I am livid

There is nothing to see here.

After an exceptionally heavy weekend, I seem to have damaged my brain and other vital organs, now I no think so good.

Normal service will be resumed tomorrow.

Comet has provided material for this site before.

They are good like that, if a bit shit at the, you know, Customer Services bit. However, Fat Jim has discovered a new service that they offer which can provide literally hours of free entertainment. He found it after being banned from just about every Internet dating site in the UK, and spending a few days looking for ways to chat to women on-line in ‘non-traditional’ ways. Comet provide one such way.

Basically, if you put an item in your shopping basket on their website, and then go to check out, it gives you the opportunity to chat, via an Instant Messaging Service, with a customer service representative who is tasked with helping you with your purchase decision.

I was bored whilst eating my sandwich at lunch on Wednesday, so I decided to give it a go.

Welcome to the Comet Live Chat service.
Your estimated wait time is 0 mins and 7 seconds.
While you are waiting, please type your question into this secure chat box and press send when our Live Chat Agent accepts your chat.

Chat Information You are now chatting with Emma.

Emma: How can I help you today?
You: Hello Emma, that is a lovely name, I am looking at the Hoover HNU27 1AFF upright Freezer and I have a couple of questions before finalising my order.
Emma: Sure. How can I help you in this?
You: I am struggling to picture just how much room 6.4 cubic feet of space actually is?
You: I want to make sure it large enough for my very specific needs
Emma: I am sorry, we do not have the access to provide product information. You would be able to find out detailed information about the product, under “specifications” tab in the product description page. Or call our customer care at 08705 425 425, and they would be able to provide more information on this.
Emma: The customer care lines are open as follows:
Emma: Monday - Friday: 8.30AM - 8PM Saturday: 8.30AM - 6PM Sunday: 10AM - 5PM
You: OK, but in your opinion do you think it would hold a medium-sized human being? Hypothetically?
You: You know, slim build, average height, blond hair etc etc.
Emma: I am sorry. I am not an expert in the product. Please call the aforesaid number to help you in this.
You: What if something with a really good sense of smell were to walk past it, something like a dog. A specially-trained smelling dog for example.
You:Could a dog smell what was inside?
Emma: I do not know. I am sorry for not being much helpful in this.
You: That is OK
You: It also says it is frost free, so I could leave it for a prolonged period of time and it would still be OK on it’s own.
Emma: Yes. It is frost free. You would be able to find out detailed information about the product, under “specifications” tab in the product description page
You: I only need to leave it long enough to let the heat die down a bit, maybe a couple of months, you know?
You:And finally, are your delivery people discrete?
Emma: To make the delivery more convenient, on the day of delivery, the driver will call you and keep you informed about the estimated arrival time at your property for delivery at least two hours in advance. If your delivery is an early bird delivery, you will receive a call in the evening before to confirm this. Still, if you miss the delivery, please don’t worry. We will deliver it again. This will happen regardless of the delivery service you choose.
Emma: It’s absolutely worth the money that you are paying. Comet guarantee to deliver your product when we say we will, or we will give you your delivery charge back.
You: I’m sure they’re good, but I just want to make sure they are discrete, no-questions-asked kinda guys
You: I don’t need them to be asking lots of questions right now
Emma: They will never ask. However our drivers will check for any access issues when they call. If you could detail the access issues in the special instruction box on the delivery slots page that will give them advance warning
You:That sounds sweet.
You:How quickly can you deliver? It’s just with the warm weather at the moment I could really do with it asap, to prevent further decomp….er, decompression sickness?
You: I’m afraid if I don’t get the ‘item’ frozen soon it will be ruined forever
Emma: May I know the postcode of your area to check on the delivery slot?
You: OK, SL4 XXX
Emma:Thanks for the information.
You:but that is between you and me, it goes no further OK?
Emma: Let me check that for you.
You: I will deny it if you tell anyone. Even in a court of law if I have to
Emma: Please wait a moment.
Emma: The earliest delivery date available to your area would be Sunday 29th April if you opt in for Standard Delivery and Thursday 3rd May if you opt in for Free Delivery. You will be able to select the other available delivery dates in the “Delivery Slots” page during the checkout process.
You: 29th? that is six days away. Hmmm.
You: I suppose if I wrap it in cling film till then it might be OK till then, if I keep it in the shade.
Emma: I am sorry. As I said earlier I am not an expertise in the product. Please call the aforesaid number and they will be able to help you more on this.
Emma: Is there anything else I can help you with?
You: I don’t think so Emma. So long as I have your word that anything said here will go no further.
You:I value discretion very highly, you have to in my line of work, it is a matter of life or death
Emma: Sure.
Emma: Goodbye, and thank you for using Comet’s Live Chat Service. To help us improve our service, please take a few seconds to complete our online survey, it will appear when you close the chat window.
You: You take care now Emma

