I am livid

The Tour de France has finally come to a close, and yet again it has been sullied by accusations of doping and performance enhancing drugs. I do not know how smoking dope will help ride a bike more quickly, but I am not an expert by any means (in cycling I mean, I am an expert at lots of other things).

What I do believe however, is that it is time for a change of heart regarding these so-called cheats. We are more than willing to give an entire competition to the disabled and the mentals, so why not the drug addicts? That is discrimination of the worst kind, and should not be allowed in this day and age. They are people too.

I think the Smackhead Olympics would be a real ratings winner. Each competitor can imbibe, inject, smoke, inhale, snort or gargle anything they like with absolute impunity. If you think it will help you perform, then go right ahead. You just want to get high before throwing that massive spear? Go right ahead. Think that a couple of ecstasy pills will help you calm down before the 1500m? Be my guest.

I’ve never seen a fat heroin addict, so I imagine they’d be quite good at the distance running.

What event would you like to see at the all new Smackhead Olympics?

I am not a scientist. Well, not officially, but I mean how hard can it be? You put on a white coat, go and play with some dangerous stuff, write it up and away you go.

What I do understand however, is the concept of cause and effect, and how that differs to a correlation. This is why I was drawn to this particular story last week about a cat that can predict death.

Essentially, this story relates to how a cat at a nursing home in the US would sit by patients who were about to die. Of course, they may not know that they were about to die, hence the ability to ‘predict death’ bit of the story.

I love the way it is described as ‘baffling’ doctors. People with medical training are seeing a cat sit by an old person’s side, then a few days later said old person dies. Explanation? The cat can predict death! I am glad all that medical training did not go to waste.

If we are going to assume that this is a cause and effect relationship, and not a simple correlation, I would like to offer a counter theory. I am going to suggest that this cat has absolutely no psychic ability whatsoever, but is actually a sociopathic murderer and is killing people to death.

Cats are evil, everyone knows this. They are only in it for themselves and have no feelings whatsoever for their owners. If you have nothing to offer them, they piss off without so much as a glance backwards. This is why you never see a homeless person with a cat.

I truly believe that this cat is simply selecting its next victim, and then spending a few days figuring out a way to make it look like natural causes. Which is not that hard when your victims are all over seventy years old.

Kill the cat, and kill it now, before anyone else dies because of its murderous ways.

Our office has a posh coffee machine. It has a lots of buttons, makes numerous mechanical noises and takes a little while to make a single cup of coffee, so when there are a few people waiting to use it, non-work conversations normally strike up quite quickly.

“So, have you read the new Harry Potter book yet?” asked nondescript co-work number one, to nondescript co-worker number two.

“No, but I have it at home, I plan to read it this weekend.”

“It is a bit long, but very hard to put down, I finished it last night. Which version did you buy?”

“The adult one, obviously, I don’t want people thinking I’m weird, ha ha!”

My interest was piqued at the mention of adult material. It is a gift. I remember one University lecturer calling this phenomenon something like the ‘Cocktail Party Effect’. It is where people can pick out their names in distant conversations they are not listening to, even though they have not heard a single other word. I am a bit like that, but with porn.

“Hang on, there is an adult version?” I queried, a little bit too enthusiastically.

“Well, yes. I think there are a few different versions actually.”

“That is very interesting. So, how much actual shagging is there in this adult version?”

As it turns out, the adult version relates purely to the cover art, and in no way implies any wizard-on-witch, or even witch-on-witch action. Who would have thought? I have not been this disappointed since accidentally buying a copy of Memoirs of a Geisha, under obviously false pretenses.

I wish I had known this before getting a coffee. My HR file is thick enough as it is.

Back in the days when I was a child, I knew a few kids who would walk to a local phone box, place a fake call to the emergency services, and then sit back and watch them arrive, all sirens blazing. They saw this as fun, probably because no-one had invented an X-box that they could play with, or mobile ring-tones that they could dance to in public places.

Obviously, the culprits of these false alarms were chastised, and I lost touch with them over the years, thankfully.

