I am livid

“I’d like a quote for a new car key please, the battery in the current one appears to be almost dead” I asked the nice man on the other end of the phone.

“Certainly Sir, can I have the registration of the car?”

“Yup, its [registration removed to prevent mentalist Internet stalkers finding my secret location]”

“OK, just one moment Sir…[one moment later], OK, that’ll be £99.53 including VAT”

“Ha! Nice one. You’re a funny man. How much is it really?”

“It’s £99.53 Sir. Including VAT”

“I’d expect it to include encrusted diamonds and a free blowjob for £99.53, does it include encrusted diamonds and a blow job?”

“No Sir, but that’s how much they cost”

“No, that’s how much you charge. I’d imagine they actually cost significantly less.”

“You can bring the car down anytime, and we can order the new key then.”

“Err, I’m not buying one, that price is ridiculous”

“But we’re the only people who sell them”

At this point I hung up the phone and resigned myself to my car alarm going off every time I get in my car until I find my spare key. I apologise in advance if you live near me.

Fucking bastard BMW.

Ring Ring.

I’m doing up my laces at the gym so I answer it on speakerphone.

“Hello?”

“Hi, it’s me. Look, I know you’re at the gym so I’ll be quick, I’m at the garage, the Jeep we wanted has gone, but there’s another one in stock, almost new, and it’s only £5,000 more. Should I just get it? I know it’s a bit more than our budget, but it’s got all the add-ons and you said you’ve always wanted a nice big 4×4, so whaddya reckon, shall I just buy it anyway?”

“Go for it”

“And I’ve invited my mother to stay for the weekend, that OK?”

“Sure”

“Thanks honey, I love you, I’ll see you back at the house later”

I hang up, smiling, and turn to the others in the changing room at the gym.  They look at me somewhat strangely, so I ask them,

“Anyone know who this phone belongs to?”

This is a lesson for you all. Don’t leave your mobiles unattended, otherwise some spiteful bastard like me will take full advantage.

I hope he enjoys his weekend with the Mother-In-Law.

This is a useful piece of information if what you’re about to consume could possibly contain nuts. Perhaps you’re about to tuck into a nice fuitcake? Or maybe a packet of hobnob-esque biscuits. If you like these things and are allergic to nuts then being told in no uncertain terms that the product doesn’t contain the source of your misery, would make you happy. And you’d probably chomp away on the product with gay abandon.

By the same token, a small notice on a product saying “May Contain Nuts”, in products where you wouldn’t expect to find them, could be a life-saving addition to a Pork Pies packaging.

But what about when the product is one where you wouldn’t normally expect to find any nuts, and you still find a notice telling you it doesn’t contain any nuts?

I understand there are a lot of people who are allergic to them, and that we should err on the side of caution with peoples health, but at what point do you need to start adding this warning to a bag of carrots?

That’s not a typo. I actually wrote ‘a bag of carrots’. As in those orange little vegetables that you dig up from the ground. The ones that don’t contain any nuts. Read the rest of this entry »

So after missing out on a part in the next Harry Potter movie we finally reached our watersports venue. The website said it was an exhilarating ride down one of Scotlands finest waterfalls, and the pre-trip information had taken great care not to mention anything about being cold, wet, in pain, in tears, in more pain, and suffering sheer unadulterated terror.

However, the reality of the situation dawned upon me when they made us sign a waver before starting our ascent to the top of the waterfall that absolved them of any blame should we be hurt, maimed, beaten, eaten or murdered.

When it came to the wetsuit fitting we were informed that the group ahead of us had got the best ones (always nice to hear), but we were asked to point out any major defects as “the water is very cold today”.

Brilliant.

I had a hole the size of a 50p on my thigh and a couple of smaller ones on the arse, but as I’m not a woman or a ten year old child, no replacements were available and I had to make do with the one I had. I now realise this was the perfect excuse to drop-out. I am blessed with 20-20 hindsight.

The trek to the top of the hill was exhausting, particularly in a full wetsuit, safety harness, helmet and buoyancy aid.

For those of you that don’t know, Canyoning is is a bit like white water rafting down a series or rapids and big waterfalls, but without a white water raft. Essentially you throw yourself down a series of waterfalls, brooks, slides and mini canyons, with the odd abseil down the rocky areas thrown in for good measure. All in order to reach the bottom safely.

Oh, and it’s really really fucking cold. Particularly if your wetsuit has a hole the size of a 50p on the thigh and smaller holes on the arse.

Being thrown off a waterfall by someone you met an hour ago is a strange experience, especially when your field of vision restricts sight of where you’re being thrown to. But it’s OK, as the fear soon passes once the ice-cold water hits your testicles. Read the rest of this entry »

Lights! Camera! Action!