I challenge each of you to give it a go, select a random item to put into the Shopping basket, and take it from there. I will post the best ones up here, if anyone can be arsed to send them in via email of course.

Fat Jim and I could argue about anything, and I really do mean anything.

“Yeah, well, my mate Gay Pete took two weeks off school just so he could go and have a load of wanks in the woods.” said Fat Jim proudly.

Fat Jim and I were sat in the pub debating about who had the weirdest mates from ‘back home’ and during our school days. He had clearly just raised the ante.

“Well, my mate Mad Mike used to shit himself on demand when he got bored in class. He once did it twice in a single day.” I retort, basking in the glory of my Comprehensive School education.

“Gay Pete now claims to have bummed someone at every stop of the Northern Line.”

I wrack my brains, but I simply do not know anyone who has bummed people at a large enough number of Tube stations to even attempt a further raise to the stakes. My circle of friends are clearly all boring, sexually-repressed idiots.

“That is very nice Fat Jim. Unfortunately, I have absolutely no idea what Mad Mike is up to now, but I sincerely hope he is sat in some dull staff meeting somewhere, trying to force out an arse-baguette in order to liven up the proceedings.”

It is strange arguing with someone as to who had the weirdest, most unconventional background. I really should have spent less time playing sports as a youth, and more time with the weirdos at school, then maybe I would have won the pint that was resting on this bet.

Next week we are going to see who has had the weirdest girlfriends, and I think I will be getting my pint back.

Last year I wrote about an episode in the late 90’s where Denis Leary stole my joke. I was obviously angry at the time, but I felt confident that after outing him on the Internet, to literally dozens of computer literate nerds, he would have been shamed into learning his lesson. For good.

Oh how wrong I was!

I sat in front of my television the yesterday evening, working my way through a week of Sky+ recorded programs, one of which is Rescue Me. For those that do not know, it is a drama on Sky One about a New York fire department and their post 9/11 traumas. I am not sure what happened on the 9th November, but apparently it was very traumatic. The premise might not sound funny, but it is.

As I sat there watching, a scene began in which Denis Leary was berating and questioning a Muslim taxi driver about his religion, and all the virgins he was supposed to get in heaven.

“Wouldn’t that be, y’know, a bit useless?” he said to the cab driver, as I sat bolt upright thinking, “Don’t you dare mention having some prostitutes in there!”

“I’d prefer to have a few whores” he continued, before explaining how you would have much more fun than just having virgins up there for all of eternity.

I will concede that once could be an incredible coincidence, I will grant him that, but twice? He is clearly getting his material from here! Honestly, this is just one more way in which Bill Hicks and I are exactly the same, apart from the smoking and the being dead bit.

I fully expect to see an episode later in the series where he accidentally drops a condom on the counter at a supermarket in front of a pretty checkout girl.

It was my nephew’s Christening a couple of Sundays ago. This provided an opportunity for my extended family to get together and do what second generation Irish families do. Drink. A lot.

I was met at the church by a couple of my cousins, who asked what I had done to my arm (as I was still in a sling at this point).

“Oh, he dislocated it snowboarding, it’s quite a funny story actually.” interrupted my Uncle.

“I…er…wha…how did..?”

“Oh, your Dad told me about your website so I read about it last week. And how was your Chinese the other night?”

“My Dad? He….wha…?”

There is a reason that I do not use my real name on this site. It is so that people who know me, will not know this is me. Those people include people I work with, clients, friends, and in many cases, family.

