I am livid

…except Fat Jim, because he is an utter utter cunt.

We had a lads weekend in Bognor a couple of weekends ago. Yes, yes, I know, I really do live the life of Riley. Anyway, I usually drive to these away-day weekends, but in this case managed to convince Fat Jim to drive down so that I could get a train straight into London on Sunday for yet another Christmas Party.

I left my bag with him on Sunday morning, and headed off to London for a day of drinking and merriment.

Monday I was off work on holiday but had developed the man-flu. At 6pm my bag had still not arrived. I decided to text Fat Jim.

“Any danger of a bag delivery you cunt?”

“I’m at home now, you can come and get it if you want to?”

“Fuck off. I am sick! Bring it over tomorrow.”

Tomorrow evening arrived, and I was still in my sick-sofa, consumed by man-flu.

“Are you coming over with my bag then or what?”

“Cards on the table Angry, I gave you a lift to Bognor, and your bag a lift back. It’s here if you want it?”

“Are you kidding me? I am dying and I want my Sonicair toothbrush!”

“I’m not joking”

I decided to get it tomorrow, when I was well enough to leave the flat.

I was in the office catching up on all the work I would have pretended to do on Monday and Tuesday and decided to instant message Fat Jim at his office.

“I need my bag, when can I get it?”

“When do you want it?”

“Now you fucking arsehole!”

“It is in my car, at work, with me”

“Can you drop it at my flat on the way home?”

“No, heading out straight from work, you can come and pick it up if you want to?”

Fat Jim works on the other side of town from me, so this meant a 20 minute round trip in the middle of the afternoon, on a day when I was catching up from two days out of the office.

“You fucking cunt. I’ll be there in 15 minutes. Keep your mobile handy as I’m not coming in”

And off I went. Upon arrival at his offices I called him on his mobile. It range several times and then went to voicemail. “Jim you fucking fat cunt! Get down here now so I can get my bag!”

Nothing.

I rang again, again it went to voicemail. “I’m outside your fucking office you fucking piece of shit! Where the fuck are you?!”

I went into reception. “I’m here to pick something up from Fat Jim, the stinking workshy cunt you employ in Marketing.”

“I’ll just contact him Sir”

He went off to make calls.

“I’m afraid I can’t reach him, he must be in a meeting.”

“Can you reach someone who sits next to him? He’s massive, he must sit next to everyone?”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“Right. Can you give him a message for me?”

“Sure, let me write it down. Go ahead.”

“Fat Jim, Will you please get the bad Aids and die you useless fucking cretinous cunt.”

“Err..OK. Would you like to leave a number?”

“No, he’ll know who it is from.”

And that is how I wasted an hour on the Wednesday before Christmas.

I’m looking for a cheap flight to Delhi.

Anyone know where I can get one?  I quite fancy my chances.

I will be nice today, as this is the day that baby Jesus was born. Probably. I mean, we can’t be absolutely sure, as back then hospital record-keeping was even worse than it is now, but as there are two Bank Holidays we might as well celebrate it now eh?

So, Merry Christmas and all that!

Anyway, as you read this I will be away in an area where there is no Internet. I know, I know, believe me, such places do still exist. So, I have found another way of keeping everyone up to date with my Xmas day goings on.

Thanks to Mike TD who led me in the direction of Twitter, I have set up an account and will be giving updates throughout the day - via mobile phone! - in my first experience of ‘live’ blogging. You will be with me through the highs and lows, the agony and the ecstasy, the emotional roller-coaster that is, ‘Christmas Day in the Midlands’. (OK, you will probably be reading it a few days later, as anyone on the Internet today - the 25th - needs shooting, or got really really bad presents).

So, the Mr Angry Christmas Experience can be found in full technicolour right here….

Best wishes from I Am Livid for the forthcoming two-day bank holiday to all you Catholic, Protestant, Jehovahs Witness, Muslim (Shi’a and Sunni), Hindu, Jewish, Buddist, Sikh and Pagan readers.

