The following morning the hotel suggested visiting the Garda station to report the theft of my wallet, as any insurance claim might require it. The receptionist gave me the most vague directions anyone has received since ET pointed at the sky, and off I went in search of the police station.

Eventually I found it, and a rosey-faced policeman came to the counter, whereupon I explained my situation.

“Did you lose it or was it actually stolen?”

“Well I didn’t chase, or in fact see, the thief, if that’s what you’re asking? But it didn’t jump out of my pocket on the way up Grafton Street either. It was definitely taken.”

I got the distinct impression that pick-pocketing does not actually exist in Ireland? Perhaps the official statistics simply imply that people lose more wallets a year in Dublin than anywhere else in the world? I suppose this is one way to improve the crime rate in the post election period.

He begrudgingly took my answer, that I was definitely a victim of a crime, and disappeared out of sight. A few moments later a different officer appeared.

“Hello, I have some good news and bad news.”

Interesting! I had not given them my name yet, but perhaps my wallet had been handed in (the good news), but all the cash had been taken (the bad news)? I asked for the bad news first.

“Well, the bad news is that you can’t report a stolen wallet here. But the good news is that nearest station where you can report it is only a couple of minutes away on Pearse St.”

This left me more than a little confused. I did not realise that Ireland now had police stations that do not deal with actual crimes. I can only assume that they just do directions for tourists, and perhaps parking permits. It must get very boring for all the policeman that joined up to solve crimes in their community, only to be told, “Oh, crime solving? We don’t do that sort of thing here, what made you think we did? Now, point that tourist in the direction of a pub.”

After this initial set-back, I found a Western Union office just down the road where I would be able to get the money HSBC had transferred for me the previous evening. I was assured on the phone that this would be a very simple procedure.

“How much are yer looking to receive?” asked the guy behind the counter in the broadest Irish brogue I had ever heard.

“Three hundred Euro”

“Ah. I don’t tink dat we’ve got dat koinda money at da moment, like. Sorry.”

So I stood there, waiting, for what seemed like a couple of weeks, whilst an assortment of Eastern European nationals sent money ‘back home’, just so I could collect my money and continue my wasted morning.

Seriously, these immigrants need to stop spending so frivolously on clothing, food and shelter, and start sending more of their money home. Then perhaps people like me can get much swifter access to the cash we need so we can go out and get pissed.

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My journey to Ireland on Saturday was a fairly uneventful one, apart from the getting up at stupid O’clock to catch my flight bit. After meeting up with friends flying in from different parts of the UK we headed to the pub. At 11:30am. We also went for a brief walk around Dublin, saw a few more bars and eventually made our way back up Grafton Street towards Temple Bar looking for a place to have dinner.

We found a reasonable-looking Tapas place and our party of eight was seated at a table in the corner where we ate a lot, and drank even more. Finally, the bill came and it was time to pay.
I checked my pocket where my wallet normally resides, but it was not there. Nor was it in any other pocket. Or my bag. Or my jacket.

It was gone.

“I, err, seem to have lost my wallet.” I sheepishly offered as people were throwing monopoly money onto the table.

“Yeah, right. Anything to avoid paying your share, eh?” joked one of the really really funny people I was having dinner with.

“No, it’s really gone. Fuck.”

So whilst they retired for the evening, I spent the next hour wandering round Dublin in the pissing rain retracing my steps to see if my wallet had some how been left in one of the last two bars we had been in where I had not had to buy a round. For the record, it had not.

I vaguely remembered bumping into someone on Grafton St. and realised I had probably been the victim of a thieving bastard pickpocket. What an utter, utter cunt.

I cancelled my cards, and made arrangements to get access to some cash in the morning, before heading back to my hotel off O’Connell St to get changed into some dry clothes before heading out to get utterly shit-faced in the first bar I could find.

It was an excellent start to the weekend.

Tomorrow : Mr. Angry visits the Garda (twice), and experiences first hand the delights of Western Union.

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As I mentioned a few days ago, I am off to Ireland tomorrow morning for a long weekend and a wedding. I will not be back until Wednesday, so I might not be able to post anything till then.

Whilst I am away I will be scouring the back streets of Dublin searching for Ron’s Pub, as I’m sure that Twenty and his friends would welcome with open arms an Englishman who trades off the fact that he is half-Irish. Honestly, they love that sort of thing over there.

