I Am Livid

“We’ve got an extra special competition coming right up listeners, so don’t go away. Here’s Coldplay and ‘Fix You’”

We’ve all heard it before. Your choice of local or national radio station is giving something away that you want. Whether it’s tickets to a movie premiere, the chance to meet your favourite pop-star, a holiday, or just cold hard cash. We’ve all been tempted.

But why oh-fucking-why do they insist on dragging it out so long? One station, who shall remain nameless as I don’t want to give them a plug - the bastards - was giving away a prize I quite fancied, I know the chances of winning are slim, but I fancied it nonetheless. I listen to the radio getting ready every morning anyway, so it’s not making my day more difficult. So I listened intently for the details, and my morning developed thus: (more…)

How the fuck can a society that has put a man on the Moon, mapped the human genome, and invented lager, not yet have created something to make the process of changing a duvet easier?

I kid you not when I say it took me 21 minutes last night to change one king-sized duvet cover and the associated bedding. That means in the last week I’ve spent more than twice as long making my bed as I have shagging in it. This is not right. This is not the life I ordered. (more…)

My head is pounding. The thought of food repulses me. The local Afro-Caribbean steel drum band are performing an impromptu gig somewhere around my cerebellum. My body is entirely bereft of moisture and the only thing that can now save me from a painful and lingering death is the orange juice in the fridge. Cold, wet, refreshing, live giving orange juice.

There it is, pretty much all alone in the fridge apart from the despicable cans of lager that brought me to this state. Never again I tell myself. Again. Thank the Lord for orange juice though. I reach for it, anticipating it’s invigorating restorative effects. I know that I am just seconds away from the start of my return to normality. A tiny smile invades my face.

Hang on though. (more…)

I’ve had a couple of emithers recently asking for my advice in resolving rage related issues. Being the socially conscious individual that I am I’ve included a couple below for public consumption.

Dear Mr Angry,

I have a problem. My work colleague, let’s call him Mark (cos that’s his name), has been claiming credit for my work. I’ve only just found out, and I believe his most recent promotion was due to him taking the credit for a recent advertising campaign that was my idea. How can I rectify the situation, if I tell the truth surely it will just seem like sour grapes on my part, but I must do something as the anger is starting to burn away inside.

Yours,

Phillip

Dear Phillip,

Firstly, thanks for the emither. I’m not usually one for dispensing advice to perfect strangers, but as you seem far from perfect you fucking faggot, I’ll make an exception.
(more…)

The landlord at our local, let’s call him Charlie, is a personable enough chap. I’ve not been going there for donkeys years like some of the locals, but he’s always got time for a quick chat and I’ve finally got to the stage with him where I can ask for a pint of the ‘usual’. This in itself is a milestone in any mans life, see here for what makes you THE man, but being well known enough in your local pub to be in the position of never having to name your choice of beverage ever again definitely makes you A man. It’s a right of passage. Much like losing your virginity, in that you feel like a proper, fully-functioning adult afterward - except without the obvious embarrassment, sweating, braces and nagging thought at the back of your mind that you should get home pronto to scrub your balls with Domestos, as choosing Sharon, the local bike, probably wasn’t the best choice the first time you parked the beef bus in tuna town. Though to be honest, the choices were limited in those days when all you could afford was two tickets to Pretty Woman and a jumbo box of popcorn.

Anyway, I digress.

It’s not all sweetness and light with Charlie. Last night he told me, “You’ll never guess who we had in here last night?” (more…)

The landlord at our local, let’s call him Charlie, is a personable enough chap. I’ve not been going there for donkeys years like some of the locals, but he’s always got time for a quick chat and I’ve finally got to the stage with him where I can ask for a pint of the ‘usual’. This in itself is a milestone in any mans life, see here for what makes you THE man, but being well known enough in your local pub to be in the position of never having to name your choice of beverage ever again definitely makes you A man. It’s a right of passage. Much like losing your virginity, in that you feel like a proper, fully-functioning adult afterward - except without the obvious embarrassment, sweating, braces and nagging thought at the back of your mind that you should get home pronto to scrub your balls with Domestos, as choosing Sharon, the local bike, probably wasn’t the best choice the first time you parked the beef bus in tuna town. Though to be honest, the choices were limited in those days when all you could afford was two tickets to Pretty Woman and a jumbo box of popcorn.

Anyway, I digress.

It’s not all sweetness and light with Charlie. Last night he told me, “You’ll never guess who we had in here last night?” (more…)

“Alright Smiley, I’d like a hundred penny chews please”

I admit, that’s not the start to a conversation you’d expect from a man my age. However, as I was on my way to visit some friends who have young children I thought that nothing would buy their affection quite like bag of penny chews. I can still remember the dizzying sugar rush after consuming one too many myself, the jittery response to so much sugar made me feel like I was developing early onset Parkinsons, though with hindsight, at 19 years old perhaps I should have been beyond cola bottles.

