I am livid

I am an extremely generous person. Though I don’t like to go on about it. So for now, we’ll just say how generous I am and move on. What this means is that from time to time people will owe me a few pounds here and there, either for a meal I’ve paid for, or a round of drinks I may have bought for them, just a few little things. But this is enough about me and how generous I am.

I don’t mind this situation, and what’s a few pounds between friends anyway? It’s not like I’m keeping a close track of it, or mentioning it on a website that is read by literally tens of people. What I do mind however, is when people try and pay you back in the most inconvenient manner possible.

“Angry, this is the fiver I owe you” said friend who shall be known, entirely randomly, as Darth Helmet from here on in.

I had paid the bill for lunch and he owed me five pounds for his food. I held out my hand whilst talking to someone else expecting him to place a crispy note in my palm. It didn’t arrive.

“That’s one, two, two-fifty, two-seventy, two-ninety, three-ten..”, he began whilst counting the change into my hand. Read the rest of this entry »

Last October there was a story on the news about a 12 year-old girl, Shanni Naylor, who had been slashed across the face with a razorblade whilst sitting in her English class. I often wanted to stick pins in my own eyes during English lessons, but never anyone elses.

So, like most of the country I was absolutely apalled that anyone could commit such a crime (despite my memories of what a classroom-bound study of Educating Rita can make you think of doing to your fellow man). The news item said it would probably leave the poor girl with facial scars for life. And not lucrative ones like the model-dater and crooner, Seal.

However, I’ve learned today that the sympathy I so begrudgingly gave, might have been misplaced. So I might not be going soft after all.

You see, now that the case has come to court, a couple of further details have been made available. The most pertinent of which is that the girl that did the ’slashing’ was being bullied at the school, and that just 24 hours before the incident, she was beaten up in front of 100 other students by Shanni Naylor, our slashing ‘victim’. Read the rest of this entry »

I like football. I like playing the game, and I like watching it on television.

I’ve deliberately stayed away from mentioning the World Cup as I know there are many people who don’t share my passion for the sport, and I don’t want to alienate my female reader. So, I won’t bore you with my opinions on Svens inability to correct the tactical weaknesses in our team, or the cheating-diving Italians, or the jammy-bastard Argies, or the referee-baiting Portugeezers, or the myopic referees, or the ridiculous cotton bud things on the faces of the ITV commentary team, or Gary Linekers ever-deepening tan, or the attention seeking WAG’s.

I won’t even mention them.

What I do like though, is the sense of camaraderie when a game is being shown in the pub. When everyone is cheering and getting into the spirit of the event, and you’re not quite as frightened as usual of the massive shaven-headed Chelsea supporting tattoo-adorned builder.

So why do the walking clichés that are women-who-watch-football always insist on standing near to me?

Last Wednesday Joe Cole scored one of the best England goals in a long long time. Cue rapturous applause and much cheering from all around me (and an awkward smiling moment with the shaven-headed builder), apart from the three women who seem to have mistaken this pub for a Starbucks. Read the rest of this entry »

“Err, hello, what flavour crisps do you have?” I ask the snooty landlord.

I’m at a country pub that I think most people would now refer to as a ‘gastro-pub’. This has nothing to do with Gastroenteritis. The barman was quite vociferous in making this point when I asked for some clarification. Though I think the reason he is really annoyed is because I’m not sampling their vastly over-priced wares and would rather have a packet of crisps with my pint.

“We have a wide selection of potato snacks, is there any you would prefer?”, he responds with barely disguised loathing.

“Do you have Cheese & Onion?”

“We have Vintage Cheddar and Red Onion Chutney?”

“Err, so you’ve not got any Walkers then?”

“No”

“What about Smokey Bacon?”

“No, but we do have Ludlow Sausage and Wholegrain mustard.”

“Err, is that a joke? You just made that up didn’t you. I just want a bag of crisps, you know, normal crisps”

“Define normal.”

“Salt and vinegar, Ready Salted, Cheese & Onion. Normal!”

“So you don’t want to try the Smoked Salmon, Horseradish and Capers potato chips then?”

I suspect that my incisive business advice for the Lamborghini-driving landlord (that he should stock some normal flavours) would fall on deaf ears, and the look on his face suggests asking for pork scratchings would be a thoroughly bad idea. I return to the beer garden sans bar-snacks to the disappointment of my fellow beer garden occupants and our slightly unadventurous palates.