I sometimes wonder what happened to kids like this, who were obsessed by creating false alarms for the emergency services. What possible career could lay ahead of them? Now I know. They get jobs as journalists (I use the term loosely) with the Daily Mirror.

It takes a special kind of person to think that trying to hide a fake bomb on a train in this day and age is a good idea. Special in the window-licking sense of the word. It doesn’t take very much to get seven bullets in the head nowadays, you only have to wear a big coat when it is warm. So imagine what could happen if you were to walk around holding a big suitcase with the word ‘Bomb’ on the side.

I find it a great shame that they did not have the shit kicked out of them by some vigilant members of the public, that would have been really funny. I am sure the headline, “Public vigilance at all time high!” would have adorned the tabloids everywhere.

Fortunately, they were caught in the act, which makes the Daily Mirror happy, as it proves that security has improved. Yes, I imagine they are jumping with delight at the newsroom right now.

If these tabloid journalists really want to be on the front line ensuring public safety, there are lots of other projects they could get involved in. What about driving their cars at speed into walls to check Euro NCAP safety ratings?

What would you like to see them investigating further?

I popped out at lunchtime to pick up a sandwich and a few sundry items of which I had run out. Things like razor blades, sugar and toilet roll (it is much more embarrassing asking to borrow a toilet roll than a cup of sugar. Particularly if you are shouting your request out of an open bathroom window to passers by in the street).

Anyway, I had picked up most of what I needed, and had reached the area where the razors are kept, when I noticed a shocking sign. I took a picture of it and put it here, as a warning to others.

For those of you too lazy to click on a link (shame on you) it says, “For your safety and security we always prosecute thieves.”

‘Safety and Security’?! I had never been frightened of shop-lifters before, but I am big enough to admit that I was more than a little apprehensive after reading this. I have not seen any research into shoplifter violence, but some sort of survey must have been undertaken, as supermarkets do not put up signs like this willy-nilly. Mass hysteria costs lives. The last thing we need is a stampede on a Sunday afternoon after seeing an old lady stuffing a tin of cat food into her jacket.

Clearly, this warning means that there have been incidents of people going to steal some bread, and then going on a murderous rampage around the store!

On a similar theme I have read about the supposed link between minor drugs such as Marijuana and Rohypnol (it is minor, you have nothing to fear ladies) and hardcore class-A drugs like heroin and Red Bull, but I did not realise there was such a fine line between the theft of groceries and lashing out violently at random passers-by.

I subsequently watched my fellow shoppers with a new-found intensity looking for the merest hint of a bulging coat and homicidal mania. Previously, if I had seen a shoplifter, I would almost certainly have pointed this out to the supermarket staff, but not now. I am not taking a bullet for anyone.

Though I obviously applaud this effort by Sainsbury’s to ensure the safety of their shoppers, I do have some sympathy for their shareholders. I am sure they are at home counting their dividends wondering why so much time, effort and valuable money is being wasted on warning consumers about violent shop-lifters. I am sure they would much prefer a focus on reducing shoplifting in order to improve the bottom line?

Sainsbury’s should be careful, it is altruistic behaviour like this, and a focus on customer well-being that can lead to a severe drop in your stock market value. Just ask Gerald Ratner.

As I picked up the bag containing my Chinese take-away, I noticed there was a rather long, red coloured package in it.

“What’s this?” I asked of the proprietor.

“Calender, for you.”

“Yes.” he concluded, clearly satisfied that a calendar that was at least half out of date was a suitable gift for his customers.

There was also a new menu, which showed a large number of price rises across some of my favourite dishes. This six month-old calendar was obviously an attempt to appease loyal customers who were about to pay more for their meals. Unfortunately, those around me seemed to be falling for it, as there were many smiles and thank-yous in the restaurant. People can be such fools sometimes.

However, it is never wise to annoy people who prepare your food, so for once, I bit my tongue and left.

I will have my revenge though. They have added a new line to the menu which states the chefs will be only too happy to make any dish that is not on the menu. I plan to get a take-away tonight, and let’s see how they get on with Lobster Thermador.