In the meantime I am going to hand over the reigns to you. Yes you. Yes, I really do mean you. (No, not you Fat Jim).

I have spent the last 18 months or so writing about things that have annoyed me from time to time. Now it is your turn. Consider the next few days open season at I am livid. Either write about something that annoys you in the comments, or leave a link to something back at your own site. Anything goes.

I won’t be able to check the comments, so if your comment doesn’t appear it might have been eaten as spam, so try again with less links or mentions of Viagra.

So, over to you, and I will see you on Wednesday or Thursday next week.

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I have always thought poetry is a bit rubbish. Really. If you think about it long enough, I am sure you will agree with me.

What is even worse is rubbish poetry that doesn’t even rhyme. Unfortunately, this seems to be quite popular, and the world has gone Haiku mad. I am sad to say that far too many of you seem to think that Haiku’s are big and clever.

Let me positively assure you, it is not. It is pretentious cockwad of the highest order. Poetry rhymes, that’s why it’s not called writing.

This is a famous Haiku by some Japanese dude called Basho Matsuo from the 17th century.

An old silent pond…
A frog jumps into the pond,
splash! Silence again.

It is absolutely shit! Where is the character development? Where is the set-up and punchline? It is a story about a stupid frog jumping into a pond, and IT IS FAMOUS!

I was writing prose better than this at six. Probably.

Haiku’s are just syllable-impaired attempts by pseudo-intellectuals to make a point in a ‘clever’ manner. In the days when writing took fucking ages (because of those feather pen things), or papyrus was limited, then I could just about forgive limiting words and syllables to make your point in the briefest possible way. But Christ on a skateboard, you people have word processors, why not use them?

If you want decent poetry go to the library and look up the work ‘Limerick’. No poem ever ended badly when it started with, “There was a young girl from Nantucket…”

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I am going to a wedding in Ireland this weekend. So, in an effort to impress the young Irish ladies I decided to buy some new shirts. Off of the Internet.

I normally get my shirts from Charles Tyrwhitt, as they fit me well, and the online store appears to have a perpetual sale (whether they are ever sold at the inflated price god only knows). I found a few shirts I liked, a selection that I could either wear for the wedding, or work, and went ahead and ordered them. I also chose to pay for express delivery as it is obviously only a few days till my flight.

Then, a couple of hours later, I received an email:

This is a courtesy email to inform you that your order has been dispatched today.
SPIBLU15H3D Blue Pinpoint Classic Shirt Quantity 1

This is surprising, as I ordered three shirts, so would expect the dispatch notice to mention all three shirts. I revisited the website to check on my order only to be told that the two other shirts were out of stock. Well, they definitely were not out of stock when I ordered, as I deliberately discounted any out of stock items due to the time critical nature of my requirement.

There was an order query email in the dispatch notice, so I emailed them for clarification.

An hour later I received the following reply.

************** This is an automated response **************
**** PLEASE DO NOT REPLY TO THIS ADDRESS ****

Thank you very much for contacting Charles Tyrwhitt. We aim to respond to your email within 48 hours.

Well, as you can imagine, this was about as useful as the Cutty Sark’s sprinkler system. They were going to get back to me a day after my delivery has taken place.

I decided to check the sales website, and lo and behold I could still order the “out of stock” item for next day delivery. No mention whatsoever of any delays all the way through the check out process. So called them directly.

“Ah, yes, there is probably a problem with the website system.” said Darren to call center operative after I had explained my problem.

“Well Darren, I could have told you that there was a problem with either the website system, or the dispatch system. What with them giving me conflicting information. They can’t both be right.”

“Yes please Darren, my success at this wedding is very much dependent upon delivery of these shirts, and of course the amount of free booze available at the Reception.”

And so I await delivery. I will keep you all informed of progress, should you be in the slightest bit interested of course.

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“What,” I asked of Dave the resident office muppet, “the very fuck are you wearing?”

“What?” he responded defensively looking down at his rumpled attire.

“What is that on your lapel?”

“Oh that. It’s a ribbon for baby Maddie.”

There are no words.

What I wanted to say is “Don’t be such a fucking idiot. I am sure that every right minded person in this country wants that poor girl found safely, but you wearing a ribbon in this office is not going to make one fucking iota of difference. Seriously, do you think her abductor is going to be wandering past your desk and think, “Actually, he is right, I should hand her back!” No, it’s not going to happen. There are a hundred tragedies a week with young children, but for some reason the media has chosen to follow this one. Get a grip man and stop dressing like a morris dancer.”