Everyone loves a winner, except Michael Winner, he’s a pompous twat. But winning is ace and it is therefore something we should all experience at some point in our lives. Except the losers out there. Because without them, there couldn’t be people like me and it’s best not to give them false hope. That’s just cruel.

This desire to ‘win’ is why it’s so tempting to enter a competition when you are absolutely, positively, stone-cold 100% certain you know the correct answer. Like the kid at the back of the class waving his arm as high up in the air as possible, willing the teacher to look his way, it is an almost irresistible draw to let everyone know how clever you really are. Or rather, how clever you think you are.

Which is what the TV stations are relying on when they have their thinly-veiled cash collection exercises, otherwise known as text ‘competitions’. For some reason they seem to think that we’re all stupid, and are willing to spend the price of a lottery ticket to win a ticket to a World Cup football match, when the odds of success are probably nearing the 14 million to 1 you’d expect on the lottery.

The reason the odds are so high? Because everyone, and I mean everyone, will know the answer, and will presumably text in as a result. Perhaps an example would better illustrate this? Read the rest of this entry »

This is not a post about the lovely Cheryl Baker and the effect her hastily removed skirt had on a pre-pubescent Mr Angry. It is not that kind of website.

Instead, I’m going to tell you about dinner last Saturday. Yet another stag do, of which there have been many this year, and dinner at a lively bistro. We arrive in good time despite no air-conditioning on the coach on one of the hottest days of the year. So I was little irritable.

As we took our table, the nice waitress brought over some menus and asked what we’d like to drink, “Lots of beer please” was the reply, and off she went to fetch us copious amount of strong continental lager. We perused the menus whilst catching up and taking the piss out of each other (I only meet up with my Uni mates once or twice a year). After about ten minutes we were still waiting for our drinks and getting rather hungry.

“Christ, ar could eet a scabby dogs dick like“, said barely-comprehensible-Geordie Mart.

“It’s not on the menu Mart, maybe we could check the specials board?” came the reply.

When it got to fifteen, we’d read the menu a couple of dozen times, and were salivating at the various deliciousness laid out before us. Finally our drinks arrived.

“Right, what would you like to eat?” asked smiley waitress whilst looking at little Inch-High at the head of the table.

“Er, right, I guess I should take a look at this menu?” came inch-highs reply.

“Oh, should I give you a few more minutes then?” said the waitress.

It took two of them to restrain me because at that precise moment I could easily have ripped Inch-Highs face off of and fed it to barely-comprehensible-Geordie Mart in place of a scabby dogs dick.

It’s not like he couldn’t see we were all starving and ready to order, so why not read the menu when the rest of us were? This is very selfish, and the minute or two delay could make a significant difference to the rest of the evening, and in fact the rest of our lives. Had he not seen Sliding Doors? Someone could die.

Anyway we ordered, and Mart had some sausage based concoction that looked like scabby dogs dick.

If you’re going to waste your time visiting a place of interest, then please, try and do just a little bit research beforehand.

I live in a place that is considered to have some considerable historical value. Unfortunately, what this means is that each and every summer we get invaded for four months by the worlds mongs. It’s as if the planets greatest retards are inexplicably drawn to places of ‘interest’.

“Why did the queen build her castle so close to the airport?” I was asked by a fat American lady a couple of years ago.

Are you fucking kidding me?

So this year, I’ve taken to giving out some free tourist advice to the passing imbeciles who happen to ask me stupid questions; Read the rest of this entry »

Oh yes they are!

I can almost hear the Hippies amongst you going, “What about the Honey Angry?“, and “They pollinate the flowers Angry“.

Well, I say fuck ‘em.

I don’t eat honey, and there’s too many flowers to choose from at Interflora as it is. They serve no useful purpose whatsoever and do nothing but frighten small children with their evil incessant buzzing.

I was stung as a child, in case you hadn’t guessed, and my Mum nearly fainted because she couldn’t get the bee-sting out of my wrist whist the Bee was still hanging from it. I think I was six, maybe seven. From memory it hurt, but I don’t remember the pain, I just remember thinking, “Fucking hell, I think my mums going to fucking faint!”.