But not the Scientologists.  You are just placenta-eating lizard-worshipping freaks and you know it.

Anyway, I hope you all have a happy and safe festive period!

I will be attempting a live blogging ‘experiment’ on Christmas day (I enjoy pushing the boundaries of blogging, especially when copying things that people have been doing for years), which you will be able to see at your leisure over the holidays. Or not.  Up to you really…

You might know it as a ‘Nativity Play’, but apparently that is discriminatory against everyone who doesn’t believe in a blue eyed Arab that lived two thousand years ago who could walk on water and do other David Blaine type tricks.

My two year-old nephew was instead taking part in a non-denominational non-religious winter ‘celebration’ with his Nursery colleagues. I have not had any input into the script so I can’t give away any major plot lines, but I am pretty sure it doesn’t involve Virgins or Arabs. There might be a shocking twist in the story, hopefully, just to keep the audience guessing (I know how dull they can be), I just do not know.

“Can you video it for me so I can watch it over the holidays?” I asked my sister in a moment of seasonal weakness.

“Oh, we can’t video it, I’m sorry.”

“Can’t you borrow someone’s camera? I’d really like to see it?”

“It’s not that, it’s just we’re not allowed to video it to stop the Paedos and stuff.”

This is disappointing on so many levels.

One, I cannot see my nephew in his debut stage performance, and two, my sister clearly lives in a town with a terrible paedophile problem.

I have seen some home movies taken by my sister (not like that, that would be disgusting and I would have to pay good money like all the other customers). They are generally rubbish. Her hands shake and she doesn’t understand the fact that there is a microphone next to her head. If these films were to find their way onto the Internet and into a perverts clutches, then I am sure it would send many paedo’s back onto the straight and narrow.

If you were a Paedo, would a non-denominational non-religious winter celebration really be the best place for you? Not being able to go, I can not be sure of the dress code, but I would imagine a silver jump suit and platform boots would stand out a little bit.

It is political correctness gone barmy. I can understand banning all sexual deviants from school plays (so long as they don’t mind people who enjoy a little bit of ‘experimentation’ that is still frowned upon in certain parts of America), but how is banning parents from filming their child helping anyone?

There is a knock at the door.

I answer it to three youths, of about 16, who start singing in a dreadful voice.

“Siiiiilent Night, Hoooooly night..”

This takes me by surprise in two ways. Firstly, I thought I was about to be robbed by burglars too lazy to break in, and secondly, because I have never heard a Christmas carol sung by someone in a hoodie. This is what it must be like for Simon Cowell in the early rounds of X-Factor.

Rather than simply tell them how bad they are, I decide to show them how it should be sung. This is just one of the ways in which I am better than Simon Cowell.

“ALLLLL IS CALMMM, ALLLL IS BRIGHT!!!” I vocalised loudly.

It is fair to say this took them by surprise. One of them stopped, but the other two carried on. Fair play to them, you need to have determination if you’re going to make in this game.

“Round Your Virgin, Mother and Child…” they continued, watching me intently.

“HOOOOLY INFANT SO TENDER AND MILD!!” I responded.

I was better, louder and more lyrically accurate. It was a bit like playing singstar on the Playstation against complete strangers. I did not celebrate this victory in thier faces however, I understand that not everyone can be as talented as me.

I was somewhat dumbstruck when they held out a santa hat as if I was going to give them some money. Surely they owed me money? I sang back at them, louder and closer to the actual tune, just.

If I had given them money, it would be like me paying someone to come round and play guitar for me. I am better, so I don’t need you, and would say no give the choice, which I wasn’t.

“Angry dear, do you have any idea what you would like for Christmas?”

This is a question I get asked, every year, by members of my family. We are not a particularly creative group, so if you don’t ask for something specific, the chances are you’ll get a Book, or a Christmas Jumper. Or both if they are feeling unusually generous.

“How much do you want to spend?” I asked in return.

This question often causes some consternation, but I do not understand why. I work in an environment where if people want to buy something, one of the first things you must do is find out how much they have to spend. It is good business practise, it expedites a swift conclusion the transaction and ensures both parties are clear on where this commercial relationship is going.