But of course, to voice such an opinion would, in some peoples eyes, be deemed worthy of the abductor himself. So instead, I shook my head and went about my business.

Do not get me wrong. I hope the poor girl is found, but is anyone else finding this incessant media coverage a little bit over the top? There is even a ‘missing poster’ in a news agents down the road from me. Honestly.

Even though you can’t turn on the TV or read a newspaper without seeing that poor girls face, there seems to be very little preventative advice being dispensed by the media. I am not saying that now is the time for pointing fingers, but in the next few weeks over a million families will head abroad on holiday. Do you not think now would be an opportune time to point out that going out for a meal and leaving your very young children unattended is a bad idea?

The people I feel most sorry for in all this are the Royal family. If the media coverage doesn’t return to normal soon, then the public are in danger of forgetting that Diana has been dead for just ten short years.

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Rule #2635:

The chance of your laptop suffering a fatal error is directly related to the importance of the work you are trying to do on it. This chance grows exponentially as you near the end of the task at hand. In fact, with the benefit of hindsight, it is best you never do anything important, ever.

I know, I know, this post will lead to lots of “Why don’t you use a Mac?” questions. Well, this is a work laptop, and as everyone knows, they are all PC’s. The second question will obviously be, “Why didn’t you take a back-up?” Again, I did. Or rather, I regularly saved my work in case of a crash.

I did not however expect the crash to render the computer unusable, and then leave me unable to access my regularly saved work. I did not even have a chance to become irate at that little paper clip cunt, as it simply wouldn’t boot up.

So, this is how I spent last Thursday, sat up most of the night, on my home laptop re-writing a presentation I was due to give on Friday morning.

In the breaks away from work I allowed myself to dream up elaborate tortures for both Michael Dell and Bill Gates. The best one I came up with involved a large coffin, some scorpions and a copy of James Blunts latest album. But I do not want to say any more for reasons of plausible deniability.

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I had fun renewing my car tax last year.

This year I had hoped it would be a much more straight forward experience, and so I went to the Post Office armed with all of the required evidence that I was the true owner of a non-lethal vehicle, and if I did happen to prang something, then someone other than me was going to pay for the damage.

The only concern I had was that I had lost my cash card the weekend previously whilst out drinking, and had yet to receive a replacement. This is not a high issue though, as I had a enough cash to last me a few more days and three perfectly usable credit cards.

“Hello, I’d like to renew my Car Tax please!” I said to the nice old man whose window I had approached when called to do so by the hidden window-allocating robot.

He perused the documents I passed under the window, and asked if it was 6 months or 12 that I wanted. I felt it would be a little cruel to say I wanted to limit my visits to this soul-sapping venue of wall-to-wall human misery, so merely said, “12 months please”.

“Sure, do I put my card in here or do you want it under the window” I said pointing at my card and then the chip and PIN machine.

“Oh, we don’t take credit cards for Car Tax”

“Well if you go and get it, I’ll hold on to your documents here and we’ll finish this when you get back?”

So, thirty minutes later, and after a 20 mile round trip, I returned with my cheque book, and do you know what the next thing he asked for was?

My cheque guarantee card.

Fortunately he decided to take a cheque without it, clearly something in my face suggested that would be an acceptable risk for the Post Office to take.

One of these years I am going to have an entirely hassle free car tax renewal. Probably.

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“Yeah, apparently he writes this blog of his anonymously”, said one of my colleagues to another at the conference we were all attending.

I stopped in my tracks. I had gone to get a coffee after meeting a client, and was walking back to the group when I overheard the discussion.

“He puts some jokes in there, but it’s mostly lame stuff about work and that,” continued another.

I am shocked. It is not mostly lame stuff. It has been described as “hilarious” and “not bad” by some other bloggers, and “insightful social commentary” by me, on several occasions. They clearly do not know what they are talking about.

Then I realised that Dave was one of the group. I have written about Dave on a few occasions, and I could not care less if he is offended, except if he tells HR. I am not 100% positive, but I think there might a problem with calling your colleague a feckless idiot on the Internet.

“That Pseudonym, I don’t know where it came from, it doesn’t even make sense!”

Now they are just being picky. Anyone of them that has been in the Monday management meeting with me will know where it has come from. They are deliberately missing the point.

