I sometimes find myself humming a tune as I go about my day-to-day business. Perhaps I’ll let out a lyric or two. Every now and then I will even put on my iPod and listen to some proper music, but, not since the days of the 80’s ghetto-blaster have I carried music around with me in a system that everyone can hear.

Which is why I have some sympathy with the trend for today’s discerning chav to use his mobile phone as the worst ghetto-blaster ever invented.

I have heard people say small is beautiful, well, apart from Kylie Minogue, that is frankly bollocks. Nothing the size of a deck of cards is ever going to make a sound good enough to be heard by more than one person. Yet still they persist in playing their tinny, bassless techno-tunes in public spaces.

Due to my shoulder injury I have had to use the Bus more than I normally do (which is not at al, in normal circumstances), and one morning this week, a chromasomely challenged youth was using his phone as a stereo. I will admit to thinking it was just a really long ring-tone at first. In fact, I almost shouted, “Answer the fucking thing will you!”, until I noticed his nodding head along with the ‘beat’.

I learnt a few things in the next couple of minutes. For example, I can tell you now, from experience, that they do not like it when you dance to their music.

Also, phrases such as, “This has got a great beat!” and “Mash it up rude boy!” are frowned upon.

If one thing is guaranteed to make a chav re-evaluate his use of a mobile phone as a stereo, it is having a man in a suit and a sling dancing badly, right next to him on the bus.

I knew that one day all those years of watching my Dad and Uncles dancing at family get-togethers would pay off. I did not realise that this day would be it.

You can try to sing along if you recognise the song, or simply dance right next to them, do whatever takes your fancy. Just do not ignore it.

My record now stands at getting them to turn it off in less than twenty seconds. Can you beat that?

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“Hello yes, I’d like a Sweet and sour chicken, Hong Kong style, and…” I said to the man who stood in front of me in my local Chinese take-away as he noted my order.

Ring Ring!

“Just one moment”, he said answering the phone, “Yes please….uh huh…. uh huh…… uh huh…… uh huh….. OK, anything else?……uh huh……and your name?…… uh huh…… that’ll be ten minutes, see you then”

He handed the telephone order to the kitchen, then he returned his attention to me.

“Yes Sir?”

“OK. We are quite busy, so it will be about fifteen minutes.”

This did not add up.

“Hang on, you just told the man on the phone it would be ten minutes?”

“I am sorry, but we always answer the phone.”

Clearly, as I am already here and waiting, he will get my order regardless, whereas an unanswered call could result in lost business for the restaurant. I understand the commercial reasons for his behaviour, but I do not want to wait the extra five minutes.

“I am not happy, I want my order in ten minutes, as it would have been had you not answered the phone.”

“Err, Certainly Sir.”

I sat back to read What Car magazine from November 2004 and awaited my food. Various people came and went for phoned-in orders, and eventually my food appeared. After fourteen minutes.

Now, normally I would behave in a slightly different manner than this passive acceptance of poor customer service, but you cannot be too careful when people are preparing your food. Especially when in the best case scenario it probably already contains some dog.

From now on, in the same situation I will say to anyone looking to answer the phone, “I have made the effort to come here in person, if you answer that phone I am walking out!”.

Unless I am really hungry of course, or in dire need of Kung Po Chilli Chicken, or can’t be arsed to cook. Being an altruistic consumer warrior can only sustain you for so long.

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The baboon is an animal that is well known to all adolescent school children. This is because it attracts a mate by baring its bright red arse. When you are fourteen that is a funny thing. In fact, when you are twenty-twelve it is still a fucking hilarious thing.

Honestly, bared-arse gags do not get old. Ever.

At some point in the history of evolution, primates decided to change their pulling techniques from bright red arses to chat-up lines, witty conversation and alcohol. This switch from showing your arse might have been due to the inclement weather, or maybe because some clever monkey invented knickers. I do not know.

What I do know, is that for tens of thousands of years, man has not relied on baring his arse in order to attract a mate. Unless pissed.

Which is why I am am confused by this apparent return to practises unseen for millenia.

It appears to have become fashionable to wear your pants below your arse. This seems like a step backwards to me, and perhaps a sign that traditional pulling techniques really are dead?

Jeans are not designed to be worn below the arse, they have a waist, designed to go around the bit above the arse, with a belt and that. I recognise that I am not that trendy any more, and a career in fashion is unlikely to beckon, but I fail to see the attraction in wearing a pair of jeans in a way that prevents you walking up stairs?

