I Am Livid

Probably like many of you reading this, I work in an office. It’s not quite the home of David Brent, even though I have my own witless Gareth, but it’s an office nonetheless. It’s not a big shiny office, and we don’t have our own canteen, so it’s the sandwich van or a quick trip to the supermarket if you’re not keen enough to make your own lunch. Which I’m not.

I picked up a Cheese Salad from Tesco’s, and being the health conscious individual that I am, I checked the calorific content, it said 100g was 248 calories.

Well, that’s no use, it’s obviously more than 100g, so they’d helpfully put the 225g serving calculation right next to it . Excellent I thought, I don’t even have to do the maths. 496 calories. Quite a lot for a salad, but it looked nice and filling so I took it.

I managed to get halfway through the mass of lettuce, pasta and other assorted vegetables (no shredded carrots, I checked) before I started to feel full. This is rare for me. I have a pretty healthy appetite and I’d had an extremely strenuous morning of typing emails, making phone calls and contributing meaningfully in very important meetings. My energy levels were dangerously low. Surely 497 calories couldn’t fill me up? I checked the package again. Yes, a 225g serving is only 497 calories. This doesn’t add up. (more…)

…is sometimes allowed, other times it’s an absolute necessity.

I’ve written about Fat Jim before. He’s a smug bastard. He’s always got to add a bit to the conversation, even if it’s of no value whatsoever. Which is usually the case.

Which is what happened when I was late to the pub last night.

“Sorry I’m late lads, couldn’t find my bloody house keys, they’re always in the last place you’d look”

“Of course they are Angry, they always are” replied Fat Jim

“What the fuck are you on about now you cunt.”

“They’re always in the last place you look”

“I know, that’s what I said”

“Well what sort of dick keeps looking for something after they’ve found it, obviously you stop looking when you find it. So it’s always in the last place you look for it.”

[Smack]

I really really fucking hate it when that bastard is right.

I’d been in Portugal for a few days for a friends wedding, there’d been some good bits - drunken renditions of “Only You” by the Flying Pickets, and some not so good, like losing to a knock-out three nights on the trot to Portugals very own Super-lager, SuperBock.

I arrived at the airport to go home and decided against eating there as the food is generally expensive and not all that great. Having chosen not to fly with a budget airline this time I could look forward to a meal on the return journey included with my fare.

“What’s the meal on the way back?”, I asked the stewardess after we’d taken off.

“Turkey Roll and a salad”, she replied.

Turkey roll, Hmmm, I’m not too keen on the sound of that, but a nice fresh salad after eating crap for four days wouldn’t go amiss. Bring it on I think to myself. (more…)

Whilst on my recent trip to Portugal I stayed in a hotel it was nice enough, apart from everything being miles away from everything else, and the staff were reasonably friendly. However, the inclusive breakfast was a buffet style arrangement with all the continental usuals, various fruits, cold meats, cheeses, bread rolls and yoghurts. Plus some fried eggs and bacon so that the Brits didn’t starve.

At one end of the buffet line was an industrial toaster. I think it’s an industrial toaster, I’m not entirely sure what the proper name is, but it’s a big, silver, toasting machine. That makes toast. It’s a fairly self-explanatory machine. At one end it has a Gladiators style travelator type contraption upon which you place untoasted bread, and after passing unseen through the engine bit in the middle, out comes perfect toast at the other end. And without a single John Fashanu “Awooga” to be heard. In a truly inspired additional benefit to this already magnificent machine, the time it takes for the toast to appear is almost exactly the time it takes to wander along the length of the buffet line to get the rest of your breakfast. It truly is man at his most ingenious.

You put bread in. It gets toasted. It appears at the other end approximately 60 seconds later. Simple.

Or so you’d think. (more…)

“Here Angry, try this.”

“What is it?”

“Just try it, I’m sure you’ll like it”

I put the warm mug to my mouth and take a mouthful of the liquid inside.

“Well? What do you think?”

“It tastes of pond. With a hint of wet dog. You haven’t just warmed up a cup full of puddle have you?”

“No Angry, I haven’t.”

“What in the name of God is it then?”

“It’s my new Herbal Tea, I drink it now instead of coffee. It’s very good for me”

Oh no it isn’t. Why do you believe that tripe? I have yet to hear a single yoghurt-knitting tree-hugger offer a convincing argument regarding the merits of Herbal Tea. It normally takes no more than a couple of minutes before they get onto spiritual energy and cleansed chakra’s.

I know what vitamins do for me.

I know what fruit and vegetables do for me.

I know what reducing my fat intake does for me.

But what does Herbal Tea do for me? And please don’t give me that bollocks about it “cleanses your insides, and flushes toxins out of your system”, I want to know HOW. I know how colonic irrigation cleanses your indsides, yet I’m not about to shove a fucking hosepipe up my arse (and not just for water conservation reasons).

Why people insist on blindly following these health fads I’ll never know. Personally, I’m going to stick to my Half-Caff Skinny Mocachino.

2 Euros for a ten minute go on a poxy Pentium desktop PC with slow Internet access! The robbing bastards. I’ve only checked my email and I’m already down to one minute. I’ve barely got time to tell you all about the state of my hotel room, and as for the food, fuck me, I wouldn’t serve it to the homeless, but wait until I tell you about the fucki…..

