word of “our Lord”. Now everyone in this country loves an underdog but the Right Reverend Stumpy Gingafoureyes had crossed the tolerance line. He had one spanner-characteristic (spackeristic) too many. Even though I admire his gun sticking I think he would have had way more success/an audience if he’d shouted out Harry Potter instead.
Thanks to some seriously subtle penning, you might have noticed that I don’t really do religion. I have a Catholic upbringing to thank for this. The only religious saving grace is Hinduism, which acknowledges that the universe oscillates and is several billion years old. You’ve got to doth your cap for working that one out.

Life in junior god squad was dull, I did all the usual: First Holy Communion, First Confession, First Naked Polaroids for the Bishop etc However, this worm turned at the point of Confirmation. When you’re young Confirmation is just a way of getting a middle name and some lame-arsed present to say well done you’re officially a Catholic now. To be confirmed meant extra bashing and no one wanted that. As some of my fellow pupils had already been confirmed the teacher at the time went round one by one and asked us who was being “done” this year. For some reason I was at the back of the classroom and last too be asked. I’ll never forget the look on my class’ face when I instinctively said ‘no, not me’. Without saying a word and in perfect unison the entire un-done class span round and gave me a look of “WE HAD A CHOICE????”. In hindsight I have to thank the reptilian part of my brain. In a fight or flight on-the-spot kinda moment my dino-brian did both. It’s yet more proof that I’m subconsciously awesome. Either way from then on life slowly got easier. I've gone off the lapsed Catholic scale and become a coma'd Catholic.
I'll probably have to spend enternity in hell but I've been to Blackpool so it should be alright.

Monday, 11 July 2011

Camping....part two

After leaving a ruin in ruins we headed back to the campsite to rough it in our portable big top. The kettle, DVD, dry clothes and air con were put on in that order. I say air con, it’s more like a mesh window with its own flappy bit of tent material that controls the flow of air. It’s a floppy Velux really. When I opened it the warm damp humid air was instantly exchanged for much cooler damp humid air and some rather coarse language. But this was no time to moan, there would be plenty of time for that later. After all we were in a paper thin grandiose wigwam sheltering from teeming rain and a typhoon in a soaking wet field in the arse end of Devon. Life was good. With grumbling tummies we watched the bears catch salmon from where the car park used to be and our attention turned to food. The grizzlies were eating all the game fish and we were saving the venison for an emergency snack. The scallops in vintage soy sauce, assorted mushrooms and okra in lime cups were ready but the Krug was nowhere near chilled enough.
Only one course was open to us, we’d have to pub it.
We dinned and then dined heartily on burgers, chips, gammon, more chips, chicken nuggets, beans and a few more chips all washed down with several pints of lager and some Fruit Shoots for the wife and I. The more than reasonable prices meant we would have to buy more crisps and chocolate on the way back.

larger lout

Once our bellies were full we ambled, grunted, sighed and burped our way back to the unshapely chalet. Bloody good thing it was mostly downhill. The rain had eased a little and the bears had moved down river to buy ice creams. We reflected on the day in the living area and planned the next days adventure; the zoo. On the promises of lions and tigers the kids bolted and vaulted to bed like Thompson gazelle while the wife and I said prayers to Teflon, the god of waterproofing. Just one more night, that’s all we needed.
The zoo was a mere Howitzer shell away from the campsite so we had enough time to demolish an entire variety pack of cereals. I mixed some Corn Flakes with some Frosties together because I’m crazy and renegade like that. We had arranged to meet Granny and Granddad at the zoo car park at 10am before it became too busy. Meeting inside the zoo was too risky as first thing in the morning Granddad has the appearance of a tweed wearing silver back. Apart from the clothes the only thing that separated him from one of the primate attractions was a vague wiff of mothballs and Marmite.
We arrived at precisely 10am while the relics finally made an appearance at 10:02am. As a penalty for gross time keeping they agreed to pay our entrance fee. We waited patiently in the queue while Granddad filled out the necessary re-mortgage paperwork. One arm and one leg later we were in!
The hours flew by as we starred at empty enclosure after empty enclosure. With a little help from a tower and the Hubble telescope we did see a tiger. Well I say tiger, at that distance it might as well have been a sheep in a costume.
Just a note to all zoos out there: nocturnal animals, why have them if you’re only open during the day? rare fox my arse! it's a few random holes in the ground and you know it.

An escaped monkey

Fortunately this particular zoo had clued up on its typical audiences attention span and placed an adventure playground every two hundred feet.

Colditz with wood bark

As we progressed the adventure playgrounds became ever more like an SAS assault course and there were no end of opportunities for parents and carers alike to have heart attacks while they watched.