I can only assume this is mother natures way of reversing evolution, and that this is the first step on our journey back to the swamp. Perhaps it is now only a matter of time before our IQ’s drastically diminish and we abandon all recognised social conventions.

I shudder when I think that Jade Goody really could be a vision of the future.

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I forget things from time to time.

Not in the way that old people beyond their mid-thirties do, I mean in a my-mind-is-actually-elsewhere kind of way. I can forget my keys, my wallet, or perhaps my phone. This will see me reach quickly to the pocket where I would expect to find the potentially forgotten item, usually to find it was there all along.

Normally I find what I was looking for quite quickly, and my hand returns to whatever it was doing before the brief moment of panic.

However, one thing I have never forgotten are my genitals.

Which is why I am bemused by this new fad for young men to walk around with their hands down their pants. I can only assume, that like me, they feel they might have forgotten them, and are simply looking for testicular reassurance. Thinking you have left your genitals at home must be a horrible experience, probably worse than forgetting your phone.

You would have to check, immediately, irrespective of where you are, and I would imagine it would be very disconcerting indeed to find they were not there. But for these kids it must be a genuine fear, especially when you consider the amount of time the hand spends in there.

Of course, perhaps this is an dumbed down version of the socks-down-your-pants effect when trying to make yourself look bigger in that area? I mean, a fist isn’t too dissimilar in size from a pair of socks (regular not ski).

Perhaps someone should tell them that you can actually see the hand leading into the pants, which somewhat ruins the desired bigger-balled effect. If I could offer one piece of advice it would be to try and slip a hand in from the rear, it would be a little more awkward, and the walk wouldn’t be as cool, but at least it wouldn’t be so obvious. Probably.

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My mobile phone rings, as it does from time to time.

It is 7:30pm so the call is unlikely to be work related, but the number starts with 0808 which is a prefix I do not recognise. I expect it will be a sales call of some sort, but just to be sure, I answer it tentatively.

“Hello?”

“Hello, this is a call from Vodafone UK. Unfortunately we have been unable to connect this call, if you would like to stop receiving these calls, please dial [a number I have forgotten]. Thank you and apologies for any inconvenience caused.”

The automated voice hangs up.

This is a first. I have never before been called, by anyone, to tell me that they cannot get through to me. Normally when people cannot get through to me they stop at the ‘not being able to get through to me’ bit. Then, next time they do get through to me they say, “I tried to get through to you last time, but I couldn’t”. I accept this. It is the normal way of the world.

Vodafone clearly do things differently. Being the understanding chap that I am, I would have been happy to assume that the lack of contact from them meant that they couldn’t, or didn’t want to, get through to me. I would even be quite happy if when they eventually did get through to me they said, “Sorry Mr Angry, we’ve been trying to reach you for days, but for one reason or another, we couldn’t.”

What will be next? A letter from Royal Mail telling me that they have not been able to deliver the post that I have not yet received? Or Tesco emailing me to let me know that they will not be able to sell me the bread that I have not yet tried to buy?

Unfortunately, I felt like Vodafone had given me some information, and that I was somehow in their debt as a result. So I decided to be proactive about it.

“Welcome to Vodafone, my name is David, how can I help you?”

“If that has caused any inconvenience then I apologise, but hopefully we will speak again when I am interested in buying a new phone. B’bye now.”

Vodafone and I are now quitsies.

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One night when I was a young student at University, I got pissed and ended up playing Rugby in the snow with a few mates who were a bit bigger than me. This led to a fall, an awkward one, and a dislocated right shoulder. A shoddy recovery programme meant it gave me problems for a few years, and I missed many months of football as a result. So, by my mid-twenties it appeared that surgery was my only option if I wanted to continue playing competitive sports.

I did not like that idea, and as I was covered by BUPA at work I visited a local physio who specialised in shoulder rehabilitation, and thanks to her, I have not had any further significant trouble with that shoulder.

Fast forward seven years.

“Hello Mr Angry, this is BUPA member services, how can we help you.”

“Just one moment”

[Cue annoying on-hold music]

“Err, Mr Angry, there is a restriction on your policy regarding shoulder injuries. I am afraid you aren’t covered.”

“OK, let me check.”

[Cue further annoying on-hold music]

“Mr Angry, I’m afraid the restriction doesn’t mention which shoulder it was, it just says shoulder treatment.”

“It would be much easier, and quicker for you, to get your GP to fax us confirming what your previous injury was, and how it is unrelated to the current one.”

And so I spoke to my GP, who I had seen about an hour earlier, and created yet more paperwork for an already overworked service, just because BUPA are such a bunch of cost avoiding shysters. I sometimes forget they are an Insurance company, not a medical one. Claiming from them is not disimilar to making an auto-insurance claim. If they can avoid paying, they will.

