* Takes off clothes and begins to type *

I have bought a computer games machine!

It is ace, honestly, and really makes the most of my nice newish TV. I was getting a bit bored of just watching digital television and DVDs.

I admit I am a bit crap at the games I got with it, but that will soon change as I am a natural athlete and so it is only a matter of time before I can shoot all challengers in the face (in the games). As part of my quest to become brilliant at it, I have bought a wireless adapter. This means I can play against people on the Interweb! From my own sofa! I can now be ritually humiliated by teenagers from all over the world, but it is especially good as I now have the opportunity to shoot Fat Jim in the face without actually having to go outside and round to his flat.

The problems began when I tried to open the packet the adapter came in. It was one of those plastic heat sealed things that appears to have been forged in fires of hell itself. There was a helpful sign on the back saying “Cut here” with a dotted line across the top. This seems like a straight forward instruction. However, I can only assume they meant add the words “with an acetylene torch”, because it was not opening with my scissors. And I speak as someone who developed a vice-like grip during his lonely teenage years.

When scissors do not work, there is obviously only one option left open to you. You have to fetch the biggest and sharpest knife in the kitchen. Mine is known amongst friends as the “Knife of Woe” on account of the number of times I have cut myself on it. I think technically it might be considered an actual sword. It is massive. And really fucking sharp. When cooking I used to pretend it was a sword, and that I was a musketeer, until the neighbours started giving me funny looks and I realised they could see into my kitchen when I was doing it. Nowadays I make sure I play out my fantasies behind closed blinds.

Anyway, the Knife of Woe did its job and I have but a mere scratch for my troubles. Now I must go and practise so that I can shoot Fat Jim in the face online. But first I will get dressed, otherwise it would be wrong on so very many levels.

* Gets dressed and logs off *

And now for the bit you have all really been waiting for. Picture evidence from today’s post can be found HERE… I have included the blogged-about item, as I felt sure some of you would accuse me of Googling for “man on laptop in the nude” and using a picture from that. But believe me, I do not have time to look through 15 million images.

If you think this photo is worth a vote, then click here and vote Mr Angry on the top right of the page. If you don’t, then leave a comment on the photo abusing me. I think I know which will have the higher hit rate. Still, it does not look like I will come last now, which was the whole point after all…

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I like my shoes. Not in a girlie, “Oh my god aren’t these just divine!” kind of way. In the way that I have had them for a few years, and they are very comfortable now. So, when they need repairing, I repair them rather than risk buying some new ones (they were quite expensive, it is not that I am tight).

I dropped them in to be resoled at a local shoe repairer, and then a few days later popped back in to pick them up.

“Hello, I would like to pick up my shoes please.”

“Sure, here you go. That’ll be £26 please.”

I reach into my wallet and hand over a card.

“Oh, sorry, we don’t take credit cards.”

I grumpily put back my credit card, and swapped it for a debit card.

“Err, or debit cards. We only take cash. The banks make enough money out of me already.”

“Cobblers!” I said, having waited almost thirty years to say that to an actual cobbler (despite growing up spitting distance from Northampton, if you can spit fifteen miles). It is possible I suppose that subconsciously I have only been getting my shoes repaired all this time, simply to await a moment like this.

But now I was stuck. I only had £20 in cash on my person, but I really needed the shoes.

“I’m sorry, but that’s our policy, it says so on the door” he commented, ignoring my cobblers pun that no-one will ever have made before and whilst pointing at the postage stamp sized notice on the shop door.

“It’s a bit backwards isn’t it, cash only? Where did you send them to be repaired, 1975?”

“Yeah, funny, but I’m not giving the banks any more money from me, it costs me a lot to use cards as payment for small things.”

“But now I have to go to a cash point, which is out of my way, then come back here, so it is actually costing me, the customer here, more money to do business with you.”

“I see your point. Do you want the shoes?” he asked, bringing a swift end to the debate.

“Well, yes!”

“The nearest cash point is in the town.”

I returned that lunchtime after using my valuable break to visit a cash machine. He was not there and his assistant cobbler was even less interested in my plight. Nor did he offer me the opportunity to say, “Cobblers!” again. Which was disappointing.

Honestly, I will not return to that place. Unless I can not find another place that does repairs when I next get a hole in my shoe.

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I am not proud.

Well, actually I am. What I mean is I am not above asking you, my lovely readers, to vote for me in the Big Blogger house this week. Normally you vote for who you want out, and the person with the most votes gets evicted, but this week, in a I-didn’t-see-that-coming-whatsoever kinda way, it is the people with the least amount of votes that will be evicted.