I see no reason why this shouldn’t be applied to your personal life.

“I’m not telling you that!”

“In that case I want one of the following, a Bose sound-dock for my iPod, a new Sony Vaio laptop, or a new BMW 3 Series Coupé. Your choice”

“You’re just being silly now.”

No, actually. I am being realistic. What is the point of me naming a present that costs ten pounds if you were planning on spending £30 on me? I am doing myself out of £20 worth of potential gifts. That is being silly.

The same principle works in reverse. Just before I go Christmas shopping after lunch on Christmas Eve to buy my families Christmas presents, I call each of them in turn.

“What do you want for Christmas? I am in HMV, and have £15 with your name on it. You have 20 seconds or you get vouchers.”

If focusses the mind, and takes much of the stress out of Christmas shopping. You should all try it.

Have you ever photocopied your arse?

I haven’t, in case you thought that was where this post was going.

I don’t actually think it is possible to photocopy your arse. From a practical standpoint, I mean. Photocopiers these days have a myriad of complicated options, other than simply pressing the Copy button, so a simple copying procedure is no longer the ‘norm’. Multifunction devices today have more options than a modern Space Shuttle and the menu’s are hard enough to decipher the right way up, never mind upside down if you are sat with your bare arse on the glass. Rather than simply copy your arse, you could just as easily email it to the entire office.

And what about greyscale or colour? If the technology is available why not use it? Or maybe you have a bottom based blemish you would rather not share in full Technicolour. And what about the re-sizing options? I know a number of women who would jump at the chance to use that feature.

“Here Angry, look, I photocopied my arse!”

“No you didn’t. This arse looks like it belongs to Kate Moss, yet yours would be more at home on the back of a Rhino.”

Then there is the process of actually getting up onto the photocopier. With your pants around your ankles. Anyone who has tried to get anywhere in a hurry with their pants around their ankles will know that this not an easy thing to do. Which suggests you would have to take your trousers off completely, eliminating the quick getaway and the possibility of getting them back on if you heard someone coming.

So, with all that said, have you ever photocopied your arse?

Our company has decided to dispense with paper Christmas cards this year, and each of our customers, partners and suppliers etc. will be receiving an emailed electronic card instead.

My first thought, as a sceptical and cynical bastard, is that this is to save money. However, I was assured that the money saved would be donated to charity. Again, I was sceptical at best, entirely disbelieving at worst.

Then the email came round asking staff to nominate their favourite charity so we could decide who should receive our donation. My suggestion of giving the saved money to the Campaign Against Substandard Housing (”Just use the acronym for the cheque and I’ll deposit it for you”) was met with a polite “Fuck off Angry”.

In the end the office settled on the NSPCC. That is the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Chickens, or something. I was told the marketing budget for Christmas cards, £250, would be deposited as soon as the emails were sent. Which was due to be Friday.

Then the Marketing Manager came to see me.

“We have a problem.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve just been onto the NSPCC, told them about the donation, and said we’d like to put their logo and a link to their organisation on the eCard so people can see where the money has gone, and possibly visit the site themselves, so any sceptics like you will know it is a real donation.”

“And?”

“Well, the NSPCC wants a minimum donation of £750 to use their logo on the eCard, but if we can’t use the logo, I think we should give it to someone else.”

So that’s what we did.

Barnardo’s is now £250 better off because the NSPCC wanted a £750 minimum donation. I hope they are pleased with themselves, I’ll bet there are chickens being tortured to death all over the UK tonight because of their money grabbing ways.

When did giving to charity become such big business?

Despite appearances, I can not do everything, everywhere, all of the time.

This is why we have Experts. Someone to rewire your house, fix your car’s engine, or stitch your face back together after you called your girlfriend by the wrong name during a heated intimate moment.

If there is a task at hand, and you have little or no experience of it, then it is worth bringing in an expert to shed some light on the situation. This is why the Suffolk Police brought in Dr Ian Stephen to help them with their suspected serial killer. He has worked on previous serial killer cases and even advised fat man Robbie Coltrane on TV’s Cracker.