By the time we got to the tourist trap at the end the kids were too knackered to bother with fluffy pink elephants or replica rhino turds. Result.
To be continued………

Thursday, 30 June 2011


I’ve been camping!!
No no, not the kind you’re thinking of. This involved pitching a tent, looking at who had the biggest and things going bump in the night. Despite the weather arsing it down for 72hours straight we still had an awesome time. This was largely due to the fact that our temporary abode was borderline palatial. There aren’t many occasions where you can proclaim how proud you are of your erection without much embarrassment, but this was one of them. Me, the missus and the sprogs slept in the north wing. The carpeted living room, kitchen area and south wing were used as a dumping ground for the wife’s vital essentials.
We had gas powered heating/cooker, electric, TWO tv’s, four beds, four chairs, two tables, and a larder. We were proper slumming it. Drinking water came via two five litre water holders which were filled from a tap about 25metres away. It was like being homeless or something!

(behold, the Ritz)

The only glimmer of luxury were the toilets. You’ve never seen clean like it. Confused men kept wandering out to check they were in the right bog. The potpourri and “soap” were really quite intimidating. The showers, crappers, urinals and sinks were cleaner than a royal wedding. The mirrors were so clean you could see your face in them! Despite my best efforts to draw willys and boobs in the condensation they never lasted more than a day. There was even piped in music.
I’m going to recommend them to the tourist board.
Other than the wc’s the campsite itself was barely acceptable. It only had two heated swimming pools! The crazy golf was nowhere near crazy enough although gaffer taping knives to the windmill and putting piranha in the water hazard did help a little. The shop was very good but their sensible pricing meant they lost massive points on the captive audience front. We had to spend nearly twenty quid on chocolate and crisps before even felt a little bit ripped off. The onsite soft-play was clean as well. None of the balls in the pit smelt of wee or anything! I can’t comment on the tyre swing as I was asked to leave before I could measure the tread depth. I felt this was a tad unfair as I was both “over 3 years old” and clearly “taller than the bunny ears”. I’ve left the exact details with my solicitor. A long time was spent at the outside play area with its wooden fortress and connecting slides, even the kids enjoyed it.
We decided that the rain shouldn’t ruin our camping adventure. We should let it ruin our excursions as well. With the sat-nav route set to “B-roads only” and “popular with caravans” we ventured out. Instinct and flood warnings guided me to a nearby castle. Small boy plus real castle equals a quiet afternoon. The castle in question had been there for six hundred years. I can’t imagine what it had seen and endured over that time but I’m pretty sure it’s biggest test was my son with his stick sword. You could feel the six feet thick stone foundations move as he charged the ramparts and shouted through every arrow slit. Hell have no furry like a three year old fuelled up on Hairbo. The noise he makes at full gusto could split atoms.

(he's smiling because five minutes ago there used to be a roof....job done)

After several hours of charging round like a mentalist he relented and calm was briefly restored while he crashed out on the back seat. His younger sister is much more civilized and decided to do the usual and eat herself to sleep.

To be cont’d….

Wednesday, 8 June 2011

SUMMER, get it while it's hot!!!

The rain is that little bit warmer and I’m down to just five layers of clothing. You know what this means!!!
Summer is officially here. If you’re a bee, wasp, fly or any other winged insect, then you’ll have probably flown through our house recently. Sorry about the state of the place. It’ll be a lot tidier when you reappear stumbling across the carpet in autumn moaning that it’s too cold to fly.
It’s also a time for us cavemen to make fire in a rusted out barbeque and give everyone food poisoning. Thanks to some industrial sized tree pruning I now have an inexhaustible supply of fuel. So much in fact that I’ve had to purchase a hatchet. Surely, it’s one of the all time man-tools of all time? It comes with a lifetime guarantee on all ‘chopper’ jokes. The leather sheath just adds to the man-ness of it all. It has a flat end for battering stuff and a nail puller, but I’m not sure what that bit does.
My little chiminea is now constantly primed and ready to go at the drop of a swan vesta. How can a mini-axe bring so much pleasure? Who cares! Now stand back while I try to cleft this wood and keep my digit count in multiples of five.
Ladies, there’s no point in you trying to rationalise our love of fire. After all we don’t rationalise why you need quite so many shoes, or your love of Glee. Gawd don’t even get me started on Glee. I’ve had to recalibrate the shite-o-meter for that one.
The all time man tool of all time full stop is the knife. Alas though, we’re not allowed a proper one in the house because you girlies will use it as a screwdriver and end up with a free trip to A&E. The sharpest blades in the house are on your Venus razors and you can’t whittle with one of them….I’ve tried. I ended up with a very smooth lollypop stick and not the vicious pointy sabre tooth scarer I was trying to craft.
Summer is short in the UK. Normally it’s two weeks in May and then about five good days spread across the rest of the year. The exception is the south coast, which enjoys endless summer suns. The old and people with a metabolism the speed of a glacier love it down there. However, the prevailing southwesterly wind has meant there is a constant smell of old wee wee and Werthers Originals around Dover. I’d love to blame the French I really would but this one is our fault.The rest of the country enjoys almost continual assorted shades of grey. It’s not always been like this though. Oh know! only a few thousand years ago in Skara Brae (Orkneys), (top of Scotland), (the lumpy bit above Newcastle), (haggis munching kilt wearing wineoland), (yes there), the sea was full of fish that today are only found in much warmer tropical waters. Nowadays those fish have long since vanished, probably down the gullet of the nearest penguin. Go back in time a bit further and you’ll find Birmingham under a mile of ice. Happy days. The UK is obsessed with the weather because we get so flipping much of it. In the two minutes it’s taken to construct this drivel it has rained, blown a gale, been nice and sunny and finally settled on rain again. Last week it was hotter than Miami. Today it’s colder than a vengeful polar bear drowning some kittens for fun. I don’t know whether to wear shorts or skis. I’d cover my arse and wear both but the colours would clash horribly. Maybe if I had a different pair of shoes to match every single item of clothing I own and then sub-divided them into say ‘winter’ and ‘summer’ outfits I wouldn’t be in this mess…..? It would take an organisational genius and a mammoth wardrobe space to figure that one out. Ladies, over to you.

