I am livid

“I think I have a phobia, but I don’t know what it’s called.” said Fat Jim as we sat in the pub awaiting the arrival of some other people.

“What of?” I asked, glancing longingly at the front door of the pub.

“Being stabbed.”

“That’s not a phobia you fuckwit. Phobias are irrational fears, you only have a phobia if you are scared of something for which there is no reasonable reason to be fearful. It’s perfectly normal to be scared of being stabbed to death, millions of years of evolution have made you that way. I’m scared of being stabbed to death.”

“So there’s no such thing as stabophobia?”

“No.”

“What if I was scared of being stabbed…by a spider. At the top of a tall building. Whilst surrounded by snakes.”

“Then that’s a perfectly normal phobia.”

“Thank God. I thought I was going mad for a minute.”

“Shut up and get the beers in.”

I recently bought the new Die Hard film to complete my DVD collection of the genre. John McLane is the reason I own a vest. And a gun. OK, that was a joke. I do not own a vest.

Anyway, I sat down to watch my new film, unsure as to what was going to happen, as I had missed the film when it was at the cinema. I was still pretty sure that John McLane was going to kick someone’s ass whilst rebelling against authority and using any excuse to drop in a wise crack.

As the music began I settled into the sofa and made myself comfortable.

“Piracy is a crime!” screamed the screen.

I know this. I have read Treasure Island and know of the legend of Blackbeard, though I was unsure as to why now was a good time to warn me away from a life of thievery on the high seas.

“That operation is currently prohibited.” announced my DVD player as I attempted to fast forward through this warning.

Why is it prohibited? I have bought the DVD. I have paid for it with real cash money. I do not wish to be subjected to accusations of theft. I sat there unable to do anything except watch the further accusations.

“DVD Piracy supports terrorism!” claimed my perfectly legitimate DVD.

If this were true then surely the war against terror could be more easily won? Why bother searching caves in Afghanistan if success can be gained by sneaking up on moody DVD sellers at most local markets?

I am not a criminal mastermind, but if I was, I am quite sure that if I were to try and make some money copying DVDs, then I would start the copying process after the piracy warning. What sort of criminal would leave it in?

After what seemed like about an hour I finally got to see John McLane kicking ass and rebelling against authority whilst making wise cracks at any opportunity.

It seems the Sudanese law enforcement authorities are determined to re-emphasise the ‘mentalist’ element of Islamic fundamentalist.

Hot on the heels of Muslim world becoming outraged at a Danish cartoon of the prophet Muhammed, it seems the next religious outrage has occurred in the Sudan.

An English teacher, Gillian Gibbons, has asked her class to vote on a name for the class teddy bear. The children then decided on the name Muhammed.

And the insensitive bitch allowed it. Quite rightly she has ben arrested, and faces six months in jail, or forty lashes (I am assuming this is not some lengthy beauty treatment).

I do think it is a bit unfair not to punish the children though. It was their idea after all. I am sure that forty lashes would ensure that any six or seven year-old would never take the prophet’s name in vain, ever again.

I am glad that the Sudanese have taken such a firm stance on this. It would be very easy for a country like that to focus on other aspects of its society like increasing the very low per capita output, reducing child mortality, or even providing food and clean water to it’s 39 million people, rather than the names of teddy bears.

Just to be on the safe side though, I have created a special hiding place in the loft for Jesus the stuffed Lion, Brahman the Golliwog and Buddha the Tank Engine.

I am currently planning a few long haul flights, and part of that process has involved looking closely at the various baggage allowances offered by different airlines. I have mentioned this before, but baggage policies seem to be increasingly unfair on people like me.

I mean people who are not fat.

Why I should I have the same baggage allowance as the portly chap sat in front of me? He weighs more than me and my 23kg allowance put together, so where is the financial justice in us paying the same amount to cross the Atlantic?

It is bad enough if you have to sit next to one on the actual flight itself, but knowing that you have also subsidised their trip is beyond a joke. Plus they probably steal your in flight meal when you are not looking.

How hard would it be to come up with a system where we take the average weight of passengers (85kg according to Google - or 13 and a bit stone in UK money), add 23kg, and then allow passengers to use that weight as they see fit.