It turns out my mother, who heard about it whilst I was pissed at Christmas, told her sisters who told their children who told most of the western world, and now most of my extended family read this site. Which is a bit shit in all honesty. Mainly because I can’t now tell you all what a bunch of alcoholic inebriates they are. Even though I would very much like to.

I was planning to use the ‘C’ word quite a bit this week as well, so could all elderly relatives with a weak disposition look away now. Until about July.

On the plus side, I will start dropping Christmas and Birthday present hints in about mid-November so you have no excuse for not getting me something I want.

Whilst reading the papers on Sunday, I noticed there was a great deal of discussion on the terrible shootings at Virginia Tech University by Cho Seung-hui.

Much of it was trying to answer the question, “Who is to blame?”

The was considered opinion blaming the gun laws in the US, the campus security policy, and in surprisingly rare accusation, some even blamed Cho Seung-hui himself for being a total mentalist.

They all seem to have missed the real culprit however. There was a transcript of his morning on that fateful day, and it showed that he killed a couple of people and then went the post office to post his video before returning to the University to kill a further thirty people.

Why are people ignoring this gap between killing two people and killing thirty? Maybe he was done. Until he reached the Post Office.

If any of you have ever tried to post a parcel on Pension Day, then I think you will all be able to spot the real culprit of this horrendous crime. Like most you reading this, I have thought about killing people in just about every visit I have ever made to the Post Office. But luckily I am sufficiently in control of my faculties to realise I should not do this, or at least pretend that this is the case when I am on the Internet.

However, you put a full-on mental person in that same situation - one who has already killed two people that day - and you can surely see how the situation is going to escalate?

Unfortunately it is much easier to blame the pro-gun lobby or the University’s lackadaisical approach to security. It just is not the done thing to point the accusing finger at the good-old Post Office, despite the fact that there is also blood on their hands.

Of course, if this attack had happened in the UK, we would all still be speculating on the reasons for the seemingly senseless killings, as it has only been seven days since he would have given the video to the UK postal service. In fact, we would probably not have got our answers until shortly after the May Bank Holiday. The second one. Next year.

Bodily functions are nothing to be ashamed of. Everyones body creates sights, sounds and smells that we would rather it didn’t, especially at times that can be more than inconvenient. That is just the way it is, we deal with it.

What separates us from the shit-encrusted animals however, is our ability, and willingness, to mask these functions and pretend like they are not there. From the girlfriend that swore blind that she never farted, to the receptionist at work who clearly bathes in perfume, yet insists is just her ‘natural smell’. Everyone does something to cover up these natural emissions. Well, almost everyone.

There is something to be said for the person who can shun social convention and truly accept their body for what it actually is, and what it does. I almost have a begrudging respect for such people. Almost.

Unless of course they are sat next to you on a two and half hour train journey on one of the hottest days of the year so far.

It is obviously a bad sign if you can smell someone before you can see of hear them. Obviously they would make a rubbish spy, or hunter, and would probably starve in the wild as their stench would prevent them from sneaking up on delicious animals to eat.

The smell wafted its way down the carriage to us, and induced a further wave of nausea to compliment the raft of those experienced earlier that day after a long weekend of near-incessant drinking.

Now, I have a mental picture of what a sufferer of Body Odour looks like. You probably do to, right? There will be a definite view of the age, sex, weight and probably dress sense of the individual concerned.

This mental picture meant that I did not expect the owner of this stench to be a young skinny teenage boy with bright ginger hair and no shirt on. Do not get me wrong, it was a hot day, but wandering around a train, shirtless, with a carrier bag full of cheap lager is not considered usual public transport etiquette. Or maybe it is? This is why I drive everywhere.

As he sat down across the aisle from me an attractive young lady two rows up clearly caught a whiff of the carriages newest occupant and looked up in our general direction. As our eyes met, her expression suggested that she thought it was me who was smelly. But I am not smelly! I will admit that the weekend had taken its toll, and I do not shave the weekend anyway, so I did not look my best, but I still did not look like a smelly person.