I was quite a foul-mouthed child. Read the rest of this entry »

Artists can be unbearably pretentious shits. But they are nothing, simply nothing, compared to art collectors. They are the utter scum of the earth. I have nothing but bilious contempt for anyone who spends £73m on one painting. OK, it might have been a gallery that spent the money in this case, but it’s still £73m.

Do any of you have any concept of what £73m looks like? I’ll tell you. It looks like a really fucking massive pile of cash, enough to ensure that you, and pretty much anyone you know, never has to work ever again.

And the Neue Gallery in New York has spunked that wad on this tripe by Gustav Klimt :

Isn’t it fucking shit?

She’s not even in proportion and seems to be wearing some sort of patchwork quilt, added to the fact that she’s failing miserably to do a one-person armwave breakdance move. He must’ve really hated the bird he was painting. I bet she was fucking gutted when she saw the results. “I don’t even know what breakdancing is you bastard!”

Honestly, I used to produce better pictures in GCSE Art & Design (I got a ‘B’, thanks for asking). Read the rest of this entry »

I don’t like adverts on TV. I’ve made this clear in the past, so it should come as no surprise.

Last night I was watching television at the house of a friend who lives in the dark ages, i.e. he doesn’t have Sky+. What this means is I was forced to watch some mid-programme product placements when normally I would fast forward through them. I am continually shocked by how dumbed down advertising has become.

It used to be the case that advertisers would focus on convincing you of the relevant merits of their product with clever catch-phrases and ‘funny’ characters.

Now it seems that even that is not good enough for the retard-nation.

Picture an advert with a women describing her Weetabix breakfast to you. “I add some greek yogurt and some nuts on a Monday, and some milk and pineapple on Tuesdays. Wednesdays I add strawberries to them.”

What this says to me is, “This product tastes like shite, and I am forced to smother it with delicious things to make it even remotely edible. But you should buy it anyway because we all need fibre.”

I am not sure if this is an advert for fruit, or for cereal?

They’re certainly not advocating the deliciousness of the bran biscuits. In fact, it’s like the advertisers brief was, “Look, we know it’s like eating dried twigs, so perhaps you could try and sex it up a bit?“.

I’m all for a bit of honesty, but only if the product isn’t honestly crap.

I’m not a Dad. I may be one day, who knows, but I’m not right now. This doesn’t mean that I don’t know what would make a good Dad. Or more specifically, that I don’t know what makes a bad Dad.

But I noticed at Tim Worstalls place, that the Government doesn’t seem to think that way.

On Wednesday the Government launched The Dad Pack. It seems this is designed to give helpful hints and tips for new fathers so that they can become better Dads. In principle you would think this is a good idea. It would mean men could raise better families, at least, those that could read could.

Unfortunately, it appears they’ve fucked it up and the continued dumbing-down of society has continued at pace, particularly with this pack.

If you take a look inside you will notice that top tips include:

1. Don’t have an affair when your wife is pregnant.
2. If you feel horny, have a wank.
3. When you’re doing a lot of housework don’t say, “Who’s having this baby, you or me?”
4. Bite your lip, not your partner, when you’re ratty with her.
5. Water spray her during labour, but not with a water pistol.

Does this not seem a little bit like common sense? I truly despair if we felt the need to create a booklet for new Dads that includes the above advice. What kind of socially inept moron doesn’t know this already?

A question for the fathers out there, how many of you actually bit the mother of your children during pregnancy?

I would imagine that half of the fathers that read this aren’t actually the real ‘father’ anyway. OK, that’s a sweeping generalisation, but if the Government can assume people need this kind of advice then I think I’m safe making my assumption. If in fact they aren’t the father, then they need more practical advice on bringing up someone else’s child. Perhaps they could try the Bible? Was Joseph the first Chav Dad?

If this blindingly-fucking-obvious-advice continues, then I look forward to the, “Don’t eat yellow snow” and “Don’t stand up in a rubber dinghy” brochures later this year.

I remember the Green Cross code Public Information Films vividly.

I clearly recall Darth Vader in green tights telling me to “Look both ways and listen”. By ‘Darth Vader’, I of course mean David Prowse, not James Earl Jones. He would’ve looked rubbish in green tights. Probably still does in fact.

He scared me enough though, that to this day, I still adhere to his warning, and mutter his immortal words whilst approaching any main road that I need to cross. Only without the West Country accent, because that would be ridiculous.