I might choose to take some extra clothing, books or even a set of dumbells. Fatty may decide not to leave his man boobs at home.

We could even have some form of offsetting market in weight allowances, with skinny people selling off their extra kilos to the rotund travellers. If it can work with carbon emissions, surely it could work here?

OK, it might be seen as being a little bit fattist, but we picked on the smokers and now people are giving that up left right and centre.

I mean, it is clear that being hideously unattractive is not enough to make them lose a few pounds, so maybe a hit in the wallet each time they fly might be enough to make them take the stairs every now and again?

There are ‘not bad’ tattoos, and there are really shit tattoos.

A good tattoo is a nice, small, tasteful design at the base of a woman’s spine. This can, sometimes, be a thing of beauty. It is also a sign that the woman has a reasonable pain threshold so a bit of bum-fun might be on the agenda.

A bad tattoo is usually adorning a fat man and will likely be a picture of a football club crest, or a name across his knuckles.

Then there is a Tramp Stamp.

The Tramp Stamp is usually found just above the arse of a portly chavette, and if your eyes can become accustomed to the glare from the copious amounts of Elizabeth Duke on her wrists, hands, ears and neck, you might be able to see it. It is normally distorted due to the muffin top action going on either side, but if you can make out the drooping pattern, then I am afraid to say that you are probably too close for comfort.

Please tell me none of you have one. Especially the women.

Well, first of all you have to make friends with God, obviously. Even I know that.

But which one?

A quick Google (it is nice to use it for something other than investigation my own symptoms) told me that there are twenty two religions with over half a million followers. I do not have time to be friends with twenty two Gods. Even as a man of leisure.

Just to make it even more difficult each of those twenty two say that you can not be friends with a different God. It is very much a case of backing a horse and sticking with it. However, I am advocating that we should use of this “pick me, and pick only me!” mentality in our favour.

My method of ensuring I get into Heaven is based on the premise that, “My enemy’s enemy is my friend.”

If myself and the proper actual God out of that twenty two potential Gods, have a common enemy, then surely I will be welcomed into Heaven with open arms? Plus, depending on which God wins, then I might even get some virgins thrown in for good measure.

So, first of all I need to pick that common enemy. I am not stupid, so I am not going to pick one of the popular religions to be my enemy. I am going to play the odds, and go for Mami Wata.

I know what you are thinking, “What the hell is that?!”

Well, she is a God of stuff to do with psychic phenomena such as divination and spiritual healing. Stupid stuff mainly. She is a rubbish God, and I mock her utter stupidness! (Please take note other twenty two potential Gods) .

I intend to mock her at least once a day, and then, on the day of reckoning I will make sure the real God knows exactly what efforts I went to, in order to show people she was a false God. Honestly, this is a sure fire winner.

Of course, if I die and I am met by Mami Wata then I am fucked. But then so are 99.999% of the world, so at least I will have some company in hell.

I hate to admit it, but I have been sucked into the Facebook craze that is sweeping the nation.

I am going to make a sweeping generalisation and assume that the people who read this have an inkling what Facebook is and what it does, at a basic level at least. Even the ones in Wales.

What I have noticed is that there is an application you can add to your page for absolutely anything and everything. There are applications to give you horoscopes, to buy your friends a virtual drink (really, what is the fucking point in that?), to become a ninja or a werewolf or a zombie. Even to draw virtual graffiti on someone’s wall. This one in particular I don’t get. Surely the link at the bottom saying “This graffiti is by Mr Angry” defeats the whole point of leaving gratuitously offensive messages? What is the point of writing, “Fat Jim bums sailors for pocket money” if everyone knows it was me?

What I really want to see are useful Facebook applications.

Shitometer - “Mr Angry has had THREE poos today. Do you want to let him know how many poos you have had? Click here!”

Bunch O’cunts- Found people on Facebook you really hate? Add them in here, it will send them random abusive messages, completely anonymously, and we get to see who the most unpopular people on Facebook are.

Violent Tendencies - “Mr Angry is going to smash FAT JIM’s head repeatedly into a wall until his brain seeps out of his ears like those really horrible custard bogies you get after a cold.”