You are voting for who you want to stay in.

For that reason, I would ask you all to kindly go over here, and select Mr Angry from the voting panel at the top right of the page and click the Vote button. It will take you no more than ten seconds and will provide me with literally minutes of false hope.

I am going to treat this voting task as a small social experiment, as lots of statistics packages will tell you how many visitors come to this site, but this will tell me how many of you actually read this tripe. And then act upon it. I am hoping it is more than twelve.

If I get over a hundred votes (not likely) then I will write Friday’s post in the nude. Honestly. There will even be photographic evidence. For those of you not particularly good at reading between the lines, this is me pimping myself on the Internet.

This could be the start of a regular Naked Friday theme. Maybe.

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I was moved to an able-person room on the other side of the hotel, and after watching TV for a while began to doze off. I do not sleep well when away on business, so it was shortly after midnight before I finally dropped off into the land of nod.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!

I woke with a start, violently ripped from the dream I was having about some particularly nimble of cheerleaders. I quickly checked my ears for signs of bleeding, as the piercing volume of some form of alarm was making the entire room shake. For some reason I looked for the source of the noise in order to turn it off, which seems stupid in hindsight, but I was very keen to get back the cheerleaders.

I popped my head out into the corridor to hear the alarm out there too.

We were on fire!!

This was exciting. I had never been in a burning building before. They say that your life flashes before you at a times of imminent death, but I can tell you now that this is utter bollocks. All I could think of was which pair of jeans to put on, and whether or not to take my laptop outside with me. ‘Life flashes’ my arse. Clearly this is evidence that I am just the sort of person you need in a crisis. I knew I was wasted in the corporate world.

I checked my watch. It was 1:40am. I made my way to the car park without so much as a sniff of smoke, a glimpse of a damsel in distress, or indeed any sign of a raging inferno. My chance to be a hero would have to wait for at least another night. I knew I should have fetched my laptop.

I met my colleagues in the car park and we discussed the shock we had gone through when the alarm went off. The fire brigade arrived, and after a few minutes checking the building they gave us the OK to return to our rooms, even though the cheerleader dream was almost certainly lost forever.

I got into bed and as I closed my eyes I prayed for something even remotely erotic to pop into my head.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

I awoke with a start. Again! It was 2:30am. I climbed out of bed, and just as I got my jeans back on, it stopped. Either it was the most speedily subdued fire ever, or another false alarm. I got back into bed, and eventually began to drift off. For the third time. Just at the point that I began to fall away…

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

For fuck’s sake!

It was now 2:50am and I was getting up in just over four hours. At this point I was willing to risk the chance of burning to death for a few stolen moments of sleep. Again, the alarm stopped after being on just long enough to ensure the entire building was awake.

Four hours later I awoke to the sound of my now decidedly feeble mobile phone alarm, to read a letter stuffed under my door from the hotel manager apologising for the previous nights false alarm. He was reiterating how resident safety is was paramount. Basically it said that if it happens again tonight, be prepared to go into the car park. Again.

I drank four coffees and made my way to work.

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I arrived quite late at the hotel just outside York, and after throwing my bags on the bed, I quickly got changed and went for a run down by the river. This was my way of unwinding.

Except the river had flooded recently, and both routes were waterlogged so I was back at the hotel in fifteen minutes. And not entirely happy about it.

I turned on the light to my room and noticed that the light-switch was quite a lot lower than I am used to. I got stripped and went into the bathroom.

That is when I saw it.

I can best describe it as a white deckchair style contraption, folded, in the shower. Where a bath should be. I consider myself rather astute when it comes to assessing my surroundings so it only took a few minutes to realise I had been put into a room for the disabled.

Why had they put me in here? I will admit that fifteen minutes is not a long time to spend running, but to say it made me the most disabled person in the hotel was surely pushing it?

I was naked, and sweaty, so going to Reception was out of the question. So I decided to make the most of the situation and have a shower. Sitting down. First though, I had to open the ‘fence’ that kept the you out of the shower (or the disabled person in?). It was not easy. In fact I actually considered climbing over it at one point, but figured that putting a fence for disabled people to climb over is not only cruel, but possible illegal. It would be just my luck to slip whilst climbing in and break my leg and have to spend the rest of the summer explaining that I can not walk because I fell whilst climbing into a shower designed for people who can not walk.