“I mean, calling yourself after a childrens toy?”

Hmmm. I do not know a lot about toys nowadays. Perhaps the top selling toy at the moment is a Mr Angry doll?

“I think he might have stopped writing it because no-one ever read it”

“Ha! It can not be me!” I thought to myself. I have literally tens of readers, which as everyone who has a Grade C or above at GCSE maths knows is more than no-one!

I approached them as I drank my coffee and they filled me in on a client of ours who started a blog about the industry we are in. I played dumb and asked them what a blog was. Honestly, it is these little things that make my life bearable.

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I have written about The Claw before. He is a friend of mine who broke several bones in his hand whilst on holiday a few years ago, and waited a month to see a doctor. He still can’t straighten all his fingers and is missing at least one knuckle.

Claw was my partner in crime for this years Bank Holiday Super Cider Sunday. Others came and went during the day, but it was The Claw and I that saw it through to the very bitter end.

The following morning, whilst feeling like I had spent the previous twenty-four hours eating sand, I received the following text message from a girl I went out with a few times last year.

“No need to apologise. Ur entertaining when ur drunk!”

Firstly, why is she happy to use words like apologise and entertaining, but not ‘you’re’? It does not make sense. Secondly, I am entertaining all of the time. There at 51 people on the Internet who think so, according to Bloglines.

Then it hits me. Apologise? Why am I apologising? What, exactly, did I do that required an apology?

I checked my sent messages, to find I had deleted all of them to save space on my mobile. Nokia, you are shit. How can a man be expected to keep track of all his embarrassing moments if your phones fill up when you send a couple of dozen drunken texts.

At work on Tuesday the emails flew in regarding the previous Sundays adventures.

“Did that fat girl in the pink velor tracksuit swap clothes with you? You were offering her £300 to do it when I left”

“Did you get thrown out for walking round the pub with your arse out like da kidz?

I remember none of it. Not one thing. I do have a very vague memory of a large girl in a bright tracksuit, but no more.

Anyone who says spending an entire day drinking Cider is a good idea is so very very wrong. I am just pleased that we only do it once a year.

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On Saturday evening I went to the local Arts Center with some friends to see Richard Herring’s show, “Menage á un”. Do not worry, it is not one of those Arts centers. He is a comedian and it was a stand-up comedy show. Only about a third of the show was actually about wanking.

Anyway, we were enjoying the show, as you do, and the jokes were certainly hitting the mark for me and my friends, TJ in particular, however it was clear that some of the audience were simply not getting it.

A rather large bloke in the row in front of me had managed to manoeuvre his arm across the shoulders of his date, a bit like in that scene in Grease. Even though, as a straight man, I have never seen Grease. Honestly. Someone in the pub told me about it.

The thing about comedy shows is that there tends to be a lot of laughter. People make these laughing noises throughout the show, and in fact, it is actively encouraged by some comedians. So when the person in front of you turns around and gives you and your friend a dirty look for laughing too loud, it is a little surprising.

I mean, how can you not find a routine about Jesus magically producing a vagina on his thigh so you could sexually gratify yourself after becoming bored of being masturbated by his stigmata? That is comedy gold!

He sat there for the remainder of the show as if he was on jury service, or like Kenickie watching Rizzo dance with the leader of the Scorpions at the Rydell High School dance. So I have been told.

Anyway, go and see the show. Unless you too are offended by jokes about our Lord and Saviour being sexually manipulated by a 39 year-old man who carries a potato in his pocket.

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People who are trying find a cure for cancer are obviously doing a good thing. It would save untold misery around the world if a cure could be developed, or preventative measures be found that stopped the disease occurring.

Which is why my eye was drawn to a story last week about a potential cause of cancer being discovered.

Just in case you were wondering, the synopsis of that article reads thusly. “Oral sex can give you cancer”. Now, is this not the most depressing thing you have ever read? Seriously?

I am going to assume that the papers author, Dr Gypsyamber D’Souza is a woman. I make this assumption because you and I know full well that if a man had made this discovery, then after a couple of seconds of deep turmoil and fear for his fellow man, the findings would have been buried for ever, and all research stopped immediately.

“Yes Professor, I know it’s an abrupt end to my research programme, but the evidence is clear, blow jobs are safe. No, I don’t mean safe, I mean good, very very good for you. Yes”.