Thoughts Aloud - “Mr Angry has thought about blow-jobs FORTY THREE times today. In his network only FAT JIM has thought of blow-jobs more often. Are you now thinking about blow-jobs? I bet you are. Click here and tell the world!”

Are there any Facebook applications you would like to see?

I am currently a man of leisure which means I have been eating a lot of toast and drinking a lot of tea. In order to spice things up a bit, and keep it interesting, I have taken to putting cheese on top of the toast (Irish mature cheddar if you are interested).

This has meant some limited interaction with the grill that is part of my oven unit. It is hot. Really really fucking hot. I know this after catching the back of my hand on it whilst removing my delicious cheese on toast.  It made me use swear words that have not even been made up yet.
Why do burns hurt so much? Don’t get me wrong, I understand the evolutionary imperative for pain, and it being used to prevent us doing things that could harm us. Which is probably why you never see cave drawings of cavemen with cheese toasties.  But why do they hurt so much? And for so long?

I have broken bones, dislocated things, grazed things, pulled things and been kicked in the nads on more than one occasion. All of which hurt.  But none of which hurt for as long and as intensely as a burn.

What is mother nature trying to tell us? That grilling cheese on toast is more dangerous than falling down the stairs or being hit in the knackers by the shoe of a former loved one?

Because that is what I am assuming at the moment.

I quite like buying toys.

I can spend literally hours browsing gadget and electrical shops looking for something cool to buy. I am a sucker for flashing lights and techno-babble I do not understand.

Iin this particular instance however, my toy was a little more low-tech.

I bought a paper shredder.

You would think this was a simple task, but you would be wrong. There are lots of paper shredders to shred your paper, and if you do not want borderline autistic identity thieves to piece all of your information together like a big jigsaw puzzle in order to get at your Tesco Clubcard points, then you have to get a certain type of cross-shredder.

My previous anti-identity theft tactics had been completely fool proof. I simply avoided throwing away anything with my name on it. I have boxes and boxes of bills, statements, application forms, letters etc. None of which I will ever want, or need to see again, but I was too scared to throw them out. What if a master criminal got hold of them and convinced the world they were me? Fortunately, I have never heard of an identity thief breaking into peoples lofts to get at old bank statements, so I thought it would be fine.

Actually, my shredder is pretty cool, as shredders go. Unfortunately, there are only so many times you can watch a batch of eight (yes, eight!) sheets of paper being sucked into the cutting mechanism before you get quite bored by it. The amount of times the the equivalent of the number of sheets in a quarter of a box of paper (divided by eight, yes eight!), in fact. Which is not very much when you have just over six boxes to shred.

One cool feature it does have though, is a safety mechanism which stops the cutters if a human finger gets too close. And also other animal fingers I imagine. What I do not understand is why I keep testing this safety feature. I know it works. It has worked every time I have tried it (0ver 50 as a conservative estimate).

If, just once, it doesn’t work, I am going to lose a digit. All because I want my new toy to seem a bit more interesting. I have no idea how I would explain such an incident.

“Oh dear, did you lose that finger shark diving in South Africa?”

“Ouch, did that get ripped off saving that child from the burning car?”

Or

“You lost it trying the safety feature on your paper shredder? For the eighty seventh time? What was it about the first eighty six times that led you to believe you needed just one more test?”

I do still have ten digits, for clarification, but I have no idea how long this will remain the case. I simply can not stop myself. I think perhaps I need help.

I telephone the Doctor’s Surgery.

I’d had a touch of the man-flu about a week ago, but I shook it off, manfully. However, on Thursday I started feeling pretty fucking rubbish (technical term) and my neck was very stiff and swollen. It was worse on Friday, yet I had no cold-type symptoms, so I decided to see a Doctor.

“I am afraid the are no appointments available today.”

“Right, I’ll just ask my illness to come back on Monday shall I?”

“You could see a nurse if you want to?”

This was quite good news. Like most men, I quite like the uniform, but I really wasn’t sure how dating a nurse was going to make my neck feel any better in the short term. Nevertheless, I was booked in to see one later that morning.