They do say that blind people develop excellent hearing to compensate for a lack of sight, well I think it is possible that disabled people develop excellent problem solving skills, as the locking mechanism had me baffled for several minutes.

Eventually I cracked it, and there I sat, in the shower, enjoying a sit down wash. Only standing to wash those bits that you simply can not wash when you are sat down. It is a strange experience, being sat on a chair in the shower. But not an altogether unpleasant one. I will admit it is perhaps not worth losing a limb for, but definitely worth a try at least once in your life.

I would happily try it again, but I do not want to seem like a weirdo by requesting a disabled room at each hotel I visit. I am not a pervert. It is much better to simply befriend a wheelchair-bound person at the bar and ask to use theirs.

Eventually it was time to get out. So I turned off the water and fought again with the able person-proof fence. It was at this point that I realised the bathroom was entirely flooded, with the water now ankle deep across the room and now flowing into the rest of the hotel room.

I called Reception and demanded to be moved.

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A little tale over at Big Blogger today.

I am not putting it here as well because I am trying to recycle, and therefore reduce my carbon footprint and all that. And I am lazy.

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I will be here all week. At some point during my journey northwards I appear to have passed through a rift in the space-time continuum and have found myself in 1950’s Yorkshire. My hotel does not have the Internet, and when I asked for a Cappuccino the waiter looked at me much like a monkey would look at an iPod.

What this means, of course, is that things might be a little light here this week. For that reason I suggest you avail yourselves of the archives to the right, there is some good stuff in there, probably, and if you find it, do not forget to let me know. Also, check out Big Blogger (link to the right), as I am still in the house, which is nice, but there are some others in there who are worth reading, even if I have not yet copped off with any of the girls.

If I can get my coupe up to 88 miles-per-hour I will pop in at some point before Thursday night. Otherwise, see you in a couple of days.

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“Today’s weather, brought to you by Powergen.”

Also known as “Today’s torrential rain and washed out garden party, brought to you by Powergen”

This is worst piece of promotional sponsorship I have ever heard of. British weather is, in the main, fucking abysmal. There are good days, yes, but largely we wish our island was located a couple of dozen degrees latitude further south. Just off the coast of Portugal would be nice.

When you consider the levels of displeasure that our weather brings to us, it is baffling to consider which bright spark in Powergen’s creative team thought it would be a good idea to align themselves with the weather. It disappoints people, because it is shit. Invariably a weather forecast ends with people saying things like, “Shit, that’s the BBQ fucked then” or “I guess we’ll have to have the sex indoors again then”.

If they were advertising electricity in the Dominican Republic, I could see the potential benefit. “Fuck me, sunny again, I tell you what, those folks at Powergen are fucking ace! Quick, boil the kettle, I want to buy more electricity!”

UK based weather sponsorship does not make me want to buy my electricity from Powergen. Quite the opposite. It makes me hate them. Why can’t they fuck off and take the fucking ceaseless drizzle with them? If they are going to insist on sponsoring something that upsets so many people I do not know why they don’t go the whole hog and sponsor ‘rape’ and ‘child abduction’.

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Catching the last train home one night last week I took my seat in a near empty carriage. I am always happy about this, as it means I can stretch out and enjoy a larger-than-can-generally-be-expected amount of personal space.

It is almost impossible however, to sit in a carriage with about half a dozen people, without glancing to look at them. I often wonder about who I would save first in case of a crash, so I like to rank them before the journey. It saves time during an emergency when every second counts. That is when I noticed him.

Across the carriage, about five rows down, and directly facing me, was a man. I am assuming he was of Arab descent, but in all honesty he could have been from any country that the US wants to invade. And he was looking straight at me.

I mean, RIGHT AT ME.

I do no scare easily, apart from the obvious things things like the dark, loud noises and spiders. But I am not afraid to admit this spooked me. I know that people can drift off from time to time, and look as if they are focusing on something, when in reality they are just having a bit of a daydream. So, to test which he was, I stared back.

Nothing.

I must have looked directly at him for about a gazillion hours, but he did not drop his glare. I looked out the window, around the carriage, and then back at him. And still he looked at me.

I have a friend, who may well indeed be Fat Jim who swears blind that if you put a phone to your ear and pretend to be in conversation you can stare at anyone you like, for as long as you like. This bloke had not even gone to the trouble of undertaking such a weak charade in order to stare at me. The bare cheek of it.