God must be having a right giggle at us. “I told you smoking would give you cancer, yet still you persist with that filthy habit. Well, let’s see how you like having to give THIS one up…”. He is a vengeful God all right.

This story is going to lead to a lot of difficult conversations up and down the country. It is hard enough convincing a partner to nosh you off several times a day without giving her a legitimate excuse.

“You’ve got what in your mouth? Nah. It’s probably just an ulcer. Now get back down there…”

In fact, if I was a doctor, I would release a story linking oral sex to the elimination of wrinkles and cellulite. I would make it like feeding time at the zoo out there.

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I have a theory about friends.

I have always been fortunate to have lots of them, even though I know for a fact that some of them only hang around with me because I am such good company.

However, over the years I have noticed that it’s actually impossible to maintain a large number of close friendships. Our lifestyles have changed so much that work leaves less time for friendships, and invariably people drop off your radar and before you know it, it’s been a year since you spoke to them. If that’s the case they’re probably not a good friend anyway.

So, my theory is that you can’t have more than 6 close, and independent, friends at any one time. The independent bit is important, as if those friends are also friends independent of yourself, then it’s easier to manage a greater number, as you can all see each other at the same time.

However, any more than 6, and you start spending less and less time with them.

I have decided to introduce a league based system for my friends, in the run up to the Summer, so that I can ration the amount of time I spend with the unworthy ones. Each league has just six people in it.

The Premiership
The core of your best friends. These are the people you called, whe…you would call if you needed help disposing of a body. In all likelihood, if ever I were to get married, the Best Man would be in here.

The Championship
They would think twice about giving you a false alibi. Someone you can have decent chat with in the pub, but wouldn’t necessarily go there just to meet them and them alone.

Leagues 1&2
The casuals. They’d probably step in if you found yourself outnumbered in a fist fight, but would be likely to tell you off afterwards for being so irresponsible. They probably get invites to your parties, and you’re likely to know them through ‘work’, ’school’ or ‘Uni’.

The Conference
It’s an almost nailed on certainty that these people think of themselves as your best friends, when in reality, you just about tolerate having them in your social circle. A couple of times a year is more than enough, and you’re probably grateful they don’t live any closer. This may or may not include people off of the Internet that you’ve met.

Sunday Leagues
People you’re either trying to get rid of, or have lost touch with in some way shape or form.

Now, like all good league structures there are promotions and there are relegations. One thing that doesn’t happen is the league doesn’t get expanded. The number of participants is fixed. If you happen to meet someone that you get on with, great, but you must then decide who gets relegated from the appropriate division.

This is my roundabout way of saying, Fat Jim, welcome to the Conference.

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I have been receiving Physiotherapy treatment from a rather attractive young woman in a local private hospital. For my dislocated shoulder, I have not broken another bit of me.

There is a very difficult line to draw when talking to an attractive female health professional. It lies between giving an honest assessment of the pain your are suffering during the treatment, and demonstrating your unwavering manliness in face of eye-watering uncomfortableness. This means the cycle of treatment/response goes much like this…

*Stretch* “fine?”
“fine”

*Stretch* “fine?”
“fine”

*Stretch* “fine?”
“YEAHAAHAGHGHGHG!!”

Due to the fact that I yelp in pain like a little girl at least twice a session, I have taken to trying to impress her in other ways, and what better than through the use of jokes? Women love jokes. And I am really funny. Honestly.

This week she was showing me a new stretch she wanted me to try, which involved keeping your left elbow tucked at your side, your arm at 90 degrees in front of you with your clenched fist facing palm-upwards and your thumb sticking out. Then you have to move your arm out in the direction of your thumb as far as it will go. Like you were really slowing hitch a lift.

“OK, now you do that, and stop when you feel any pain.” she said letting me copy her.

“Heeeeyyyyy!” I said.

“I’m sorry?”

“HeeeeYYYYY!” I said again, this time leaning back a little bit for even greater comedic effect.

“Err, is it hurting?”

“No! I am being the Fonz!” I clarified, waiting for the ensuing belly laugh.

“Fonz who?”

“Sorry, I think that’s a bit before my time.”

It turns out she is twenty-two years of age, and has never heard of Happy Days. How is this possible? Have you ever heard of a worse indictment of modern youth culture? It is almost enough for me to not fancy her any more. Almost. So, I have resolved to spend the next week perfecting impressions within her frame of reference. Can anyone out there teach me how to do an Arctic Monkey?

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