The human face is great at conveying an array of feelings and emotions, from love, to fear, to loathing, to intimate ‘knowing’ looks. But there is nothing your face can do that says, “It is not me that smells, it is the skinny ginger kid next to me who is getting off his tits on cheap lager.”

So I mouthed, “It’s not me!” and pointed at the ginger offender. I am not sure if she understood, which is frankly disgraceful. There are a lot of deaf people in this country and for her to be so ignorant of lip reading, one of their main life skills, was frankly appalling. She collected her bags and moved to another carriage.

I continued to read the Sunday papers and cursed the mid-pubescent copper-top for ruining another potential chance for me to have sex on a train. With someone else.

I do not like dogs.

There, I said it. I do not understand the human races fascination with such stupid creatures. If lack of intelligence really was a sought after trait in a ‘best friend’, then Fat Jim would have more than two friends (I am not one of them).

The thing about stupid dogs is they do stupid things. Like jumping into the lake in the middle of Roundhay Park without thought to how they would get back out again. Which is precisely what a frankly massive dog did in front of us during a hangover-eliminating walk on Sunday afternoon.

Kersplash!!

As the giant dog splashed around in the water it soon became apparent that the water level was such that there was no way the dog was going to be able to climb out at its point of entry. And the owner, quite sensibly, was not going to go in and get it.

So he walked along the bank, with the dog following in the shallow water, sometimes swimming, sometimes paddling, towards one end of the lake where he could get out. The owner could not even throw the canine retard a life preserver, as the dog was so stupid it would probably try and catch it in its mouth rather than try and put it round its waist like research has suggested is the best way to wear it. In fact, I bet no dog has ever so much as glanced at a ‘Safety in the Water’ manual. Stupid animals.

The lake got dirtier and dirtier, and smellier and smellier, until finally the dog was able to drag itself out of the lake through a bank of fetid mud and sludge, looking not unlike Cujo’s down-on-his-luck sibling. It was stomach-wrenchingly foul.

Then there was the moment of panic where you realise that the most natural thing for that stupid dog to do next, is shake himself dry.

So I did what any self-preservation enthusiast would do. Moving more quickly than I have ever moved in my life, I jumped behind the nearest woman and watched as the dog began to spray foul smelling water and mud all over its owner and random passers by.

Oh how I laughed. Seriously, it was absolutely hilarious.

How could they not have seen it coming?

It is a fact of human nature that when we learn something new, we are compelled to share this new-found knowledge with others. It is one of the reasons that human kind has evolved so quickly compared to say, horses, who selfishly keep their knowledge tightly bound up inside their long heads and do not altruistically share it amongst the equine population.

Unfortunately, one of the downsides of this tendency comes when someone you know learns a new word, and then spends the rest of the day trying to crowbar it into the conversation, simply to illustrate the fact that their total vocabulary has leapt by a single word.

I have a friend like that, his name is Brillo, and I was visiting him in Leeds this weekend just gone.

“What does indignant mean Angry?”

“Well, I guess it is like a softer version of being Angry. When you simply can’t accept someone else’s view or feel like you’ve been wronged in some way.”

Fast forward an hour.

“Are we going for a curry later Brillo?” I asked hopefully.

“I’m not sure, it depends on how indignant I am.”

“Oh. Right.”

Fast forward a further two hours.

“Have you seen that blond over there on the dance floor, she is gorgeous!” pointed out another my friends.

“Hell yeah, she so totally indignant!” winked Brillo.

“No Brillo, you witless retard, that is not how you use it. It is not a term of endearment, it’s generally considered less than flattering when you say it.”

“Oh. Right.”

Fast Forward another hour, and a taxi-rank conversation.

“Oh come on mate, you’ll be back here in no time, way before your fare needs to leave.” said Brillo to the taxi driver awaiting his pre-booked customer outside the club.

“No can do mate, you’ll have to phone the office for another cab.”

“Oh don’t be suck an indignant bastard!”

Brillo looked at me for approval of his outburst, much like a child looks at it’s parent in hope of loving approval after just trying to tie up his shoelaces for the first time. So, like the parent who looks down and sees a knot that appears to have been tied by a Parkinson’s sufferer, I looked over at him and said, “Yeah Brillo, that’ll do. Well done.”