Wednesday, 4 May 2011

The end of terrorism.

Osama Banana Laden was a very naughty boy. The more righteous among you will no doubt be saying that we shouldn’t be celebrating the murder of an individual. I wonder how many of those sanctimonious people breathed a sigh of relief when they heard the news? The killing of human is never nice but how many are quite happy to send thousands of heavily armed soldiers, RAF and Navy overseas with the sole objective of seeking out and killing terrorists before they kill them?
It’s kill or be killed out there. It’s natures way and it works. I doubt if Venus flytraps get a bit mournful when they’re digesting flies and we shouldn't regret either. A few hundred years ago, people had regrets about killing the low down scum of the Earth so what did they do? They put them on boats and sent them to the other side of the planet. Et voila, Australia! Gee thanks for that, well done. Slow handclap anyone?

If you want a perfect lawn expect to kill some weeds.

Would I kill Osalami Bin Liner? Yes I would, mainly because he would have no trouble whatsoever killing me. Did he lay awake at night concerned for the welfare of his victims and their families? I think not. I suspect his major ball ache was coming up with a way to top 9/11. After all he’s just convinced a group of individuals to learn how to fly and then put two passenger airplanes into the Trade Centre Towers on the promise of really kick arse afterlife. Charles Manson look and learn!
There are better ways of getting your point across. You could start a Facebook page and encourage likeminded thinkers to follow. You could dress up as a super hero, scale a monument and then put the pictures on a social networking site like Facebook. You could organize a march and bring it to the attention of a larger audience through something like Facebook for example. You could even write a letter to your MP, they might even be on Facebook. One thing you don’t do is convince nutters to hijack planes and commit suicide. Any pictures taken would be vaporized along with the camera in the explosion resulting in a really boring text only Facebook page.
Nutter don’t think rationally so you can’t expect rational methods to work on them. If you live by the blade then you should expect to die by the blade. If you live by McDonalds then you should expect to die from McDonalds. If you live by the AK47 then you should expect two shots to the head as standard.

There’s no denying that Olama Binge Lacquer was well organized. A little too well organized for my liking. If it hadn’t have been for the appalling dress sense I’d say he was gay. The many wives and kids might have just been a cunning rues to throw you off the CKone scent. Alas though he was not the only coordinated shit in the world. Human rights protestors will tell you of thousands of atrocities happening all over the planet right now. Barbaric crimes are committed against innocent people everyday by sick individuals (some of them puffy) driven by greed and hatred who need to be wiped out like the giant turds they are.

We need the world’s press to bring these sickos to our attention, after all it was them who turned Oklahoma Bean Larger into a symbol of pure hate and the reason for so many wrongs in the world. Journalists had placed him at the very top of a pyramid of evil. What they didn’t realize is that to be at the top he was standing on two peoples shoulders.

Robson and Jerome.

We need Apache gunships over Tyneside RIGHT NOW. There are 140,000 troops in Afghanistan, that’s just enough to circle Newcastle and seal it off. Their middle of the road depraved poisonous melodies are enough to make the Spanish Inquisition look like a bunch of hippies. They’ve been grooming pensioners for years, convincing them to hand over cash in exchange for nefarious covers. The wealth they’ve amassed can only be for some sort of evil too atrocious for mere normals to even contemplate.

Let us nuke the North East before it’s too late!!

Tuesday, 26 April 2011

Kate + Wills

Normally with a celeb couple the popular press see it fit to combine the collective names to create one name which is easier for their largely thick audience to remember. An example might be ‘Brangelina’ which is slightly less forgetful than the constituent parts, which just happen to be ‘Brad Pitt’ and ‘Angelina Jolie’.

Clever huh?

The protagonists in the latest royal wedding have also had their first names combined to form ‘Watekills’ which sounds like a campaign slogan for a health drive about obesity. I for one couldn’t give an epic toss about the royal wedding. I’m not against the royal family, far from it, I just can’t be arsed with it all. It’s very nice of the numero uno echelon to give us a day off and all but mine will be spent up a ladder doing DIY and looking after the sprogs. Gee thanks. Think I’d rather be at work.
Surely a better present for the nation would be not to foot the bill. Conservative estimates reckon it’ll cost a pound for every household in the U.K. I realize that doesn’t sound like a lot but a quid can buy an awful lot and a lot of awful down at Poundland. I could get a loaf of bread or a multipack of KitKats, or better still a pack of those Chinese lanterns that rise majestically into the sky before falling back down to terra firma in a ball of flames to start endless forest fires.