I’m flying to Portugal for a few days this afternoon, so my upcoming posts won’t arrive as predictably as Jordans ‘Exclusive’ photo shoots in OK magazine. However, in the coming hours I will have to deal with airport taxi services, check-ins, airport security, cheapo airline service and Portuguese public transport. So rest assured. There will be plenty from me when I get back…

Give a man a fish, and he’ll eat for a day. Or so they say. But, give a man a name tag and he’ll be a shitbag forever.

There is something about the name tag that makes people drunk with power, the irony of feeling powerful in a job that requires a nametag is clearly lost on them.

A recent example of my brush with a nametag Nazi:

I arrive at a restaurant, I have no reservation. His nametag reads “Marco - Head Waiter”. He smiles smugly and tells me they are full, but I can wait 30 minutes for a table if I like. I reluctantly agree. I’ve waited no more than five minutes when another couple arrive, also ’sans’ reservation. They are seated immediately. I am obviously more than a little miffed about this.

“Why did they get seated? You said you were full?”, I enquire politely.

“I a managed to squeeze a them a in a as Meesta Simons and his a wife are regulars”

“So you lied, you weren’t full, you were just waiting for someone better than me?”

“Is a not a true sir.”

“Then why weren’t we ’squeezed’ in? You managed to squeeze them in. Why weren’t we squeezed in? I’d have been happy to be squeezed.”

“I am a sorry, but in a ma role as a Heada Waiter I have a to give a priority to a my regulars.”

“But they weren’t here. We were. We were sat right in front of you. Waiting.”

“I don’t a make a the rules, that’s a just the way it is.”

“Don’t quote Bruce Hornsby at me you smug twat, you might not make the rules but you do enforce them with a level of gleeful tenacity normally associated with Gary Glitter at a McFly gig.”

“It is a ma job to look after our regulars, of which meesta, you are not a one.”

He then gave me that patronising ’smile’ again, when what he’s clearly thinking is “Fuck off you despicable shit, I wouldn’t help you now if you were locked in a small room with James Blunt and an acoustic guitar.”

All I ask of you all is this. Look down. Is there a name badge on your chest? Yes? Well just don’t be a complete cunt about it.

The regular visitors amongst you will know by now that there are enough ridiculous things in this world of ours to keep me ranting for days on end. What I had failed to appreciate when starting this site is just how many of you out there feel the same way. In the past few weeks I’ve been getting a few emithers from readers with rants to which I find myself nodding in agreement, and as such I think it’s only fair that I share the better ones with you. The first guest ranter is Rantin’ Rob. Take it away Rob… (more…)

OK then.

It’s your birthday, and a friend asks you if there’s anything you would particularly like for the occasion and you reply, “Oh, you don’t have to get me anything.”

That seems like a fairly straightforward conversation to me. Brief. To the point. Just how I like them.

The the night of your birthday ensues and you don’t, as requested, get a present from said friend, do you: (more…)

OK then.

It’s your birthday, and a friend asks you if there’s anything you would particularly like for the occasion and you reply, “Oh, you don’t have to get me anything.”

That seems like a fairly straightforward conversation to me. Brief. To the point. Just how I like them.

The the night of your birthday ensues and you don’t, as requested, get a present from said friend, do you: (more…)

Old people are great aren’t they? Apart from the faint smell of piss and stories about the war of course (I’ve seen countless movies about it, I know what happened, no need to go on about it, Jeesh). Oh, and the false teeth. There’s something quite sinister about talking to an 90 year old man with pearly whites that even Brad Pitt would be proud of. We both know they should resemble wooden pegs, yet we pretend instead that Colgate has done a sterling job for the last four score and ten.

Anyway, old people are generally nice folks, but something shattered that illusion for me over the weekend. Have you ever heard an old lady swear? Well I have now. (more…)

Old people are great aren’t they? Apart from the faint smell of piss and stories about the war of course (I’ve seen countless movies about it, I know what happened, no need to go on about it, Jeesh). Oh, and the false teeth. There’s something quite sinister about talking to an 90 year old man with pearly whites that even Brad Pitt would be proud of. We both know they should resemble wooden pegs, yet we pretend instead that Colgate has done a sterling job for the last four score and ten.

Anyway, old people are generally nice folks, but something shattered that illusion for me over the weekend. Have you ever heard an old lady swear? Well I have now. (more…)

It’s unfortunate, I’ll give you that. No-one likes to see someone suffering needlessly, unless of course they’re child molesters, in Al Quaeda or are James Blunt, but I don’t have too much sympathy for the guys in hospital after a problematic drugs trial.

It’s not like they were doing it for the good of mankind. No. They did it for the cash, and not insignificant amounts either. Some reports are saying as much as £3,000 can be earned for some drug trials. Christ, some people spend three months cleaning toilets for that sort of cash. You don’t get £3,000 for a couple of days work if there aren’t inherent risks.

I know blokes that will pop any pill you give them and pay you £15 for the pleasure, perhaps I should go into the discount contract drug testing business?

“Yep, I assure you they’re taking the dose you recommended, but I’m afraid you’ll have to follow them into the all night rave in order to properly monitor the effects”

I’m sure it was seen as ‘easy money’, just take a few pills, then lie on your back for 48 hours and off you go with a nice fat cheque. I guess it wasn’t to be eh?

Still, I guess there are caged Beagles up and down the country that are pretty damn pleased that they don’t have to worry about popping more pills and can concentrate instead on getting through their 40-a-day Marlboro rations.