I look. I listen. I cross as quickly as I fucking can, because I don’t want to be hit by a car driven by a near-sighted OPD. I think that would smart quite a bit.

It’s a straight-forward process, which I simply do not understand being ignored.

Which is precisely what Cro-Magnon-Boy did this morning on my way to work. I was pulling off a busy roundabout when he simply stepped out into the road in front of me. This is bad enough, but luckily I am an excellent driver with excellent ninja-like reflexes so I was able to slow down and avert disaster. Read the rest of this entry »

Many of you* are wondering how I got on at this years Superstars event. Well, before I tell you all about it, I think I’d better just clarify the rules. Just so you know it wasn’t a fix.

Firstly, there are ten events, and you must participate in all of them. First place in each event is awarded 14 points with each subsequent placing earning one point less, until last place, which receives 1 point. You also have a Joker which you can play in any event and this doubles your score for that discipline. It’s quite simple really, and much less time consuming than the Eurovision system.

The entire event schedule for Superstars 2006 reads thus:

• Ten Pin Bowling (4)
• Tournament Pool (4)
• Golf - 18 hole stableford (9)
• Clay Pigeon Shooting (1)
• Archery (2)
• Football (6)
• Basketball (3)
• Necking of a pint (6)
• Bleep test (8)
• Dips & squats (2)

As you can see, it’s a fairly mixed set of events in which all areas of a competitors natural sporting ability is tested. My final position in each event is in brackets. This meant I finished second overall, and so was, for once, quite a happy bunny.

I am officially the second most naturally talented sportsman I know. Also this gives me a years bragging rights over all of my friends. Except for one of them of course. But I have decided he is the “40% gay” one so I guess I am now officially the best 100%-straight sportsman I know. I may have a t-shirt made.

A few of the things I learned this past weekend;

1. I seem to be a natural with assorted weaponry, having never fired a shotgun or pulled a bow, I won the clay-pigeon shooting by quite a margin and came second in archery to someone who’s been having lessons. I’m not sure this a good thing for someone with my general disposition.
2. Golf is a bit of a lottery when 36 handicappers are getting 38 stableford points by the 15th hole. Fucking bandits.
3. Try as I might, I cannot get under 10 seconds to neck a pint.
4. The bleep test is for the gayers.
5. Bowling alleys contain some really sad fuckers. One bloke had a bottle of beer in the middle of a clear ball. The twat.
6. If your group gets talking to a big Hen party and you end up dancing with the Hen, you have the least chance of pulling.
7. Hotels with broken elevators will have stairs that require crampons and oxygen to climb them.
8. Never exercise with a hangover. Ever.
9. 14 males should book club entrance in advance. Always.
10. Read number 8 again, it’s really fucking important.

As I finished 2nd overall, feel free to leave messages of congratulations below. Then I can get back to being pissed off tomorrow.

* Many equals more than one and is not limited readers of this site and may include close family members that gave birth to me.

I don’t like getting sunburned.

I don’t think many people do, but I really really hate it. I am also bitter when it happens because I think I’ve been robbed by genetics at its cruelest. My father is quite dark and could be mistaken for a southern European. Sit him in front of a 40-watt bulb and he bronzes in just minutes. My sister and brother have both inherited his toning, plus his dark hair and brown eyes.

My Mum is Irish. Though she has dark hair, she is green-eyed and very fair skinned, and will burn if outside for more than a couple of minutes. I err on the side of my mother when it comes to toning. This means I will invariably go red in the sun, but thanks to my Dads genes I’ll turn brown over the course of a few days (if it doesn’t all peel off first of course).

To prevent sunburn I use sun cream like everyone else, usually somewhere between 10-15 SPF, which is what I used at the Superstars weekend in Brighton. Unfortunately, it now appears that doing exercise weakens it’s effect as it simply washes off when you start to sweat. It does not mention this on the bottle, but it’s fine for swimming, apparently. An hour in Preston Park doing Dips & Squats and a bleep test and I might as well have suncreamed myself using margarine.

As a result, today, I am more than a little burned.

First comment in the office on Monday morning, “Christ Angry, haven’t you heard of suncream?”. The people here are very witty.

This will continue until about Wednesday morning, when either I will have shed an entire layer of skin, or I will finally be brown. At the moment I don’t know which it will be, but I have my fingers crossed.