Here’s a plan, why don’t Kat & Willy sack the pomp and fly to Vegas for a quick in’n’out wham bam thank you maam sorta doo? As they return we could all simultaneously set off Chinese lanterns and make it look really pretty. Chicks dig candles. Christ knows where the future monarchs would land, not after 20+million idiots have filled U.K. airspace with fire. With favorable winds some of the lanterns might make it across the channel and set fire to France, what a gift that would be!
A woman’s wedding day is supposed to be the happiest day of her life! Yes if you’re not royalty. I think the happiest day of Ms. Middleton’s life will be getting her new credit card through the post. To ‘Future Queen’ please find your new superdooperplatinum credit card enclosed. You have unlimited funds and zero A.P.R. I suppose if she ever did dip into the red she could always flog off Australia.
The lucky cow will want for nowt, except for maybe a husband with hair but that’s a small price to pay for the moon on a stick.
For wannabe queens everywhere the union will break a lot of hearts but it’s far worse if you’re a bloke. The only eligible royal bird left is Princess Beatrice. I think I’ll require the larger of my two barge poles for that one. Zara Philips is a ‘possible’ I suppose but it’s assumed she’ll marry a horse. Nope, the only way in now if you’re a 'bag-me-a-rich-one' bachelor is if one of the knobs turns out to like knobs. Even then you run the risk of being shot by DoE.
I think I’ll stick to slumming it with the common folk, like Al Fayed. You’d never catch him trying to be a royal……or with a passport. Common folk like us couldn’t give two hoots about the social elite, mainly because we can’t afford one hoot let alone two. We don’t need a class system because everyone has their feet firmly on the ground and knows their place.
My place for instance is slightly above you, now stop reading this you smelly peasant oik.

Friday, 8 April 2011

Holy Crap it's Summer

Well nearly....

Spring has sprung the grass has riz, I wonder where the birdies is?

They’re all bonking in the bush at the end of our garden. The smutty goings on resembles a Roman orgy. I would advise anyone passing nearby to please avert their gaze, it’ll just scare them, especially the sensitive ones. It would appear that the dividing fence between the neighbors and us is now a red light district for our feathery chums. Imagine a back alley in Amsterdam with fewer neon lights and more tits on display.
THAT is our garden.
I should charge admission to the starlings who clearly are just here on a stag doo. Even the resident squirrel takes the long way round. He would clearly rather gobble his nuts in piece and who can blame him. Sparrows aren't very romantic. There are no fine wines and Belgian chocolates. There are no candle lit meals in posh swanky restaurants, not even a takeaway and a bottle of Lambrini. There’s just a lot of noise and feathers with girl sparrows being wooed with boy sparrow chat up line invitations to “sprig my millet”. Utter filth.
I thought I lived in a posh part of suburbia but the feathered foulness outside would beg to differ. If there is such thing as a bird benefit office, then it’s going to get really busy in a few weeks time. Mental note: must follow some pregnant sparrows one day to see if they fly back towards the estate and or Liverpool.

On a happier note the sun came out today. The locals ran for cover thinking the sky was on fire. There was a strange hissing sound as people began to dry out. Natural selection has meant that people in 'tut north' have evolved gills and the ability to see in really low light conditions. It’s quite impressive until you watch them cower at the sight of the fiery sky orb, or ‘hot moon’ to use its local derivation. The braver northerner will actively seek out the ‘squinter ball’ and expose their flesh in an act of defiance. The skin of the Caucasian northerner is so white that initially at least all of the suns rays are reflected back into space thus helping to combat climate change. However after just a few minutes of ultra violet the white flesh turns crimson and then red severely hampering the reflective capabilities. A red colour change is always fiercely resisted by the majority ‘true’ northern folk. They have a natural affinity with being pale blue and lack luster. You know these people as Manchester City supporters.
Several consecutive days of sunshine are dangerous as most of the reservoirs/puddles empty into assorted super soakers and leaky paddley pools across Lancashire and Yorkshire. A week of warmth will cause drought conditions and epic queues in supermarkets with shoppers ramming trolleys full with bottled Buxton water. It’s exactly the same stuff that the people of Buxton have in their taps only about hundred times the price. The fire brigade will be on constant BBQ watch. A&E will be out the door with lobster cases. After-sun, aloe vera and minor burn creams will have to be flown in on Hercules transports to top up supplies.
What would happen if the sun came out for a month?
Well try to imagine Dante’s inferno with slightly more empty Stella cans and burnt sausages and you’re on the right track.

Friday, 1 April 2011


I know, I know I’ve been slack but there is good reason for this. Two good reasons actually. Three if you count the ruthless efficiency and fanatical devotion to the Pope. No four..FOUR reasons. I’ll come in again.