“Shall we go for a curry then?”

I like hearing that sentence. There is not a situation when it is not welcomed, except perhaps post-coitally, which is why you should always check whether going for a curry is on the agenda. Better to know up front. I would hate to have sex and then not have a curry if I had been looking forward to the curry all through that boring foreplay bit. Sometimes that is all that keeps me going.

Anyway, I answered an with enthusiastic Yes to the question, as did the majority of our group (apart from those who probably wanted to have sex first), and so we made our way to the local curry house.

I am a traditionalist when it comes to curries, which is why I always order a chicken Balti and plain Naan bread. Just like they do in that country where they invented the Balti and Chicken Tikka Masala etc. Fat Jim is different however. He sees eating curry as a challenge, an opportunity to assert his manliness when so many other facets of his life are so disappointing.

“I’ll have the hottest curry you have!” proclaimed Fat Jim just loud enough for any of the women in the restaurant who preferred their sex post-curry (the weirdos) to hear.

There then followed some discussion of just how hot he would like it and words like phall, chillis-from-hell and instant-death likely were bantered back and forth. A short while later, our food arrived.

I had torn a piece from my Naan bread, and dipped it into my deliciously authentic Balti when I noticed Fat Jim had almost finished his curry. He was spooning more enthusiastically than a teenager at a playboy mansion sleepover.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I asked, but he continued to focus on the wall opposite for a few more seconds until the curry was gone. At which point he drank an entire pint of lager and ordered another.

“Nice was it?” I ventured.

“Hngggh….” replied Fat Jim, before starting to cry a little bit.

He took a glass of water and held its contents in his mouth whilst making the sort of noise you would expect of a ball-mouthed gimp whilst you attached electrodes to his testicles. I would imagine.

A few hours later, once the feeling had returned to his mouth, Fat Jim was telling anyone who would listen how completely delicious his curry had been. His bravado only falling once we reminded him that these things tend to be just as hot on the way out as they were on the way in.

I have not seen or heard from him since that evening.

Unfortunately, I have reached a point in my life where my peers have started having babies (for clarification I am twenty-twelve and from Windsor, not fifteen and from Bracknell).

I find this upsetting on so many levels. Firstly, my drinking circle is reducing a bit too rapidly. I have greatly enjoyed the many stag-dos I have been to over the last few years, but the subsequent christenings do not offer the same opportunity to hit on the attractive female friends of your mate’s now wife. And I have yet to receive a positive response to the question, “Can we all go lap dancing now?”. Perhaps I should wait until we leave the church before asking next time.

I have heard the excuse about ‘body clocks’ too many times recently, and I have to say it is all utter bollocks. I have read articles on the Internet about men in their eighties who have fathered children. This means we literally have at least fifty years to go before that procreation imperative kicks in. I do not see what the hurry is?

The first twelve months of a babies life seems, to me at least, to be excruciatingly dull. Sleep, cry, eat, shit. Repeat ad nauseum. I do not have any interest whatsoever in that, and on the rare occasions you make it to the pub I have no interest in hearing how many hours sleep the ‘little one’ now has each night. Four hours in one go eh? That is totally rubbish. A couple of years ago I did sixteen hours without waking once. And I did not shit myself either (it was a close call though).

There is an advert in my local gym for a class especially for new-born babies called “Mind, Body and Sole.” I did not realise that a lot of babies have problems with the bottom of their feet, but that is not what caught my attention. The reason I spat my water out when I walked past it was the fact that they have used a picture of possibly the ugliest child ever to crawl the planet to advertise it. Seriously. I did not know whether to feel sorry for the parents or call NASA and explain that first contact had been made. If you do not believe me, click here to see the photo taken with my phone.

If you have an ugly baby, please keep it behind locked doors until it is old enough for cosmetic surgery. It is best for all concerned. Thank you.

I fully understand that encouraging people to aspire to personal standards they would not normally achieve is a cornerstone of marketing strategy.

The basic premise is to show users of a product in an aspirational setting for the target market. It is not particularly clever, but it works. The people who buy the product then find themselves thinking, “look at me, I am better than you! All because of this great new product that I have bought!”