Has anyone else had similar trouble getting treatment for a condition they had deemed pre-existing?

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“Achoo!!”

When people sneeze, it is polite to say, “Bless you”. That is the normal social convention. Unless you are Muslim, I do not know their equivalent to Bless You. Perhaps they just avoid sneezing to stop the confusion.

Anyway, I have checked and there is nothing to be found in any etiquette instruction manual about someone sneezing and firing, at a ninety degree angle, a piece of snot onto your strapped up arm. So when this happened to me one evening last week in the chalet, I was breaking new ground.

“Fucking hell Quasifrodo, you snotted me!”

“Sorry mate, I caught most of it, look”, he said, showing me the contents of his hand.

He was factually correct, he had caught most of it, but that did not make the small piece of snot on my arm any less disgusting. Having someone else’s snot on your arm is a million times worse than having your own snot on your arm, which is several times worse than not having any snot on your arm at all.

Snot cannot be shaken off. Even when your arm is functioning normally. So when it is strapped to your chest there is very little chance indeed of it removing itself from your person. So I was forced to find a sink and wash it off.

When I returned Quasimodo was sat in the same chair, with a clenched fist.

“You haven’t washed it off have you?”

“I will in a minute, we are at a very crucial moment in this game of Scrabble!”

He has invited me for dinner when he moves house in a few weeks. I will be taking my own food.

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(continued from yesterday)

The cable car ride down the mountain was uneventful, apart from the strange glances from French people who looked at me like they had never seen such a handsome man ashen-faced with pain. Maybe I was whimpering, I can not be sure, not without CCTV playback which the lazy French have yet to install on all cable cars (to provide tourists with mementos of their visits and the like).

At the bottom, I was greeted by an ambulance. This surprised me. I was sure there were people out there who needed an ambulance more than me, even some French people, but it would have been churlish to pass up a free lift after they had gone to the trouble of arranging it, so I allowed myself to be helped into the van.

Approximately one hundred and fifty yards later, the ambulance pulled up at the Val D’Isere Medical Centre. It is a distinct possibility that it simply crossed the street.

I was helped into the Medical Centre and was immediately seated by a pretty French nurse who proceeded to help me off with my jacket and my snowboard boots. I made a mental note to leave an extra pair of pants at home next year and pack odour eaters instead.

Then I remembered that she was French, and so quite used to body odours. I had showered that morning, so I was probably the freshest man she had ever encountered. This explained why she then took my t-shirt and thermal top off. Just so she could smell me better.

Of course, she then went the through the charade of taking some x-rays of my shoulder in order to justify getting me naked from the waist up, but I know she just wanted to breath me in and check out the guns. Or rather, the gun. My injured arm was looking pretty feeble.

Still topless, I was taken to a bed and asked to wait until the Doctor could see me.

“Sumfeeng for yur pain?” she asked, cutely.

“Oh no, I am fine, honestly. It is nothing. Just a bump” I replied wincing puffy-chestedly.

She wandered off, but it was only thirty seconds or so I before I shifted position, yelped in pain and instantly realised how rude I had been to refuse her offer of pain killers. “Hello? Hello! I’ll take those painkillers now please! The big ones!”, I called out to her, until she returned bearing drugs.

She gave me a couple of pills that began with a ‘T’ and the next hour or so was a bit of a blur. I do, however, vaguely remember paying about €550 in fees to get my snowboard back. That ambulance proved to be the most expensive 150 yard journey I have ever taken.

Thus ended my snowboarding adventures for another year.

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“Whoosh!” went the air against my face as I descended towards the (frankly massive) jump at something approximating terminal velocity.

“Whoosh!” went the air against my face as I ascended skywards.

“Karunk!” went my shoulder as it hit the piste where I had hoped to land my snowboard.

There are moments in life when you immediately know something is wrong. Like the fart that is a little bit wetter than you were expecting, or your entrance to the black tie do you had been guaranteed was really a toga party. But dislocating your shoulder tops them all. It is strange not being able to move your arm when it suddenly feels about a foot longer than it should be.

As I lay face down in the snow I could hear the chuckles from my friends at my little spill. They will take their fully functioning arms and all go to hell to burn for eternity, obviously.

“I think it’s popped out, can you check?” I asked of Quasifrodo.

“Hmm, there is a big gap where your shoulder should be. I’m no doctor, but it feels pretty minging.”

And so one of group was dispatched to fetch help.