Anyway, I’d asked Smiley - the local corner shop owner - for one hundred penny chews.

“That’ll be two pounds please.”

(more…)

“Alright Smiley, I’d like a hundred penny chews please”

I admit, that’s not the start to a conversation you’d expect from a man my age. However, as I was on my way to visit some friends who have young children I thought that nothing would buy their affection quite like bag of penny chews. I can still remember the dizzying sugar rush after consuming one too many myself, the jittery response to so much sugar made me feel like I was developing early onset Parkinsons, though with hindsight, at 19 years old perhaps I should have been beyond cola bottles.

Anyway, I’d asked Smiley - the local corner shop owner - for one hundred penny chews.

“That’ll be two pounds please.”

(more…)

Last night between the hours of 6 and 9 I had four, yes FOUR, phone calls from companies trying to sell me products ranging from holidays for the elderly (I’m no septegenarian!), to new windows, and a new low-cost gas provisioning service.

As it happens, no, I’m not interested in what you have to sell me. And what the hell are you doing calling me at home? Did I ASK for a call? No. Has anything led you to believe I need your product? No? Have you walked past my house and noticed I could do with some new windows? No! The extent of your research into my need for your product, is that you picked up my phone number from some directory or other.

As if that’s bad enough, you’re now ringing me at home, during my ever decreasing “me-time”, and harrassing me in my sanctuary from the madness of the outside world.

Well it’s time to fight back. The transcript of my last call last night went something like this:

“Hello Sir, are you the home owner?”

“Indeed I am, what can I do for you?”

“My name is Andrew, I’m from ACME Windows, and we have a new range of upvc windows and conservatories on special offer for the first 100 customers in your area”

(interrupting)

“Really? That’s amazing, I was just looking at windows on the Internet and thinking how I really need to get some”

“Well sir, I can assure you we offer the best windows around and I’d be happy to talk it through with you now if you have a few moments.”

“Excellent, could you just hold on one second, I have a pot in the kitchen I need to take off the heat”

(cue a 5 minute break to make a cup of tea)

“Hello, sorry about that, where were we?”

“Hello again, yes, the latest upvc windows have a number of money saving, environmentally friendly features…..”

“Hang on a second, there’s someone at the door, let me get rid of them…”

(put the TV on and watch for exactly 8 minutes)

“Sorry about that, bloomin’ canvasers, do they not realise what time it is! Anyway, where were we?”

“I was about to talk to you about sending a representative to your property to have a look at your specific needs”

(my mobile rings, at my command)

“Oh, I’m sorry, I really need to take this, can you wait there?”

“Sure, no problem”

(watch TV for 10 minutes this time)

“Hello, sorry about that, my sister gets hysterical sometimes when she gets phone calls from automated machines and there’s no-one at the other end, you know the ones? Well, I needed to calm her down”

“Yes sir, so about this home visit”

“Ah, yes, you want to send someone round, right?”

“yes sir, the first available appointment is on 27th February at 6pm”

“Ah, that’s not good, any others?”

“what about 28th?”

“Oh, hang on, thats my girlfriend at the door, she doesn’t have a key, wait there will you?”

(watch TV for 20 minutes, I had planned just a few minutes, but My Name is Earl that I gad recorded on Sky+ was really good, and I forgot about them)

“hello, hello?…..”

I’d love to know how far into that 20 minutes it was before they eventually hung up. Unfortunately, I’d imagine this means I’ll get another call from them, but it was incredibly satisfying, perhaps next time I’ll ask for their home phone number to see if I can call them off duty to conclude our transaction?

I do have one new plan of attack from now on though. I am setting up a premium rate phone line as my “home office” where I shall ask all sales people to call me so that we can talk away from the noise of the ‘family’.

I am perfectly happy to be sold to over the phone for the princely sum of £5 a minute.

Last night between the hours of 6 and 9 I had four, yes FOUR, phone calls from companies trying to sell me products ranging from holidays for the elderly (I’m no septegenarian!), to new windows, and a new low-cost gas provisioning service.

As it happens, no, I’m not interested in what you have to sell me. And what the hell are you doing calling me at home? Did I ASK for a call? No. Has anything led you to believe I need your product? No? Have you walked past my house and noticed I could do with some new windows? No! The extent of your research into my need for your product, is that you picked up my phone number from some directory or other.

As if that’s bad enough, you’re now ringing me at home, during my ever decreasing “me-time”, and harrassing me in my sanctuary from the madness of the outside world.

Well it’s time to fight back. The transcript of my last call last night went something like this:

“Hello Sir, are you the home owner?”

“Indeed I am, what can I do for you?”

“My name is Andrew, I’m from ACME Windows, and we have a new range of upvc windows and conservatories on special offer for the first 100 customers in your area”

(interrupting)

“Really? That’s amazing, I was just looking at windows on the Internet and thinking how I really need to get some”

“Well sir, I can assure you we offer the best windows around and I’d be happy to talk it through with you now if you have a few moments.”