Honestly, some people should simply not learn new words.

“I’d like a return to Kings Cross please, coming back on Sunday.”, I said to the railway station ticket office operative (which is their full title).

I had just rushed to the station in the town where I work in order get the next fast train into London. A pre-paid return to the North was at stake should I be delayed by more than twenty minutes in my trek across the capital.

“Sure, that’ll be £22.80 please.”

I did some on-the-spot mental arithmetic (which I am good at - despite my inability to understand Salvadore’s diagrams. I even have an ‘A’ level in it) and quickly realised this was the same price as two singles.

“Err, hang on a second, that is the same price as two singles”, I pointed out, clearly illustrating that I am no-ones fool.

“Oh yes, we don’t do open returns you see.”

“Okaaay, a single it is.”

Honestly, the Government goes on and on about getting the general public to make more use of the public transport system, and seem genuinely surprised people do not travel everywhere on trains, even though they make it as financial attractive as betting on the Grand National (unless you are the jammiest git in the world).

(It was twenty pounds more expensive to get the train than to drive by the way, but I wanted to do my bit for global warming, for once. Never again though, you and your children’s children can all fucking burn and drown for all I care.)

…box of chocolates.

I have believed for many years that this is worst analogy ever uttered by man. A retarded man, admittedly, but a man nonetheless.

“You never know what you’re gonna get”? Actually no, that is utter bollocks. I know exactly what I am going to get. There is a clear label with helpful illustrations inside the box which makes it incredibly easy to leave the shitty nut-based ones for someone else. If you buy a box of chocolates that doesn’t have this helpful guide, then more fool you.

Of course, my view of this analogy as the worst one ever changed when I attended meeting with our new head honcho last week. This was a meeting where he outlined his vision for the new sales process within our company.

“Selling is just like going out on the pull.”, he started, leaving most of the room desperately wondering how getting horrendously pissed and buying under-the-counter Rohypnol was going to secure multi-million pound IT contracts.

“You have to go out and get the bird, she is not going to come to you, and sitting at home on the Internet responding to lonely hearts adverts isn’t going to get you any blow-jobs!”.

I think it is fair to say that at this point I was beginning to warm to him. Anyone who can use the term blow-job in a motivational presentation is OK by me. Of course, I had no idea what I was being motivated to do at this point, but it was definitely working.

“Just like all of you here, this company has it’s ideal type of woman. She is beautiful, blond and with big tits.” he continued, to the now completely enthralled crowd.

“Let me be clear, from this point onwards, this company no longer fucks midgets!” he finished with a flourish. I stifled the urge to heckle him with an “Oh! Booooo!” or to point out that a lot of people, like my mate Dan, find the ‘little people’ fascinating in a wholly inappropriate way.

Honestly, I cannot wait until the next company night out so we can test his theory.

A bottled beer known as “Rubbel Sexy Lager” (I am not making that up) has been banned from sale in the UK. This is because the lager comes in bottles which have a label with a naked lady under a ’scratch-off-able’ bikini.

Apparently, this banning of the most brilliantly named beer ever to grace these shores, is due to an advertising law which states that you cannot link alcohol to sexual success in your sales messages, ever.

This is, in a word, madness. Utter, chicken-suit wearing, window-licking madness. In the last few hours I have watched television advertisements where deodorant has been linked to sexual success, where cars have been linked to sexual success, and even one where yogurt was ever-so subtly linked to sexual success.

Yet despite all of this sexual innuendo thrusting itself at me from my television screen, the one product that can arguably guarantee you sexual success - if you can get the other party to drink enough of it - cannot, by law, be linked to helping you get a shag.

Somewhere, somehow, everything has been fucked up.

The authorities have clearly got their priorities all wrong. They should be out there investigating the instances of grown men buying Renault Clio’s, and then not being instantly fellated by a gorgeous French women whilst on their inaugural country drive. Or cases of professional adult males who are not, as suggested, running for their lives from scantily clad Amazonian goddesses armed with an air guitar and wah-wah pedal, but in fact, merely smell like every other fourteen year-old Chav that also smothers them self in Lynx.