I have had a brush with fame and fortune on the set of one of the most famous and successful movie franchises in the world. No, I have not got a part in ‘Carry on Olympics’, rather, I was almost in Harry Potter and The Order of the Phoenix.

The tiny cottage in which we stayed last weekend was about 5 minutes walk from the site of Hagrids cottage (the site is for filming purposes only, because although it’s quite remote, there are no actual giants in Scotland).

On Saturday morning as a minibus full of intrepid stag attendees made their way towards a death-defying day of Fun-yaking and Canyoning, we were stopped about 300 yards from our cottage in the minibus we’d hired.

“Sorry mate,” said the guy with bright yellow jacket and walkie talkie, “But would you mind popping back to pick up the rest of the props for us?”

“Excuse me?” said the designated driver, whilst I scrambled over the seats behind sensing an opportunity to get behind the scenes on a major movie production.

Read the rest of this entry »

The idea had been a good one. Get a nice big cottage in the middle of nowhere so we can send our mate off to get married in style after a weekend of extreme sports and ever-so-clever verbal abuse.

Until we arrived at the cottage that is.

I was under the impression that pre-fabricated buildings had stopped being built after the war? (That’s WWII, not the Korean, Vietnamese, Falklands, Iraq, or Iraq II).

Clearly not.

The cottage we were housed in looked as if it had been built in a weekend as part of some reality show watched by the daytime-TV-viewing unemployed masses. I was genuinely concerned it might blow over in the first decent breeze, never mind the howling gales that are common place in this part of the world.

I read the welcome notes, and was less than impressed when I heard about the drinking water;

“We should like to make you aware that all our water comes direct from our own Mountain Spring (as is stated on our website) - i.e. we are both traditional and hip - It has passed through a filter and ultraviolet light before it gets to you and is completely pure. No chemicals have been added. We hope you enjoy it.”

This does not instill me with much confidence. Surely this is how they live in Africa? Bob Geldof is doing everything he can to eradicate this level of poverty, yet I’ve been bamboozled into paying £200 for the privilege of drinking what is essentially, pond water.

I am used to my water receiving a thorough dose of chemotherapy and going through at least 15 Londoners before it reaches me. I’m not sure that a session on a sunbed is really going to cut it.

I retire to make a cup of tea, but not before checking that we have sufficient stocks of toilet roll to deal with the dysentry I am expecting to contract in the next few days.

I’ve moaned about the Tube before, but there was one element I’d completely forgotten about when it comes to using our capitals public transport. Mainly because we hadn’t yet reached the warm weather.

That element is the dreaded Tube Bogie.

You know the sort, they’re much like you’d expect to see if you’ve been snorting coal. Given enough time, you could gather enough raw material to manage a decent charcoal sketch from just one nostril. The warmer and drier it is, the worse they become.

(Actually, before I go any further, I just want to check, it’s not just me is it? I can almost picture you all reading this going, “what’s he on about? My bogies are clear as crystal, look, I’ll just have a quick rummage to check”)

OK. Phew. It’s not just me then. Read the rest of this entry »

Democracy is great. Or rather, as Churchill said, it’s the worst form of Government, apart from the all the others. In this system everyone gets a voice at least once every four years where you can vote for someone who will make rubbish choices on your behalf and completely ignore any views you may have during that time.

However, digital TV means we can now voice our opinion on they important issues of the day. Whether it be animal testing or the war in Iraq, your voice can be heard and your opinion registered.

For the price of text message charged at your normal rate.

This is a good thing, especially as the opinion of the people is actively solicited. That simple text message can convey a number of sentiments:

“Yes, the war in Iraq is a good thing, and our boys are doing us proud in liberating a country from a cruel dictator”

“No, the war in Iraq is a bad thing, we shouldn’t be invading other countries to support the US’s thirst for oil”

Whether you agree or disagree, at least you’re involved in the debate and are using your democratic right to express your opinion. Something your Grandmother may have burned her bra for, or something.

Why then, do people expend their energy in responding with a “don’t know”?

Read the rest of this entry »

I was undressed by a woman on the tube last night. Well, by her eyes anyway.

I was a bit sweaty so decided to stand at one end of the carriage. My navy tracksuit bottoms and polo-shirt were a little grubby after volunteering at the building site of the new orphanage.

Even though I hadn’t shaved, she couldn’t take her eyes off me, and I find it very unnerving being objectified by lustful women. It’s the curse of these damned gorgeous blue-eyes I have. I was thoroughly knackered and tried yawning several times in the hope of averting her gaze. I was unsuccessful.