“Excellent, could you just hold on one second, I have a pot in the kitchen I need to take off the heat”

(cue a 5 minute break to make a cup of tea)

“Hello, sorry about that, where were we?”

“Hello again, yes, the latest upvc windows have a number of money saving, environmentally friendly features…..”

“Hang on a second, there’s someone at the door, let me get rid of them…”

(put the TV on and watch for exactly 8 minutes)

“Sorry about that, bloomin’ canvasers, do they not realise what time it is! Anyway, where were we?”

“I was about to talk to you about sending a representative to your property to have a look at your specific needs”

(my mobile rings, at my command)

“Oh, I’m sorry, I really need to take this, can you wait there?”

“Sure, no problem”

(watch TV for 10 minutes this time)

“Hello, sorry about that, my sister gets hysterical sometimes when she gets phone calls from automated machines and there’s no-one at the other end, you know the ones? Well, I needed to calm her down”

“Yes sir, so about this home visit”

“Ah, yes, you want to send someone round, right?”

“yes sir, the first available appointment is on 27th February at 6pm”

“Ah, that’s not good, any others?”

“what about 28th?”

“Oh, hang on, thats my girlfriend at the door, she doesn’t have a key, wait there will you?”

(watch TV for 20 minutes, I had planned just a few minutes, but My Name is Earl that I gad recorded on Sky+ was really good, and I forgot about them)

“hello, hello?…..”

I’d love to know how far into that 20 minutes it was before they eventually hung up. Unfortunately, I’d imagine this means I’ll get another call from them, but it was incredibly satisfying, perhaps next time I’ll ask for their home phone number to see if I can call them off duty to conclude our transaction?

I do have one new plan of attack from now on though. I am setting up a premium rate phone line as my “home office” where I shall ask all sales people to call me so that we can talk away from the noise of the ‘family’.

I am perfectly happy to be sold to over the phone for the princely sum of £5 a minute.

Quel-fucking-suprise. Is there anyone out there that believed for one moment that it would be ready? Apart from the FA’s publicity machine that is.

This is a disaster of simply catastrophic proportions. I’d even secured an advanced ticket for the main event through one of my dodgy contacts (the less said the better, but my ticket acquisition involves drugs, illicit sex, and a polaroid camera). I paid through the nose for it, but hey, this is surely one of those once in a lifetime experiences everyone talks about?

I thought long and hard about getting the ticket, I really did. I don’t like paying over the odds for anything, let alone crossing the palm of some dodgy ticket tout with silver. I was also sure that Wembley wouldn’t be full of real fans anyway, so the atmosphere would be a bit lacking. In all likelihood, the significance of the event would ensure it’d be just ordinary people wanting to tell the grandkids they were there. You know, trying claim a little slice of history just for yourself? Understandable I guess when you consider the enormity of the event.

Anyway, I got the ticket, and I’ve had the date stencilled in the diary for a while now, but as of today it’s in danger. If I miss it due to the incompetence of the building contractors I will be truly livid.

It’s not every day you get to see Take That performing back together again.

Quel-fucking-suprise. Is there anyone out there that believed for one moment that it would be ready? Apart from the FA’s publicity machine that is.

This is a disaster of simply catastrophic proportions. I’d even secured an advanced ticket for the main event through one of my dodgy contacts (the less said the better, but my ticket acquisition involves drugs, illicit sex, and a polaroid camera). I paid through the nose for it, but hey, this is surely one of those once in a lifetime experiences everyone talks about?

I thought long and hard about getting the ticket, I really did. I don’t like paying over the odds for anything, let alone crossing the palm of some dodgy ticket tout with silver. I was also sure that Wembley wouldn’t be full of real fans anyway, so the atmosphere would be a bit lacking. In all likelihood, the significance of the event would ensure it’d be just ordinary people wanting to tell the grandkids they were there. You know, trying claim a little slice of history just for yourself? Understandable I guess when you consider the enormity of the event.

Anyway, I got the ticket, and I’ve had the date stencilled in the diary for a while now, but as of today it’s in danger. If I miss it due to the incompetence of the building contractors I will be truly livid.

It’s not every day you get to see Take That performing back together again.

I’m sure that everyone reading this has got mates who verge on the annoying. Perhaps they’re downright infuriating, one or two might even be truly loathsome? I’ve got a mate, Fat Jim, who I’d define, at best, as being a little smug. He’s currently ‘between jobs’, though in truth it’d be easier to describe his ever decreasing stints in gainful employment as ‘between dole queues’. This however doesn’t stop him imparting advice that is mostly unwelcome, but above of all, is complete and utter bollocks. (more…)

I like to think of myself as the ‘man’. Most of us men do. The difference being of course that I know I’m the man. I also assume that most people that know me know that I’m the man too. Perhaps that’s why one of my female colleagues sent this to me today?

Personally, I just think she fancies me.

Anyway, without further ado, 23 things that make you “The Man”. (more…)