But what happens when the target market DO use it, and those people who are genuinely at the aspired level no longer wish to be associated with said product? This is one of the reasons why I do not drink Stella Artois anymore, I do not want to be a wife beater, or in the absence of my own, the beater of other peoples wives. It is also a fact that Stella gives me a hangover so painful it is reminiscent of the time I got hit in the face with a cricket ball whilst playing tennis (it is a long story).

This is a roundabout way of me asking you all to settle a bit of a pub argument. Have any of you, in the last couple of years, bought any form of genuine Burberry product? Does the chosen apparel of todays chav really hold any interest, at all, for the discerning customer?

One of the guys at work has a Burberry scarf, which he wore just once to the office, after he spent that particular day being called Kev or Trev and being asked for a go on his scooter. He is a bit of a cunt though, so do not feel sorry for him.

I got on the busy train and fought my way to a seat. I do not like brushing up against the general public, but needs must.

I took my seat and I noticed, almost immediately, that sat in the seat opposite me, or rather directly behind the seat opposite me, was Alex James off of Blur.

To his eternal credit, he did not react like some people do, even though I am sure it is not every day that he finds himself on a train with a blogging superstar.

As we trundled towards London I chose not to engage him with conversation over the shoulder of the lady sat opposite, even though I am sure he would have been happy to reminisce about our last meeting. This was back in September 1993 at the end of Freshers week at Aston University, where Blur had headlined. My flatmate John had ‘accidentally’ got into their tour minibus and demanded a lift back to his halls of residence, mistaking it for the student union bus. I think Alex’s exact words were, “Get off the bus you fucking twat.” Oh how we laughed as they tried to kick him in the head.

But this was not the time for a trip down memory lane, we both had important commuting to tend with, and I am sure that if I engaged with him in conversation that would lead to lots of people wanting to talk to me about the Internet. I do not have time for that.

I also chose not to share my story about how I had paid 4p less for my water than anyone else at Slough station, as no-one likes a bragger. When we arrived at Paddington we went our separate ways.

I am quite sure he was on the phone to Damon Albarn within minutes to tell him he had seen the guy from that gig in September 1993 with the drunken mate. I am glad I provided the opportunity for them to renew their friendship, it made it a good day, for a change.

“Just this water thanks.” I said to the glum looking lady at Slough train station.

I was on my way into London to meet some friends after work, and if previous meetings were any indication of what lay ahead then I would do well to take on board some water before arriving in the city.

“That’s £1.29 please.”

Water is expensive. This was only a small bottle, and therefore disproportionately expensive, so I begrudgingly went through my pockets looking for change. I began to consider a colleague who is doing a charity walk for WaterAid. Apparently, just £15 can supply clean water to an African homeless person for a whole year. My water rates are over a hundred pounds. Honestly, these Africans do not know how lucky they are.

I handed over £1.30 in change and waited.

“We do not have any pennies, I am sorry.”

I looked at her. She looked at me, as if our transaction had been concluded.

“So, you’re just going to not give me my penny?” I asked, still a little concerned that I might be misunderstanding the situation.

“We don’t have any.”

“Well, that’s not really my fault is it? I don’t want to pay £1.30, I want my change.”

There was now a principle at stake. That 1p represented a price rise of just over three quarters of one percent, and though that might not sound a like a lot, you just have to ask anyone with a mortgage about inflationary pressures on interest rates. Honestly, this stand was about economic stability, not me being tight.

“But I don’t have any pennies, I would give you one, if I had one.”

“Do you have any 5 pence pieces?”

“A few.”

“Well, I’ll have one of those instead then.”

“But I have to make up any shortfall in the till myself.”

“Right, so any upside you get to keep, is that it? Overcharging everyone a penny will earn you, what, 30p an hour on average? Let’s be honest, you’re not going to be out of pocket at the end of the day over my 5p are you?”

With that, she relented, and gave me a 5p and I went off to the platform to drink my delicious victory water, like the consumer champion I am. It is these little things like this that will enable us to prevent the country descending into an ever-worsening spiral of hyperinflation. I suggest you all do your bit.