I arrived at the surgery and waited to be seen. When called through I was immediately disappointed to see that this nurse dressed like a doctor. There was no uniform whatsoever. Not even a hat.

“So, what seems to be the problem?”

I explained my symptoms and how it followed a recent bought of man-flu from which I recovered manfully, and without moaning.

“Can you say ‘Ahhh’ for me?” she asked, and I resisted the temptation to ask if her pet had died. I have learned the hard way that not everyone likes Tommy Cooper. Then she asked me if this hurt, and that.

I said, “A bit” and “Not really”.

Then she felt my neck and said, “Oh, that’s quite swollen isn’t it? In fact you can see it, I didn’t even need to feel for it.”

I am not averse to being touched up by nurses, and it pretty much seemed a bed bath was out of the question, so I let her touch away.

She sat back down opposite me.

“It appears you have some kind of viral infection.”

It is always reassuring to get such a definitive diagnosis from a medical professional.

“Your lymph glands are quite swollen, but all you need is plenty of rest, fluids and Vitamin C. And I am afraid you’ll have to stay off alcohol for the next week or so to let your body recover.”

This was devastating news for the weekend, as my friends tend to be less funny when I am sober.

I got home and instantly did what no ill person should ever do under any circumstances whatsoever. I Googled my symptoms. I am now checking my swollen lymph glands hourly and I am convinced I may not be here tomorrow.

When I was at University there was a football based computer game called Championship Manager which I got a little bit addicted to. I once stayed up for 36 hours playing it with a guy I shared a house with. I was not a nerd though, for clarification.

Computer games have moved on though, and there is now a new version of this game (along with about ten versions in between I have now learned). I decided to buy a copy to see how technology has improved the ways to waste our weekends.

“Just this thanks,” I said to the assistant at my local Game store handing over the box.

“That’s £29.99 please. Do you have a Game Reward Card?”

I do not know why he asked me that. I definitely do not look like someone who might have a Game Reward Card. At all.

“No. I have no need for such a card. I don’t even like computer games. This is a protest purchase.” I clarified, perhaps a bit too loudly.

“Right.”

I entered my PIN and he handed over the game and the receipt.

“Don’t forget to check the specification on the box, we can’t accept returns if your PC isn’t of a sufficient specification.”

“But I’ve already paid now?”

“Is the specification sufficient?”

I read the case carefully.

“Yes. But that’s not the point, is it? What’s the point in giving a warning about your refunds policy after the purchase has been made? The warning is a bit redundant by that point, don’t you think?”

“Right. Do you want to return it then?”

“No! I’ve only just bought it. I’m just saying, that’s all!”

“Next.”

I left the shop, game in hand, wondering if I had just been pwned by a computer game shop assistant.

“Stop right where you are mate!”

This is a worrying thing to hear when it is shouted in your direction, especially when you are outside a London tube station. I have no desire to be the next Jean Charles de Menezes, so I did as I was told.

Then I noticed that the person doing the shouting looked more like a slightly retarded clipboard-carrying Blue Peter presenter than a trigger-happy undercover policeman intent on shooting me in the face. Then again, I suppose that is how they sneak up on you.

“I’d like to talk to you about the Children’s Society” he began.

“Oh. This is about charity is it? I do more than enough already, and it’s not as if anyone on the Internet wants to hear about all that good charity work that I do, so I’ll stop there I think, and not tell you about all the charity work I already do.”

“I’m sure you do, but if you could spare me just two minutes I’ll tell you about all the amazing work that we do. All I need is…”

“You work on commission right?”

“I, err, sort of…”

“Right, I tell you what. If you’ll split the commission with me, right now, in cash, I’ll sign up. How’s that?”

“I don’t think I can… I err, I’m not sure if…”

“Look, I am not an unreasonable man. There are about a dozen people off of the Internet that will back me up on that, and I’m offering you the chance to get 50% of your commission right here, right now. I could demand 90% for myself and you’d still be better off than me walking away and you getting nothing at all. But I am a reasonable man, as I said. This is a win-win situation. Take it or leave it.”

“I don’t think I can, if I can just…”

“B’bye then.”

As I walked away from Angel tube I was accosted by two further ‘chuggers’ (from the term ‘charity muggers’) , each of whom I pointed in the direction of their colleague nearest the station.