Reason 1: MANFLU

There has been lots of speculation that manflu is just a regular cold that the male species fail to adequately deal with. This is not true. Manflu is on a par, if not worse than giving birth. Days and days of hurty head, sore throaty and a dodgy tum tum. It’s no joke I can tell you.
I’m still not over it but I’m being a very brave little soldier about it all. I’ve hardly moaned at all. The type of manflu I had was highly contagious. It was only a matter of time before the wife and kids got it too but as ever they escaped with a lesser version of what I had. This always happens and I think it’s because germs are like the military. Germs know that if they can topple the dominant force then the other family members will quickly fall into line. As I was the first resistance they encountered they threw their best troops in. I had to deal with the bug fighting-elite who carried a much bigger punch than riff raff light infantry viral ranks behind them. The rest of the family only had to deal with the bug reserves who didn’t really have much fight in them to start with. I deserve a medal really.
I’ve never been a sick person (accept when it comes to drowning kittens) but since the sprogs have arrived sleep and the recuperation time necessary to deal with any bug-ular unpleasantness have become one of lives luxury optional extras. My body it would seem has decided to sub-let my throat and chest to every viral nasty out there.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Tell that to Stephen Hawking and he’ll put a black hole in your face before quantum entangling your nads.

Reason 2: Mersey roots

The other reason I’m late with the new bog is because I’ve just discovered that my great, great, great grand parents were scousers. My new found laziness and penchant for nicking stuff is really eating up my spare time. I’m learning the language of my ancestors as well. Repeat after me:
Glaytt grandpappy kudunt nick carz coz dey addent been invented add dey, soez he ‘ad ta nick da shoez off hersez instead.

It’s quite easy once you get the hang of it.

I should have known I was part lay-about, why else would I instinctively leave the warm sunny south coast for the damp northwest and a town where the River Mersey runs straight through the middle…? But even before my slow journey homeward, as a kid I was forced to support Liverpool FC by my inner benefit cheat (cuz Leaver-pule are glaytt and Evertun arr clrap).

I’m not a complete lost cause though as I also have roots in the eastern block, which means I have a natural affinity with plumbing, electrics and cheap labour. So although my dole-scum in me wants to laze about watching Jeremy Kyle, my cabbage munching alternative heritage wants to fix things round the house while smelling of home made vodka.

Monday, 7 March 2011

Half Penny Mojo

I've lost my mojo :-(
To a kid in the eighties that was seriously bad news. Mojos are a tradable commodity like fags are in prison. Just so as you know I'm against the buying and selling of homosexuals by inmates. Finding my mojo is going to be a difficult task especially when you factor in that I'm above average at losing things but only below average at finding them. I reckon it's because deep down I'm such a sharing person. Constantly forgetting where things are is a way for my kind hearted inner self to spread some love....and some car keys.
No it's true.
At least a few times a year for example I share my blood to save the sick and dying, and in return I only demand five cups of tea, four Club biscuits, a packet of Bourbons and the following 24hours in which to express an overbearing smugness and self righteousness that Col. Gaddafi could only dream of. Was it not Shakespeare himself who once said after giving blood, "by the setting of the sun I will have rescued at least one mortal from the bone fingers of the reaper grim and if you cut me now will I not bleed leaf-ed tea from Teto-ley"? I think you'll find it was.
While we're on the subject of Gaddafi, with his constant angry tirades, his bitterness towards the rest of the world, his funny language and the fact that he's called Gaddafi, can we really be sure that he's not actually Welsh?

The fibber from Libbers has said to have "killed Libyans like he kills sheep". Not dogs, not bunny rabbits, not spiders, not wild apparently Muammar likes sheep.

Listen back and you'll hear that "I will fight till death and die a martyr" should have been "I will fight till Neath and Dye in Merthyr". The Daffmeister is clearly having a pop at the purposed scrapping of the X43 bus route. If I were a betting man I'd say Gadaffo is from Cardiff and the translator is clearly from Swansea.

No further questions m'lud.

Another example of my sharing awesomeness is when I try and feed the homeless. Why only the other day I was returning from just having bought the European surplus of chocolate on offer in the pound shop, when I past an obviously homeless man huddled in a doorway trying to shelter from a wind so cold you'd swear it was made entirely of polar bear farts. Being the saint that I am I decided to return and offer him some of my excessive choco-loveliness. He went to take it and then declined. And I quote "Is that chocolate? I don't do chocolate".
Various replies went through my head. The one I wanted to say was "this is Cadburys for f##ks sake, not the cheap brown shite Grandma used to try and fob me off with" but instead in the amazement and slight shock of it all I put the 150grams of edible love back in to my bag and walked off. What next I pondered, lactose intolerant beggars, Big Issue sellers who only take BACS or Paypal!

I took it as a sign that I needed to be a bit less giving and a bit more selfish. So, with that in mind I’m going to the coast to live in the tidal ranges.