“So, how long are you going to be with us?” I said to the rather attractive temp we had on Reception.

As a company going through a number of changes, there have been a few temps through the doors in the last few weeks, but she was by far the best looking. I think she was also competent at her job too, I think.

“A couple of weeks I think”

“Oh that’s great news. I mean, we can always use good people here, and you look good, I mean, you know, at your job and that.”

I will admit, this was not one of my better opening lines. I pressed on regardless.

“So, are you a local?”

“Yes, I live round the corner. Near my boyfriend.”

Hard to get. I like it. She thinks throwing in this little factoid will deter me. She knows nothing.

“Oh that’s nice. How long have you been together?”

“A few months now.” she replied, whilst shuffling papers on the desk avoiding eye contact with me. She clearly knew I would peer into her very soul and would see that her relationship was a sham. Which would be a bit much, what with it being her first day and all.

“Well, I’ll see you later then.” I concluded, wandering off, knowing full well that she would be counting down the minutes till we spoke again.

It truly is a burden having this affect on women, but it is one I bare with little complaint. For once.

I quite like going to the gym, as I am well-read and fully understand the benefits of doing so. I try to go a couple of times a week, if I have time, and I have heard that exercise is an excellent way of relieving stress. A bit like having a wank, only without the elaborately planned outfits.

I usually exercise alone, but I accept that there are many weak-willed work-shy slackers out there that need to work out in pairs in order to remain motivated. I do not, however, understand why these guys talk to each other like they’re in the middle of some sadomasochistic ritual.

A couple of nights ago I was plodding away serenely on the treadmill (I am quite the fleet-footed runner in my new trainers), when my concentration on the latest Girls Aloud video was rudely broken.

“Arggggh! Yeah! Feel the burn bro! Two more! Come on!” screamed one bloke to the other who was lying on the exercise bench.

It is a shame that his exercise partner was deaf, but I was pleased to see that they were not letting one small disability prevent them from working out. Honestly, they are an inspiration to us all. I continued running and admiring Mrs. Ashley Cole, but just a few moments later my focus was once again drawn to the free weights area.

“That’s it! Thee! Yes bro! Two! Come on! And one! Excellent bro!” shouted the deaf exerciser.

The other one was obviously deaf too! I suppose this makes sense, as ‘birds of a feather..’ and all that. I must admit to being quietly impressed at their enunciation, better than some fully hearing people I know, and although they sounded a bit chavy for my tastes it was actually very clear. In fact, if they had not been screaming at each other at full volume from less than a foot away, I would not even had known they had a hearing problem at all.

Of course, this did raise the question as to why they did not sign encouragement at each other? But then, I am not sure you can shout in sign language.

I have mentioned modern artists before. They are not my favourite people. That is why I was particularly drawn to a piece in the free London Paper a couple of weeks ago regarding a complaint made by Tracy Emin.

Wild-child artist Tracy Emin last night lost her battle to prevent a beach bar from reopening behind her £1 million London home.

Emin vowed that the scheme would go ahead “over my dead body” after she complained of noise and mess at the City Beach Club, which is in Spitalfields.

I can empathise to a certain extent, I have lived close to a nightclub, and excessive noise at 3 a.m. can be a pain if you are not the one making it.

Emin, 43, said: “The sheer numbers of people coming to the area because of City Beach leave vast amounts of rubbish over the surrounding streets, including half-eaten food, beer cans and condoms.”

Hang on.

She is actually upset because of the rubbish, half-eaten food, and condoms. A bit like this then?

She should consider it a compliment of the highest order. Clearly the bar regulars are trying to make London one big artistic statement. In her honour. You would have thought Tracey would approve? There are people who would literally kill someone to death in order to live in an area surrounded by modern art.

Can you imagine what it would be like if the art that surrounded you was just the sort of art that you specifically appreciated? Or maybe even created yourself? That would make you happy, surely?

Unless of course she thinks her stuff is utter fucking shite, just like the rest of us?