I stared again, this time willing him to look away, and after a few seconds something registered, he seemed to catch my eye properly, as if woken from a trance. He smiled, and looked out of the window.

He does not know how lucky he is, as he was this close (puts fingers very close together) to being asked to take it outside, for a five second scuffle before the doors close again. Or me changing carriage.

I have noticed that it is never attractive women that do this, it is always fat middle aged old men, which are of no interested to me sexually, no matter what those chat rooms say.

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Kids today are fat.

And not in the good way. We are told that kids of today are considerably more obese than we were when we were kids, which I guess says something for a diet of Space Dust, Milky Bars and Hubba Bubba.

There are apparently many things to blame for the fat kid crisis. Things like computer games, television adverts for fast food, and the fact that most of them are utter lazy cunts.

This problem is only being exacerbated by the introduction of this new fad for “Heelies”. For those of you that live in a cave or somewhere on the outskirts of civilization, like Basingstoke, these are shoes with a little wheel in them so that kids can roll from place to place instead of walking. I think you can probably see the link I am suggesting here. More rolling. Less walking. More fat fucking kids.

In a society where children are going to get fatter and fatter, we do not need to be inventing toys which make their lives more sedate. This is like introducing the ‘Segue’ to Americans. We need to make trendy shoes with lead implants. Or teach all dogs to chase little people, a bit harsh on the midgets I’ll admit, but they have a life of adversity already so probably won’t notice the extra imposition. Let us be honest, nothing induces a higher heart rate and spurt of strenuous activity like the threat of being mauled by a rabid dog. Anything to bring on a bit of a sweat in the little fat fuckers.

I have long since advocated putting e-coli or some other wasting disease into chocolate bars, just to help people who have zero will power cut down on the calories. It is akin to Pavlov’s dog. Once our children associate ‘sweets’ with a five day dose of the shits and getting their meals through an intravenous drip, I am sure they will cut down.

Add this to blood thirsty dogs on every street corner and I guarantee you in five years our kids will have a body fat ratio we can be proud of. Those that are left, anyway.

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I was reading Scary Duck the other day, and he was talking about his fondness for public toilets, which reminded me of a moment from my past that, until that point, I had done my best to forget. So I thought a good way to finally forget about it would be to share it with people off of the Internet.

It was the summer 1997, I had recently graduated from University and along with my then girlfriend had decided to travel around Europe for the summer before joining the Rat Race and making my millions.

Generally speaking, it was good. I nearly got killed on a moped in Turkey, I got arrested in Rome, I couldn’t walk for two days after climbing Mount Vesuvius on foot, and I got ripped off by a slight-of-hand currency exchanger in Hungary. However, these memories pale into insignificance when I think of the horror that awaited me in Bucharest train station.

I had been ‘holding it in’ for about 200 miles, so by the time we entered the concourse, such as it was, I was ready to deposit my load there and then. The gypsy looking lady at the front of the toilet looked like she’d won the lottery when I thrust a five dollar bill in her hand and bolted for the first cubicle I could find.

I entered, closed the door, hung my backpack on the hook and hastily prepared myself above the hole in the ground that was where the toilet used to be (I assume). They had helpfully put a couple of foot plates either side to help with my aim.

Just as I was releasing hell, I heard a creak. Then another. My eyes searched for the source of the creak, and then, in one sudden jolt, the door fell from it’s hinges, and slowly, like in the opening credits of Wurzel Gummidge, the door fell backwards into the restroom.

I could do nothing.

This was not a ‘pinch it off and finish later’ situation, so there would be no stopping prematurely to correct the situation. I do not know if people walking past you and not giving you so much as a cursory glance is better or worse than being stared at, but it felt worse. They continued to walk across the door, and my rucksack, as I continued to squat whilst awaiting the end of the torrent caused by a Romanian train buffet.

Eventually it ended, I gathered my rucksack and made my way back to meet my girlfriend.

“Let us leave this place and never speak of it again”

And until today, that’s exactly what has happened.

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As I stood there, completely naked from the waist down apart from a pair of socks, I pondered how difficult it is to look attractive in this situation. A man wearing nothing but a polo shirt and a pair of socks is not a great look.

I did not have a mirror to check myself, so my only way of judging how I potentially ridiculous I looked were the several camera flashes and the hundred or so night-clubbers who were in the vicinity at the time.

[3 minutes earlier]

“And so, the first one back here wins a prize!” screamed the DJ to the hen party on stage with him.