And this what he had to say.

“[the killer is] probably male, white, in his late 20s, 30s or 40s, and is someone who probably had been let down by women in his past.”

Well, thank you Dr Ian, that really narrows it down a bit, doesn’t it?

A white man between 20 and 50 who has been let down by women at some point in his past. That will be every white man between 20 and 50 then. If they has said a white man between 20 and 50 who hadn’t been let down by women at some point then we’d have a really fucking tiny sample to work with.

I know you are thinking, “This is a woman-hating post Angry, stop it!”, but you are wrong. I do not hate women. However, I think it is fair to say that there are a few women in my past who will be getting a Xmas gift package that includes, Stiletto’s, fish-net tights, a micro-dress and a one way ticket to Ipswich.*

Anyway, I am not an expert (in serial killer cases, I am obviously an expert at lots of other things), but I think I could add to his profile, even with my limited experience in serial killers (I have seen episodes of CSI featuring serial killers).

I would say he probably drives a car. And lives in Suffolk. And is probably a little bit fucking crazy.

That’s three more details, now we have six of them. Should I contact the Police to offer my insight?

* Yes, yes, I know it was bad taste, but cliff started it. Console yourself with the fact I will burn in hell.

I have joined a band!!!*

I had originally just gone to meet some people off of the Internet for a drink, but this is how quickly things can change in the 21st Century world we live in.

I was quite pleasantly surprised at how lovely all the women were. None of them were really 50 year old men and no-one tried to rohypnol me. If I had known that nice women like this hung out on the Internet I could have saved myself a fortune in trying to get them drunk in discotheques all these years.

The conversation was flowing, and that is how it began.

“I’m currently just getting my band together”, was this lady’s reply to the question of what she was doing with her days now that she had quit the Rat Race to become a full-time artiste and Charmed viewer.

I immediately flashed back to my final year at University and to playing rhythm guitar to a room packed full of eager punters, all showing their appreciation for the talent of the ‘band’ by continuing their conversations and refusing to look at me, or the other people playing instruments.

This obviously meant that I had the type of essential gigging experience that could prove invaluable to Léonie in her fledgling career.

“I could play rhythm guitar!” I exclaimed perhaps a little too enthusiastically.

“There aren’t any difficult chords are there?” I swiftly added, qualifying the situation. “It’s just that I’m not good with anything that isn’t a simple major or minor chord. Barr chords give me a bit of trouble too if the truth be known.”

She tested me on three chords, but as I have a memory like an Elephant that has spent years playing with Brain Training on the Nintendo DS, I knew them all (A, C and the ever-so-tricky D for the musos out there). So I passed my audition with flying colours.

Greavsie then auditioned for the role of maracas soloist, and gave a performance that even Bez would have been proud of.

We will be playing a kind of music that is like a fusion between Faithless and Shirley Bassey. Betty says our first song will be called “Goldfinger is a DJ.”

I believe these three ladies are going to be the backing singers. I think. I was off daydreaming of super-stardom and morally questionable groupies obsessed by technically limited guitarists by this point.

Apparently the band uniform includes nipple tassels, but I think I must have misheard them. Didn’t I?

I will let you all know when our first performance is, but for now I am still awaiting confirmation of the location and time of the first rehearsal. Léonie?

* Changed for legal reasons.

I have a thing about fixing elections. It is both bad and wrong.

Plus I think it might be borderline illegal.

Anyway. Despite this, I believe that in this case it be should actively encouraged.

My flatmate (the twat) nominated JonnyB* for a Weblog of the year award. In their infinite wisdom they saw fit to include him in their shortlist alongside blogs that, frankly, are not my cup of tea. That is not to say that serious political blogs do not have thier place, it is just I prefer JonnyB. And so should you, if you are reading this.