Tuesday, 1 March 2011

Give Up

A friend of mine, let’s call her Rachel Dumbint from Justuptheroadford Shire, is trying to give up smoking. She’s tried various methods but the best one for her is patches. She finds putting a fag into her mouth severely hampered by having a small dog stuck to her arm. When she does give in and light up she only manages about two drags before the dog smells smoke, get nervous and extinguishes the situation with the precision of a laser guided stealth bomber. A rather different technique is employed by patches when it comes to putting out a pipe. It would seem that you’re supposed to fight fire with fire and a pipe with pipe. Fortunately, Rachel is young (mentally at least) and there’s still time for her to change before any lasting damage is done to her lungs and her social life. Odour Patches No.1 isn't very nasally appealing.

Oohh if there's a ‘still time’ does that mean there's a fizzy time as well? Do posh people having sparkling time? When I was a youth back in the eighties we had Sodastream time. Nowadays the strap line "get busy with the fizzy" kind of implies humping a 2litre bottle of coke. Well it does to me and don’t say you haven’t thought about it. Just me then.
I have very little time on my hands, or indeed any garden herb, apart from rosemary, dirty cow.

Having a small dog stuck to your arm is clearly a health aid. Having a small dog for companionship is beyond me. If you have nothing else in your life then don’t get a dog, get super fast broadband and an Xbox! I prefer pets that can take care of themselves. I’m not talking about tooled up tortoises or guinea pigs with a grudge but low maintenance pets. A school mate had a right wing water loving rat called Yahvole. It would spend days machining parts for its wheel to make it faster and more efficient. When it finally died of denial a few years later they found false documents and plans of Europe under the bedding.

Giant African land snails, is it me or do they look guilty? With their eyes out on stalks it makes them look as though they’re carrying more than just their homes on their backs. If I didn’t know better I’d say they were drug mules for some organised creepy crawly mafia. Instead of henchmen, the leader Don Gastropone, would employ henchhogs to clean up any trails leading back to him.

Getting back on topic I’ve never had a problem giving up anything. Recent achievements include giving up on: eating properly, exercise, holding in farts (and therefore friends), a career, *reading, not laughing at French misfortune, keeping a breast of topical events, keeping a breast – it ran away to join the circus, my appearance and spill chicken.

*not as in books. I was never any good at words and sentences and stuff I like pictures too much. Rather the blight on the land of Berkshire.

If you give up giving up then surely that should be counted as a fail?

Other questions hurting my head right now are:

Why doesn't onomatopoeia sound like what it is?
How did we live before Sky+?
Do Klingons insure their spaceships? (in particular their Bird-o-Prey invisible ones)
Ford Ka drivers, is it me or are they ALL shite?

Tuesday, 8 February 2011

Average at Best

I’d love to travel and see the wonders of the world but I just can’t afford it. If I had my way air miles would be proportional to how nice you were in day to day life rather than how much you’d just been ripped off in John Lewis. My air miles system would work like this. Really nice people would make it around the world and because they were so nice have a much bigger appreciation for it all. They’d see the wonders of the world first hand and say very nice things about them. Quite nice people would only make it as far as mainland Europe, Spain for example. The barrel scrapers of the planet, drunks, drugies, the cranially challenged, people from Scotland and kids with ASBO’s would only make it as far as places like Blackpool…

…but that would never happen.

The only wonder of the world I’ve seen is the Grand Canyon,…. it was shit. If I’d have known it was just an endless trench visible from space I would have saved my money, stayed at home and watched the gas board dig up the main road, again. Seriously, forget Stonehenge and Roman aqueducts, the exposed pipe work currently on display at the end of our street is positively Jurassic. Pot Noodle containers found at the bottom have been carbon dated back to the when gas was affordable by OAPs!! The shopping trolleys that were uncovered date back to before the pedestrianisation period and possibly life itself. It was from this and other similar discoveries that we get the saying “On a busy high street with a trench no one can hear you drop your trolleys”.

The biggest wonder of the world is the mystery behind footballers salaries. How is it a spotty teenager can rack up millions in just a few years for kicking a ball around competitively for 90mins every Saturday?
I’m not jealous. Actually, I am jealous, jealous that they have ‘a skill’.

Everyone has one special skill, one talent that they can do better than any other mortal. It might be kicking a football, it might be changing nappies in the dark, it might be watching an entire “Someone’s got talent” type show on the Sky planner without once reaching for the fast forward button.
My special skill is being phenomenally good at being slightly above average at everything I do. Take this blog/ramble/collection of words you’re reading/skimming through. By the time you get to the end I can guarantee you, you’ll be having thoughts like, ‘it was alright’, ‘I’ve read better’, ‘what’s for tea tonight?’.
If you enjoyed the start then I’m sorry, you’re going to be hideously disappointed by the end. The end has to be crap to even out any goodness which may have accidentally crept in to the earlier stuff, and thus creating a flimsy pamphlet of offerings only slightly above average quality.
At this point though you might be thinking what a moaning mini, why doesn’t he cheer up? If this tosh doesn’t get better in the next few lines I’m off for a pooh.