In case you didn’t know, a shoulder dislocation hurts. A lot. You women and your childbirth know nothing about the excruciating pain I was experiencing. I would have happily passed a water-melon out of my imaginary vagina just to stop the pain when I shifted position.

Not that I grumbled. Oh no. Well, not apart from the odd, “Don’t fucking touch me you heavy handed cunt!” directed at my friends.

After about 10 minutes a Skidoo arrived with a mountain-based medical professional. “Parlez vous Francais?” he asked me.

“Un peu” I responded, using up twenty percent of my French vocabulary.

He felt my shoulder, or rather the gap where it had been just moments before, and then did his best to strap it up whilst I retreated quietly to my happy place (a deserted beach, a case of fine wine, and a naked Amanda Peet).

I was shaken back to reality as I was asked to ride pillion on the skidoo and my shoulder began to hurt again, in addition to the worrying amount of pins and needles I was experiencing all down my left arm.

“I have a worrying amount of pins of needles up and down my left arm” I said to him.

He nodded and smiled at me as if I had complimented him on what a smashing one-piece he was wearing.

We then accelerated down the mountain to the nearest cable car. Faster and faster, with even greater acceleration as we reached the end of the run I had been leaping down.

Then we hit a bump.

“Kathwunk!!” went my shoulder as it popped back into it’s original position, somewhat painfully.

“AIEEIEIGHAAH!! It has gone back in!!” I shouted over the engine noise.

Again he smiled and gave me the thumbs up as if I had complimented him on his excellent tan. We finally reached the cable car where I sat down and held my arm in the now ill-fitting sling (it had been fitted when my arm was about three inches longer than it now was).

(Continued tomorrow)

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When I was a child there was nothing more annoying than someone changing the rules of a game to suit their own agenda, especially when they were losing.

“No Angry, I said count to one hundred!” she would whine.

“Fuck off, you said fifty you lying slag!” I would articulately retort to my 6 year-old neighbour.

I was reminded of this petty rule changing the week before I went on holiday, when I was sent an email from a friend who had arranged our skiing trip.

“British Airways have reduced the baggage allowance from 32kg to 23kg!!” it leapt from my screen.

This was potentially a problem, so I decided to ring British Airways myself, for clarification. After being on hold for 15 minutes I decided to call the sales line, and after two menu choices and just three rings, I was speaking to a real live person.

“Hello, I am flying to, err, I mean I am thinking of buying a ticket to fly to France this weekend and I am looking for clarification on baggage allowances.”

“Err, yes.”

This led to a frantic final evening of packing whereby I tried various combinations of luggage to keep below the 23kg limit. Unfortunately, it was late, and I did not know where to lay my hands on 23 bags of sugar and giant balancing scales at short notice. So, aided merely by an Internet weight conversion tool, and a set of bathroom scales, I set about weighing the various permutations for my holiday luggage.

I learned a few things during this lengthy exercise, things like the fact that a weeks worth of pants weighs one and a half pounds. Or that you should keep some half used bottles of toiletries handy, because they weigh less than full ones. But most of all, I learned that it is fucking difficult to get all of your sporting equipment and holiday clothing under 23kg.

But finally, after two hours, and at a weight of 22.5kg, I called it a night.

At 7:30am the following morning I reached the front of the fast bag drop at Gatwick airport, and what did their scales tell me?

My bag weighed just 19kg!! After all of my efforts the night before, I was about to make three pairs of pants last seven days for no good reason whatsoever.

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Unshaven, and in a sling, but I am home!

Just a quick post to say thanks again to Betty, The Equine Pimp and (begrudgingly) Fat Jim, for helping man the fort last week. It was not the complete disaster I had expected.

Normal service will be resumed tomorrow. Probably.

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The name of today’s event may make you think of Lenny Henry having a quick tug in a BBC broom cupboard (with or without Gordon the Gopher – it is up to you), but today is a very important day. Very important.

It is my penultimate day of snowboarding!! (edit: or would have been if I hadn’t dislocated my shoulder on Wednesday)

Also, some do-gooders are doing some charity thing on TV, but I am in France so will not be able to see it. It think it is a good idea, as it combines two of my favourite things, laughing, and people less fortunate than me. If you can’t have a good laugh at the expense of people less fortunate than yourself, then what else is there?

I will be getting in the spirit of things by, err, snowboarding drinking and that, whilst the rest of your are laughing heartily at all poor people on the TV. I will be there, laughing with you in spirit, I promise.