So, in place of a normal post, I would ask each of you to click here and vote for JonnyB’s Private Secret Diary. It is a vote for entertainment, and against further boring political discussion that is better suited to the world of Internet forums than blogs. In fact, JonnyB’s biggest rival in this award uses forums rather than blogging comments. A sign they are not a proper blog?

If you want the Internet to continue having content as good as what JonnyB produces (according to my flatmate) then do as I say.

Anyway, enough of who is better than who, just go here and vote JonnyB, you know it makes sense.

Once you have voted, leave a comment so I can add you to my not-actually-all-that-evil list.

* Other humorous blogs are available. Probably.

I sat on my sofa intently watching my team, Aston Villa, in action against Sheffield United on the the Monday Night Football Special on Sky Sports 1.

The game was on a knife-edge. It was 2-2 with 20 minutes to go, and the action was end to end.

Chunk!

My entire world went black in an instant.

My first thought was that a recent attempt at rewiring a dimmer switch in the front room had finally backfired in spectacular fashion. Then I noticed the entire street was in darkness. Was it a terrorist attack? If you were aiming for maximum disruption to the lives of the infidel masses, then the last 20 minutes of the Monday Night Football is as good a time as any to launch your offensive. I think Al Qaeda prefer Rugby .

Then my mobile rang. One of my female friends (and a close neighbour) was also blacked out, suggesting that the blackout was covering an area of at least a few square blocks. I then realised that this is what it must have been like in the Blitz. Luckily I react well under pressure and am always well prepared for every eventuality, and so I suggested she come and pick me up in her car so I could borrow some candles and a lighter from her.

She drove me round the block to her flat, where we realised that the electric gates to her complex would not work, so we could not get in. I looked at the gates and planned the best method of clambering over them. I was just about to explain to my female friend how she should best attempt the climb when…

Chunk!

The lights came back on!

I guessed there were at least ten minutes of the match to go so we dashed back to her car, jumped in, started the car, performed a three point turn, checked both ways, agreed that nothing was coming, turned down the radio, and then drove the 100 yards back to my flat. As we pulled up outside, I opened the door and sprinted to my own front door, key in hand.

Chunk!

The world went black again.

Clearly someone up there didn’t want me to see the end of the match.

Damn those Rugger supporting terrorists.

(The match finished 2-2 in case you are interested)

“I’ll have a 6 inch club on wheat please,” I say to the hygienically wrapped youth at the local Subway.

I do like a Subway sandwich every now and again, and the one around the corner from the office is getting a bit more business from me than is perhaps healthy. Oh well, it is nearly Christmas!

“Would you like Cheese with that?” he said after approaching the halfway point in the assembly of my lunch.

“Yes please.”

He put the cheese on, and moved to the salad portion of the sandwich making conveyor counter.

“Would you like Salad?”

“Well, yes, but can I have it toasted first?” I like my sandwiches toasted you see. It is like having a proper meal if it is warm. Getting it toasted is the single biggest differentiator they have compared to the variety of the other non-toasting sandwich vendors in the vicinity.

“I’m afraid the grill has been a little temperamental this morning, and we can’t tell when it is going to work and when it is not.” he said before gesturing towards the salad.

“So you’re not even going to try it?”

“Well, I think I’m going to give it a little bit longer to calm down and try it later,” he explained, as if his grill was a three year old child sent to the naughty step to have a little think about its behaviour.

“Can’t you try it now?”

“I don’t think it will work, it is best we leave it.”

“So you want to leave it, hoping it will work for customers you ‘might’ get later on, at the expense of one standing right in front of you right now? Namely me?”

The weight of my argument began to register with him, and after looking at my half-made sandwich, and then back at me he spoke.

“Would you like me to try it right now?”

“Yes please.”

My sandwich made its way into the super-fast grilling machine (I think this is the technical term) and he pressed a button.

Nothing, whatsoever, happened.

He glanced back me with a look that screamed, “See! I am the sandwich making professional in this relationship, I said it wouldn’t work, and it didn’t work. You are an idiot!”

The rest of the transaction was completed with the usual business like efficiency, and I took my cold sandwich back to the office.