You’re right of course, but then you’re the sort of person that probably spotted this was all a poor excuse for a winge a long time ago. You already know that if this were a book you’d only find it in the “Everything’s a quid” bin at Michael Wood services on the M6 (southbound). There’s no way you would have paid full whack for this, not even in paperback. You’re the sort of crazy renegade maverick that makes me look only slightly above average.

I hate you.

It’s not your fault you’re so awesome, not when there’s muppets like me around. I once spent two hours crying over some biscuits because it said ‘tear here’.

Tuesday, 1 February 2011

why marketing folk are the way they are....abroad

The History of Marketing - Part 2 International

If you've not already listenerated to Part 1 scroll down or use the clicky linky:

now listen 'ere like

Tuesday, 25 January 2011

Say What?

I heard this chestnut recently, (that's "chestnut" - as in old saying rather than a talking conker. Blinking heck I've become my own distractor from the plot and I've not even started!... oh and that's "distractor" as in person diverting attention and not "which Masey Ferguson should I choose?") .


“If a tree falls down in the woods and no one is there to hear it, does it still make a noise?”
Yes, and you'd have to be an IDIOT to think otherwise. If trees didn't make loud snappy noises when they were falling there would be a menagerie of dead animals under every one. Just because squirrels are incapable of comprehending even the most basic of philosophy it doesn’t mean they don’t know how to run from a dangerous situation.
“Do bears shit in the woods?” Yes and they probably make a noise too!

Useless sayings and phrases get my goat, (no I don’t understand that either).

“Did you know we only use 10% of our brains?”
So-called facts like this are as useful as a receipt from Poundland. I do know some people that appear to use only 10% of their brains but that’s only because they have very small brains to start with. These people use 90% of their available head space working out how to open cartons of milk without causing a diary version of the Bellagio Fountains. The rest of us I’m happy to say use 100% of our brains, (just not necessarily at the same time). I’m longing for the day when our heads can be hooked up to tech support when something goes wrong. Antivirus products will be exactly that, they still won’t work though and they’ll make your head run 25% slower. Dam you Norton, Kaspersky et al...

“Easy like Sunday morning”
I don’t call four trips to B&Q with the rest of the world and their moaning kids, £100+ gone on paint and brushes, 3hours spent painting the garden wall, 4hours spent repainting the garden wall after freak tropical storm, 2hours spent in a bath of white spirit scrubbing paint from body, 1hour yelling at the wife that apple white is indeed the colour she choose and if she now doesn't like it she can repaint it herself and 4hours spent in dog kennel as ‘easy’. If that’s Mr.Richie's idea of easy I'd hate to see what a busy Sunday looks like.

Ooh B&Q…there’s a topic! Who comes up with the names for paint? And why can’t they just tell it how it is? In my world Azure Delight will now be known as "the sea on a nice day in a part of the world most of us can't afford to go and see", Terracotta Sunset is now “reddy brown but definitely not red, sorta like brick”, Amazon Forest is now "a bit like a bogey when you’re not well" and magnolia is now "goat jizz". It’s not difficult!

Monday, 10 January 2011

A Big Number Two

I hated school. From day one I saw it as a necessary evil. It didn’t help that I went to a catholic school whose demi priest teachers were from an Arian sadist superior brotherhood, or AssBros for short. A school full of boys in puberty with male teachers who volunteered to be abstinent equals testosterone city. If it moved, had a pulse and smelt even vaguely female then it wasn’t safe. I can’t help feeling this is why I was so readily accepted into the media. My naivety and desperation levels must have been off the scale!

One boy at school got hooked on drugs. He couldn’t afford proper drugs so he'd crush up senna tablets and snort them. I’m not too sure why he used laxatives, maybe he liked the rush…. Like all addictions he progressed on to the harder stuff and got into injecting cod liver oil and mainlining chicken jalfrezi. Of course, in between drags on his high fiber fags through yellow curry stained fingers he would always say he could quit at any time. More impressively he could pooh at any time as well. For years in the West Country the sonic boom heard most evenings was mistaken for Concorde going super sonic, when it was in fact this boys arse breaking the sound barrier while he was ‘coming down’ from his spicy induced highs. Every December 31st he would make a resolution to himself to give up. Some of you will have heard what you thought were the naval warships in the dockyard sounding their sirens and hailing in a new year. Not so, the sounds you heard were just the drugs temporarily leaving his system.
The last I heard he was better and had a job at CERN accelerating particles up to near light speed. The technique employed is all very hush hush but I have a feeling I know how he’s doing it.

The rich kid at school, the ugly side you tolerate because they always had the latest game or gadget. The reason you hated yourself and whored your friendship because their Walkman was made by Sony, and not a ‘market special’ which used batteries quicker than you could change them, didn’t have a rewind function and left the cassette tape looking like an explosion in a noodle factory. The rich kid, who everyone smiled at but secretly hated and wished would go away. A bit like London.