Surely they can not justify this move on the basis of public health? It is not as if the Belgian Sexy Lager is going to make you ‘binge drink’. I mean, curiosity might make you buy one, just to see how good her tits are and stuff. But once you have seen them, are you really going to buy another twenty bottles? If they want that to happen they are going to have to add a bit of intrigue, and maybe introduce a picture-based storyline like they do in the Sun.

It is time for the consumer to make a stand, and I ask each of you to play your part. So, when you head of to the pub this evening to begin the weekend, be sure to include a request for Rubbel Sexy Lager in your round.

I like playing sports. I like watching sports. There is something about the physical endeavor it requires, the element of competition, the stretching of yourself and the monumental efforts of the team you play in or support, that draw me in. I would have loved to have been a professional sportsman. Or an Astronaut.

I do not however, like pantomimes. The so-called comedy theatrics, the costumes, the mind-numbing inevitability of it all, and worst of all, the clichéd cringe-worthy audience participation.

So, when these two pastimes are combined, I find myself furious at the tarnishing of activities referred to as ’sports’.

Let us be clear. Wrestling is not a sport. It is a show, much like ‘The Miserables’ or that one with all the people on roller-skates pretending to be trains. Just because the people train, and look like trained killers does not make it a sport.

“Did you see Wrestlemania at the weekend Angry? It was ace!” asked my colleague Dave upon my return to the office last week.

“What, in the name of fuck, makes you think that I would watch that thinly-veiled homo-erotic pantomime of a sports event?”

“Come here”

SMACK!

“Fucking hell Angry, what was that for?!”

“It was because you are a twenty-five year old man who watches children’s television at all hours of the night. It is both sad and wrong. And I hate you. Now go away and do not come back until you’ve got some proper conversation topics for real adults.”

We spent the afternoon talking about tits by the way.

I like to know what my neighbours are up to, and I am sure that you do to. There is nothing worse that realising one of your neighbours has a better television than you, or has somehow managed to gain an extra couple of inches to their garden by encroaching on the path at the back.

Which is why I generally applaud changes in legislation that allow us to keep better track on those that live around us. Legislation like this.

I would imagine that if you have young children, or have a particularly young looking baby-face, then knowing that there is a pedophile living close by is a useful piece of knowledge. I am sure that the only thing worse that having a pedo chase after one of your kids is having a pedo chase after you.

“Leave me alone, I am twenty seven years old! I just have a baby face! Honestly, you are the worse pedophile ever!”.

But as with most things, a little bit of knowledge can be dangerous.

This new law is being trialled in a place called Wansdyke, and will allow residents of the borough to see how many Pedophiles live close by. Now, what concerns me more more than a town sounding like a member of the aristocracy referring to their illegitimate lesbian daughter, is what will happen when we find out just how bad the pedo situation is where we live.

What if you happen to live in a particularly rife Pedo hotspot?

Consider the fact that Pedos, despite being the reclusive predators they are, probably give as much thought to the location of their home as young parents. In that case, a popular school equals a good community to raise a child, but also a plentiful hunting ground. All I am saying is that it might be worth considering a property with a thirty mile round trip to the local school.

On the other side, God help you if you happen to be a single man who has recently moved to an area with a higher than average Pedo density.

“Hello, I am Mrs Wharburton from next door. This casserole is for you, to welcome you to the neighbourhood. Now, I don’t suppose you are a fan of 70’s glam rock? No? Perhaps I could have a quick rifle through the photos on your computer, just to be on the safe side, hmmm?”

The pitch-forks would be sharpened at the merest hint of your property purchase.

Which leads nicely onto the subject of property prices. The price of property in this country is much like the price of anything (that isn’t managed by government, EU, oppressive taxation etc.) in that it is subject to the laws of supply and demand.

If something were to happen in your area that suddenly dropped the demand and raised the supply of available property, something like a bus load of pedos moving in for example, can you guess what would happen to your house price? If 10% of the equity in your home was obliterated overnight because a pervert moved in at the end of the road, what would you do?

I am not asking for a full name-and-shame policy. Far from it. I believe that Pedos are just as entitled to their anonymity as you or I, but only once they have been fully castrated and locked in a cell for the rest of the (un)natural lives.