“I have made him an offer. If you’re interested, I’ll be back this way in about thirty minutes. We can talk then.”

As I sat having a coffee, I realised how this last statement could potentially be misinterpreted. I had a troublesome vision of a male Chugger offering me sexual favours in return for charitable donations. Which for clarification, I would definitely not be interested in. I did not want to hurt their feelings, particularly if they been wrestling with their conscience and had finally decided to debase themselves by sucking off a complete stranger in order to secure a charity direct debit.

I went back to the station the long way to avoid any unwanted unpleasantness.

I have always been in favour of the smoking ban. Not to the Draconian extent it has been implemented in some places, but I do want to be able to enjoy a pint without inhaling the contents of someone else’s lungs, unless they have been smoking the delicious crack.

Anyway, last week I went out with some friends to my first gig since the ban came into force. I went to see The Charlatans (or ‘The Charlatans UK’ for my US reader) at Shepherds Bush empire. I have been there a few times before, but not for many years.

We moved our way into the crowd to position ourselves just far enough back to avoid any potential moshing (I am twenty-twelve now, and so bouncing around with young people is strictly a weekend only activity). We found a good spot and I took a swig from my Guinness-in-plastic. Then I noticed it.

Fart.

And not the sort that makes you go, “You smelly bastard!” and then lets you get on with your day. I mean the sort that makes you wretch until a bit of sick comes up into your mouth, and makes you hold your nose, but that makes it worse because then you know that microscopic bits of poo are getting into your mouth so you are sick even more. It was like they had spent the day wolfing down dogshit sandwiches. Honestly, I have never smelt anything quite so bad.

Others agreed with me, and the drunk ginger bloke in front us became the favourite for the phantom farting crown.

Then I smelt something else.

B.O.

Again, not the minor whiff of a passing pedestrian who has forgotten to shower, but the stink of someone who has been living in a metal drum in the Sahara whilst being force fed Indian food and limited to washing in elephant dung.

I had never noticed it before, but the general public fucking stinks. Really. You do. For years the odour of Benson & Hedges has clearly covered a multitude of sins. No wonder you were so against the ban. It wasn’t the thought of giving up smoking that got you all complaining. It was the thought of all that money you were going to have to spend on soap.

It is almost enough for me to join the ‘bring back smoking’ brigade.

Today’s post comes from occasional commentor, Phil. Phil tends to leave about eight comments all at once, much like the deranged stream of consciousness you would expect of a man only allowed access to the Internet once a week.  I am not suggesting he is in an institution of some kind of course, but this time he emailed me rather than leaving a five hundred word entry in the comment of an old post. It made me smile, and I agree with him, so I am sharing it with you all. Take it away Phil…

Being at a loose end I thought I’d make a baked potato using the oven for a change. Wondering how to do it, and being appallingly lazy, I looked on ‘tinternet and found “How to bake a potato”, subtitled “How to bake a potato, step by step, with pictures”.  You can see the website here.

Take a look and you’ll see it really is a marvellous little website.

Encouragingly, it said oven-baked potatoes are more nutritious and you get crispy skin. The pictures of the result looked delicious. I was going to make one big baked potato but it said use several smaller ones because then you get more yummy skin. Excellent. So I did as it said, and everything was going swimmingly, until it said “preheat the oven to
350 degrees F.”

I looked at my oven. There was no F. It went up to 250 degrees C. What
is 350 degrees Fahrenheit in Centigrade?

I thought, “I’m not going to give in to technology.” I looked in my diary for the conversion factor, but it wasn’t there. It had conversions for length, volume, velocity, etc., but not temperature.

With a sense of shame I returned to the computer for the conversion. First I found a page that said “subtract 40, multiply by 5, divide by 9″. I tried to do that, but wasn’t sure of the result, so I looked yet again and found some Javascript page that performed the calculation.

How much electricity did the great whirling machine of the Internet use because I didn’t bother to look in a cooking book? More than my oven did? Why on earth are Americans still using this baffling and illogical Fahrenheit scale? I’d like to convert every mention of degrees Fahrenheit to Celsius and see how they get on.