I grew up in Plymouth, which because of its remoteness to anything resembling a civilisation I suppose is like the loner kid. A bit strange with a wiff of something unpleasant and an eerie knowledge of how nuclear bombs work. Growing up I always wanted to be older, taller and more like a Manchester type kid. A cool kid who started smoking before anyone else. A kid who was always in detention for something really cool that I was too afraid to try, like marmite.
In my clique there was a trapeze girl that hung around. Looking back she would see things behind her and I suppose she was like Wales. You don’t like Wales at first because….. Wales is a girl, but then twenty years later you see a recent picture of Wales on Facebonk and you finally appreciate how stunningly beautiful she is. If you knew now what you knew then you would have moved to Wales along time ago. But you can’t go to Wales because you’re married to Southampton with an Isle of White on the way. Southampton is great and all, and perfect for you, but Wales has got much bigger mountains.

I live in Stockport which is slightly smaller than Plymouth, but at least I’m nearer to the cool kids.

Friday, 7 January 2011

In the begining

I pondered many openings for the collection of scribblings that will follow. I thought about using something from Genesis but the last thing I want is to be sued by the Vatican, or even worse Phil Collins! So I pondered something more personal, something about me which would give you an insight in to myself and my way of thinking. The only obvious contender was “No but seriously, I’m NOT gay” so that was out the window. Then I thought about using a famous quote, “veni vidi vici” leapt to mind. Roughly translated it means I came I saw I conquered which to me sounds more like the autobiography of a famous squirrel. I needed something bigger than the bible, something which would stand the test of time, an opening which would lead everyone reading this to the unequivocal conclusion that this was the start of a story that would captivate them so much they’d want to read it to their grandkids. So with that in mind would you the reader please affect a drawn out reality TV show Geordie accent for the next two words.

Day One.

Days 1-834 of my life were a bit of a blur so we’ll skate over them. I don’t remember much but I’m told there was wee, poop, sick and crying, (sounds like a good student night out to me). By day 843 I had mastered the art of climbing out of my cot and jumping onto my parents bed. The resulting thud could be heard by my mother downstairs, and before I could get to my shaky feet she had already scaled the stairs and was putting me back into bed. I can’t help feeling that with a memory foam mattress and some Nike Airs I could have easily made it to the landing.
By day 1250 I was at pre-school, these were easily my happiest memories of school life. There was a plentiful supply of lead based painted toys and as much pee-flavoured sand as I could eat. It was at pre-school that I had my first major bike accident. I was duped into swapping turns on the white sports go-cart with ubercool go faster stripe and hand brake, for a spin on the three wheeled tractor with pedals on the front wheel. Naturally I took her for a spin but lost control when I tried to turn in too sharply. Massive over steer and no real brakes meant my face connecting sharply with the ground and a trip to A&E. By landing on my face I had ensured that there was no lasting damage. Numerous tears and three stitches later mummy’s brave little soldier was back! As we all know chicks dig scars but at that age chicks were about as appealing as broccoli. For the next 15 years or so I blended in to the background nicely, just doing enough to keep the teachers happy and staying friends with the right people so as to avoid any playground nastiness.
After I eventually achieved average results at ‘A’ level I resisted the call of university and instead found myself working in the media despite the fact I wasn’t gay or anything. While employed at a radio station I was quickly adopted by numerous comfortable shoe wearers, who saw me as both an oddity and a challenge. I was shown the secrets of ‘gaydar’ and taught their language and customs. For a short time I contemplated turning to the pink side but my salary was nowhere near enough to cover the tight jeans, gym membership and subscription to Attitude, (vital essentials for even the most heavy handed of left footers). I worked in the engineering department I became rather adept at cleaning knobs. Word got round and I was rocketed up the managerial ladder but only to fall quickly back down when it was realised that I was in fact referring to the knobs on a mixing desk. A gloomy future in light bulb management awaited so I jumped ship and decided to head for pastures new. My CK One smelling friends put the feelers out and once more I had to politely decline but not before they had helped me secure a job in Bournemouth.
Higher powers within the Eurovision fraternity had obviously decided that it was best if they could keep an eye on me from their HQ up the coast. I felt they were unhappy that even though I was moving in the right circles, I wasn’t moving in the right circles. I was letting them down and I decided to have it out with them and come clean, but alas this was misconstrued to such a degree that I nearly ended up playing the lead in a Brighton panto.
Eventually the message was received but by that time I was too well established within the impeccably well ironed fabric of their empire. I did turn out to be of some use and was able to pass on the vital secrets about cars, football and general poor hygiene that had alluded them for some time. This information was used to infiltrate various pubs across the country so as they could be turned into tasteful wine bars as soon as the old management was removed.

This writing thing is hard, (stop thinking what you’re thinking). After the initial enthusiasm is used up the next blogs will really take their strain. It gets even harder when you realise that you’ve just written your life story in only six hundred words. That’s a word for every month and a half I’ve been alive. That’s means my entire existence would fit onto a few sides of A4. Even with a fancy font that’s still only about a few dozen kilobytes of computer memory.
I’ve just realised I’m actually a walking ZX Spectrum 48K. Life’s not all bad though, at least I’ve got rubber keys.