Talking of getting into the spirit of it, Mike over at Troubled Diva had an excellent idea about a week ago, and has put together a book of funny things from off of the Blogonetosphere. All in the space of just one week! All profits are going to Comic relief, so I urge you to all go over there and buy a copy. It is for a good cause.

I might have something in the book, unless it has been cut during the editing process (highly likely), so I suggest you go and buy it. After all, if you don’t buy it, less money will be raised, and in two years time they might not think it is worth doing another one. Then where will we be? Watching re-runs of My Family is nowhere near as good as giggling at the under-privileged.

So go and buy the book, and make sure that we can all feel better about ourselves for at least one night in two years time!

Go.

Now!!

UPDATE: The book is available here: Shaggy Blog Stories – a collection of amusing tales from the UK Blogosphere.

I am entry number 66, which essentially means I have been given 65 warm acts, and 34 warm-down acts for those who don’t have to catch the last bus home and have nothing better to do.

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Hello everyone. I had intended to post something myself today, but I had ‘little accident’ in Val D’Isére yesterday afternoon whilst snowboarding. No, not a Fat-Jim-in-Tesco style of ‘little accident’.

Essentially, I have now perfected jumping, but I am still a bit crap at the landing bit.

This has led to a dislocated left shoulder and very slow typing indeed.

There will be a post tomorrow for comic relief, which I wrote before I left, so pop back in the morning.

In the meantime feel free to avail yourselves of the archives to the right. It is not all total shit.

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Ok, OK, I have delayed it long enough, today’s post comes from my least favourite friend, and wannabe Internet superstar, Fat Jim.

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Firstly, the name is James, and I am much better looking than Angry [No he is not - Ed]. This is a story from a few months ago, but Angry has been refusing to use it. He can be mean like that.

I lay in my bed after a standard lad’s night out of excessive binge drinking followed by a dodgy/dog curry, my clammy body stuck to the bed sheets [because he is fat - Ed] and my headache felt like someone was trying to ventilate my skull with a Kango hammer. As I suffered in my own personal hell I was unaware that a text message was winging its way through the ether, and that it was about to change the course of the morning.

Beep Beep!!

It read, “Hi babe, can you make sure you pick up some toilet roll at Tesco’s”

A seemingly unimportant text I flung my phone on the floor as another wave of nausea gripped me and I slipped back into unconsciousness, until 0930 hrs precisely that is, I am very regular that way. I sat bolt upright remembering the text. The dog curry had served its time imprisoned in my guts and was lobbying for an early release date. I did the math(s). I had to get dressed, drive to Tesco, buy toilet roll, drive home, get on the potty.

I could do this by 1000 hrs, easily.

I contemplated some alternative botty cleaning methods. My Granddad had told me that during the war he used a single corner of cardboard in a type of scooping action. He also told me he brushed his teeth with coal and smuggled meat out of a butchers by stuffing it in his gas mask (not all at the same time – and I do hope he washed his hands first).

I was now in Tesco, it was busy, and it was nearly Christmas. I like to think I am pretty competent at finding my way round this store layout. I would make luminous gay-icon Dale Winton proud with my product location knowledge. I was now in the sweating phase off the poo-cycle and was ready to unload. I darted and dodged through the crowds with the skill of Jonny Wilkinson without an injury, straight to Aisle 3.

FUCK.

I stood there bemused for a second or two. “Fucking Tesco bastards have moved the bog roll”, I muttered under my breath. There were several other bewildered male customers staring at the tins of Roses chocolates that stood in where previously the super-soft bum wipes had been. They were probably thinking the same as me, and wondering if they could use the wrapper from a country fudge in the same way my Granddad had used his cardboard.

Panic set in and my vision blurred, the dog curry bubbled inside me like Kracatoa on the edge of a big one. I glanced at the signs hanging in the aisles “Home” “Kitchenware”. FUCK FUCK FUCK, where is it, aisle 4? No, five? No. Six? No.

I was sure that there was nothing much further than that, it’s mainly Crisps Nutts and booze. Why would you move toilet roll at Christmas?! People shit more at Christmas anyway. It’s basic biology, the more you put in, the more that comes out. I couldn’t bear to ask where it was now, and what would the staff think? They would wonder how I ever used to wipe my arse if I didn’t know where to buy it. God damn this would be embarrassing. As I stood there shaking, poisoned by the night before, tensing my rectoral muscles I looked like I was in cold turkey (Aisle 5 btw).

“………..Aisle 12 Sir, next to the Monster Munch”

“Sorry” I replied, “too far. Can you point me to the toilet?”

As I sprinted off I ripped a piece of card from her clip board, just in case.

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