I had heard something about them having to go and find something in the crowd a few moments before, but I had been busy explaining to anyone who would listen how it was just my injured shoulder and the luck of the draw in Poker which had prevented me becoming Superstars champion 2007.

I then noticed one particularly cute member of the hen party running in our general direction, and for the briefest moment, our eyes locked. It is unusual for me to have an attractive women that I do not know come running directly at me in a nightclub, as I do not wear Lynx. It is not as an arousing experience as you would think. As she approached I checked her hands for a weapon.

“I need your pants! Can I have your pants?! Please take off your pants!!” she begged.

Again, I was taken aback. Honestly, this moment had been a dream of mine from the age of fourteen right up until I was twenty five, but since then I have decided that a bit of wooing does not go amiss.

“Well, normally I expect someone to buy me dinner first, but since you asked so nicely…”

And with that she began clawing at my belt. Again, not as arousing as you might imagine, especially as your mates are getting their cameras ready for the ‘money shot’.

“They are clean aren’t they?” she asked as my belt was freed and she was about to pull off my jeans.

“Yes, of course!” I responded, I had, after all, turned them inside out only hours before.

And so down came the pants, and I stood there, in a busy nightclub, cupping Little Angry and the McSquirter Twins whilst she dashed off to claim her prize. With my underpants on her head.

It was not my finest hour.

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I am Back!

In one piece, sort of. After the weekends exertions I managed to fall asleep on Bournemouth beach yesterday afternoon, and after forgetting to apply suncream I now look like Rodney Trotter in the sunbed episode.

The weekend was, as always, great fun. Unfortunately, the addition of games of luck (such as poker, in which I finished last), ruined my chances of a podium finish. Despite my injury woes, I finished fourth, eleven points behind the winner, and three points from a trophy in third.

Which brings us nicely to the “How Many Points Will Angry Score?” competition.

I would to say thank you to all of you who had guesses at the high end, you all have excellent estimation skills, and barring a near crippling injury, you might well have been a winner. Boo, and indeed Hiss, to all of you with guesses in the sub 80 area. I am a bit injured, but I am still mostly excellent, obviously. And who would have guessed that Venn That Tune’s Salvadore Vincent would have to go through the complex mathematics to work out a theoretical maximum score for the competition?

I can not remember my exact placing in all events but highlights include, Rugby Conversions (1st), Dips and squats (joint 1st), Pool (3rd), Shot Putt (4th) and football (5th).

When I looked at the scores you had all guessed this morning, I will admit to being both impressed and slightly scared by the level of omniscience displayed by the winner. Not only did they get the exact correct score, but they submitted their guess just SEVEN minutes after the competition began! I scored precisely 100 points, so the winner is….Sam Cullum! Of course, in true Mr Angry style, I complete forgot to buy a prize whilst I was away, but I will correct this faux pas this week and send Sam her (I am assuming ‘her’) prize.

There may be a few stories from the weekend, I have not decided yet. But in the meantime you can go over to Big Blogger and read my party suggestion (which didn’t win, boo!) and then vote for your least favourite housemate. I am in real danger of being the first person out, which will be embarrassing. The person with the most votes will be evicted, so DO NOT vote for me (as at least two people have done so far by mistake).

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I am away for yet another weekend. Honestly, this makes me sound like such a jet-setter, but I am only going to Bournemouth, so you need not be too jealous.

It is the Annual Superstars Challenge, and I will be competing despite my recent injury crisis – just like David Beckham before the World Cup with his broken foot and that. As I will not be checking comments today, I have decided to run a little competition. Over the course of the ten events in which I compete this weekend, I will be accumulating points. The person getting closest to my actual final score will win a special prize.

Of course, I have not decided what that prize will be, except to say that it will be special, and I will send it to you.

To help you with your guesses, there are ten events, and fourteen competitors. 1st place in each event receives 14 points, second place 13 points, right down to last place who gets 1 point. Each competitor will be allowed to play a joker in one event, during which their points score, for that event only, will be doubled.

The events are :

Golf
Texas Hold ‘em Poker
Necking of a pint
Dips and squats
Bleep Test
Ten pin bowling
Shot put
Pool
Football
Rugby Conversions

I have not decided in which event I will play my joker, but if I were to finish 7th in every event I would score 88 points. That should give you a guide for scoring. In the case of a tie, I will award the prize to whomever I think is the fittest.

Leave your guesses below, and the winner will be notified by email on Sunday night, probably.

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