She rummaged around in her handbag, I assume to look for a taser with which to stun me so she could take me home and do rude things to me, but fortunately, the tube came to a halt so I jumped off and ran.

I don’t even live anywhere near Barons Court.

I’ve always considered the pub the be a place for drinking, watching sports, a bit of banter, and of course, for partaking in serious philosophical debate. The latter being what we spent our time on last Wednesday.

Fat Jim is reading a book about space exploration and was trying to explain to our mate Wiv (as in “With it”, because he isn’t very) about the potential infinite nature of space.

“So you see, potentially, space will go on for infinity”, explained Fat Jim to those of us still awake at the Bar.

“But what happens when you get to the end then?” asked a somewhat bemused Wiv.

“There is no end Wiv, that’s the whole point, that’s what infinity is!”

“I thought it was just a really big number like a gazillion million?”

It was at this point that the conversation moved onto some examples to illustrate the nature of infinity, in the vain hope that Wiv would eventually ‘get it’. The classic scenario is obviously that of the infinite number of monkeys and typewriters producing the complete works of Shakespeare. After someone pointed out that an infinite number of Wivs probably couldn’t reproduce the first page of the bar menu, Wiv decided he would need to conduct an experiment to test this monkey theory. One that would need the help of his cousin from the City.

Last night Wiv came into the pub to tell us all about his experiments with infinity. He and his cousin, who works at London Zoo, took a typewriter into the Sparrow Monkey enclosure after the Zoo closed to see just how close to Shakespeare they could get.

For some reason Wiv thought they might get a couple of pages of the Bards work, and at the very least a few sentences.

Wiv had a sheet of paper on which he and his cousin had recorded the efforts of the monkeys.

Monkey 1 - Grinned a lot, ignored typewriter and continued rapid nodding motions at me.

Monkey 2 - Jumped up and down on the spot and covered eyes in a comedy manner like the monkeys in the teabag adverts.

Monkey 3 - Got agitated and swung round the cage. Think he spat at me.

Monkey 4 - Masturbated in a frenzied manner.

Monkey 5 - Showed his teeth and made cheetah from Tarzan noises. Monkeys have sharp teeth.

Monkey 6 - Shat into his hands and threw it at me. I fucking hate monkeys.

After reading Wiv’s findings we have all agreed it’ll take more than infinity. Or cleverer monkeys.

How many of you are ‘down with the kids’ when it comes to the Hip-Hop music scene?

I’m not, and haven’t been for a few years, not since I was part of a break-dancing troupe at school (it was either that, or join the Chess Club; first rule of Chess Club - don’t talk about Chess Club).

Apparently the UK’s foremost expert on all things Hip-Hip is Radio 1 DJ Tim Westwood. If any of you have seen the UK version of Pimp My Ride on MTV you’ll know him as the gangly white guy who presents it with a fake Americanised accent. I say he’s an apparent expert on all things Hip Hop, because it’s just been made clear to me that he’s not actually taking the piss.

Having seen him at Radio 1’s Big Weekend on BBC Digital, I was convinced he was come sort of poor mans Ali G. All ’street’ speak and exaggerated hand movements like he was telling a story about landing a really really big fish. I have now been told I’m wrong and he’s actually a serious Disc Jockey, and not a rubbish comedian and bit-of-a-twat as I’d previously thought. Read the rest of this entry »

…will you please fuck off for me.

I didn’t come to the pub to watch your white middle-aged dreadlocked arse jump around and bang a tambourine for two hours. I came to listen to the guy on the acoustic guitar and enjoy a few beers with my friends. I’m simply amazed the guy actually playing the guitar has yet to beat you with a spare instrument.

Surely the guitarist must hate you more than me? And I want to hit you so hard we’d both cry. But it seems you’re now so pissed you’ve fallen into a bit of a drunken stupor. Thank fuck for that. Two songs without interruption or your interpretation of a Native American raindance.

Oh shit.

You’re up again.

Clearly the musicians rendition of Hotel California has had some sort of Red Bull effect on you and has pulled you back from the brink of the coma I was hoping you were about to enter.

What sort of socially inadequate arsehole takes a tambourine to a pub anyway?

“Wallet? Check. Car Keys? Check. Tambourine? Check.”

Now he’s dancing around like the hyperactive hippy he is, to a rendition of Vic Reeves hit record Dizzy. And his tambourine playing is out of time. Just how musically retarded must you be in order to fail at tambourine playing?
I’ve never felt like glassing anyone before, but if he looks over in our direction again and shakes his rattle at us with that inane grin of his I swear I’ll do him some harm.

Eventually he goes home, well, unless he’s not wearing an elaborate disguise and he really is a homeless person.

If 60’s hippy’s hadn’t matured, this is what they’d be today. Complete cunts.

Fresh from his rant about early release prisoners, the sexer of horses sent me a link to a story that he felt might raise my ire. He was right.

A 12 year old girl in Scotland is about to become one the youngest mothers in the UK after a drunken one-night stand when she was 11. Yes. That’s not a typo. She was 11, and drunk.

However, the Suns take on this is not, “how dreadful that a child can get herself in this predicament”, rather, “isn’t it exciting to be having a baby!”

Now, I wouldn’t normally look at that rag, but seeing as it’s likely to be read by a number of working class families I thought it would be interesting to see how they treated this sensitive subject.

Lighting her third roll-up cigarette and watched by her proud 34-year-old mum, she confessed: “I didn’t think I’d get pregnant because it was my first time.

“But I’m really excited and looking forward to being a mum.”

Riiiiight. So her Mum is proud of her daughters achievements is she? I would imagine the dream of your child becoming a Doctor or a Lawyer simply wasn’t good enough for her. No, she wanted a pregnant 11 year old alcoholic in the family. A proper role model for her future generations. Nice.

I can understand school kids experimenting. I did when I was eleven. It’s just the experiments I undertook involved climbing trees and burning ants with a magnifying glass. Not shagging. I had to wait another ten five years for that.

She still puffs up to 20 ciggies a day, despite being eight months pregnant.

Yesterday she told how she took up drinking at just ten — sometimes downing a potent cocktail of Buckfast and vodka on nights out. She said: “I can give up smoking at any time, but I don’t find it affects my pregnancy. I also don’t drink any more.”

My mistake, she is a Doctor. Somehow she’s managed to ensure that her 20 a day habit hasn’t affected the poor kid she’s carrying. It will be all that experience she has of being pregnant I guess?

Oh, but the best is still to come…

“I think I’ll be able to cope as I’ve had lots of practice looking after my brothers.

“I know how to feed a baby its bottle and I can change nappies.

“But I panic and cry if they’re sick and I don’t like giving them a bath because I’m a bit frightened.

Brilliant. You couldn’t make it up. Well, maybe you could, but that quote reads like it’s from a middle-aged first time Dad. Not the soon to be mother.

Accidents happen, I know that. But when they’re glamourised like this it makes me fucking furious. If you’re feeling a little ambivalent towards this story then check your pay-packet next month and try to count the cost of living in a country with one of the highest teenage pregnancy rates in the developed world.

And I guess, as of next month, the highest rate of pre-teen pregnancies in the entire world.

Continuing the theme of angry emithers that I get from time to time, I’ve had a couple of very good ones from a chap who wishes to be known as the Equine Pimp. I’m not sure how lucrative the horses-for-sex trade is, but he seems to be doing OK.

Anyway, Equime Pimp write…

Mr Angry,

If a person commits a crime and is sentenced to 15 years, how complicated is it to keep them locked up for 15 years?

Why anyone is surprised that offenders who are let out early then re-offend completely beggars belief.

They have committed a crime !!!! They have done something wrong. They have been punished for that crime. Why then turn 15 years in 13 for good behaviour? How good can their behaviour be when they are locked up?

I think good behaviour means, “didn’t start any prison riots”.

Perhaps we should start punishing people with sentences such as, “You are sentenced to 10 years, but if you’re a naughty boy it’ll be 15″, because surely that’s what we’re doing already, in effect?

Simple solution - stop letting people out early at all. No exceptions, no special cases. I don’t care if they seem to have reformed. I don’t care that they have found God and have completely changed as a person and I don’t care if some numpty in a suit decides they are now low risk. What the hell does that even mean?

Ah, the old “I found religion” defence. I’d start looking for God if I was being anally raped by Bubba my psychotic cellmate every day. As above, I think low risk means “unlikely to start any prison riots once released”.

The result of these early releases means that not only has the system failed the people who suffered originally but now a whole new set of people get to suffer at the hands of someone who shouldn’t even be anywhere near them.

Its bad enough that the sentences received in the first place are mostly laughable without adding a complication to the system that quite simply does not need to exist.

People will still re-offend after serving a full term but why add the element of chance into the equation?

The Equine Pimp

Equation? What equation? This would imply some application of logic, or at the very least a full assessment of the factors involved, when clealy this isn’t the case.

At the end of the day they say it’s because the prisons are overcrowded. Simple solution then. Build more prisons, or let’s get back to sending them to Australia.