I am livid

I had suggested to a few friends that we go along to one of the comedy nights hosted by Richard Herring at the Lyric in Hammersmith. A few people were interested, so I bought four tickets and made my way there in the evening with my ex-flatmate, where we would meet with my friends Amy (who has written a couple of posts on here) and Red Face Paul (about whom I have written occasionally).

I had forgotten however that both Amy and Red Face Paul had been in the pub since lunchtime. This fact became abundantly obvious when we arrived at the Lyric bar and they waved and screamed their welcomes at us across about fifty theatre goers.

Despite my silent prayers, the hole in the ground failed to appear, yet again, and so after getting some drinks we made our way to the stalls and our seats.

Mr. Herring began his routine about potatoes being the apples of the sky for French people, when Amy turned to face me and said, in the shouted whisper that only incredibly drunken people are capable of, “I’VE HEARD THIS BEFORE!”

“Yes.” I whispered, properly, “It was in his Edinburgh show that we saw a couple of years ago.”

“RIGHT. IT’S STILL GOOD THOUGH.”

The show moved on, and she finished the bottle of wine she had successfully snuck into the auditorium from the bar. Pappy’s Fun Club did their set, which closed with a bit of an audience participation sing song, and which most people ignored to begin with. Except Amy.

Now, Amy can not sing. At all. She is so tone deaf that her singing can jump across entire octaves mid sentence. And jump it did. Several times. Once again the hole in the ground failed to appear, though I did manage to lower myself in my seat by a several inches.

After the interval we retook our seats and within five minutes her head was bent backwards as if she was looking at the ceiling. Only her eyes were closed and she was on the verge of snoring. The positive angle here was that I could use any of the jokes I heard in her presence and she would think I was very funny. This was weighed up against the possibility of something falling from the Circle above into her open mouth and choking her.

I let her sleep.

Right until the point she awoke with a start and began talking rather loudly.

“LET ME HAVE A GO!” she began, “I’LL HAVE A GO. GET ME A MICROPHONE.”

For some reason she seemed to think that Sean Hughes wanted her on the stage with him. It took almost a minute to convince her that this was not the case, and included a threat of actual bodily violence. From her to me, for clarification.

The show came to its rousing conclusion, and Amy fell asleep the moment she got in the car to go home. I have not spoken to her yet to see how much, or indeed little, she remembers of the show.

It is late and I am pissing about on Facebook, in my real account, not my I am Livid one. I have accepted a friend request from someone and almost immediately a message appears in my Inbox.

“Hi angry saw u were online so thought id say hi. do u remember me at all.”

I begin to feel like I have made a terrible, terrible mistake.

It is all well and good accepting Facebook friend requests from people with whom you share mutual school friends. They must have been at school with you, right? I am notoriously bad with names, but very good with faces, so if I see a picture of someone I recognise, I accept the request.

But she had not put up a photo when the request came through. Instead it was the generic blue question mark. We had five joint friends, some of whom were quite fit at school, so I decided to accept her.

But now the dilemma. No, I did not remember her. Which means she was definitely not on the A List of school hotties. I remember those particular girls very very well indeed.

I was at a complete loss.

So, did I say that I did not remember her and admit, somewhat embarrassingly, that I accepted her request because of some shared fit female friends we have?

Or pretend that, “Yeah, of course I remember you. How could I forget! Oh the laughs we had. You know, with our other joint friends and that. And the teachers, phew, they were a nightmare weren’t they? Yeah, I remember everything about school. Definitely. So tell me about what you’ve been up to. Do you still have the same height, hair, weight or distinguishing marks that you might want to mention?”

I imagine if there is a process on Facebook for having a friend removed she is in the middle of it right now.

Apparently an incredibly bad haircut and a ridiculous name are not considered ‘cruel’ by the RSPCA.  Technically they consider any report of such crimes to be ‘time-wasting’.  I bet it would be different if it were my Labrador shaved like Lion and called Fifi.

If your girlfriend mentions an itch she ‘just can’t scratch’ she is not politely suggesting you buy her an industrial sized pot of Canestan. She is dumping you.

And it is very difficult to return large pots of Canestan.

Yesterday was Saint George’s Day.

I didn’t actually realise it was Saint George’s Day until the afternoon, as it tends not to be celebrated with any form of street carnival or fireworks. Which is a shame for Saint George. If indeed that is his real name.

You see, Saint George was from what is now called Turkey. I have been to Turkey. Twice. And I never met anyone over there called George. This is why I believe that some tinkering with the history books has occurred.

“Thank you for saving us from that terrible dragon! What is your name oh dark stranger with a funny accent?”

“I am Ibrahim of Anatolia, slayer of of the quite-big-for-round-here lizard!”

“Thank you, George.”

“No, you must have misheard me, it is Ibrahim of Anatolia.”

“Yes, but George is such a nice….English name.”

“But…it’s not my name.”

“I know that, it’s just we’re going to have such trouble getting people to celebrate this day in the future as it is. If people thought your real name was Ibrahim, and that you were from Turkey of all places, then even the skinheads would start ignoring your day.”

“Right. In that case, I am George! Slayer of the giant lizard!”

“And can we call it a dragon? It scans much better.”

“Sure. Whatever.”

I am livid - Giving you the stuff they don’t put in our history books.

Yes, one of the hits of Saturday night television in the early nineties is coming back after being revived by Sky television. A huge plus in the new shows favour is that it will be presented by the very definition of MILF, Kirsty Gallagher.

When it comes to Gladiators, I have a small confession to make. I once went to watch Gladiators being filmed in Birmingham.  In my defence, I was taking my younger brother who was about eight at the time, so I have perfectly legitimate excuse. Sort of. All those telephoto lens shots I took of Jet were for my brother’s collage. On her part, I think the restraining order was a bit over the top to be honest.

However, society has moved on since those halcyon days. Today’s streets are full of knife fights, ASBO wielding teenagers and filthy paedophiles, so I hope the producers will be taking this societal shift on board.

I always felt that Gladiators was just a small step from becoming Arnie’s film, The Running Man. This Gladiator revival could be an excellent opportunity to make that final leap.

Who wants to watch a body-conscious pretty-boy stock broker trying to run up a slightly quick escalator against the clock? Wouldn’t you rather watch a skinny chav, who has been caught carrying a knife, have a fight to the death with Rhino? I know I would.

What about teenage cat burglar playing Hang Tough above a pit of poisonous snakes?

Wouldn’t that just be an enormous ratings winner?

What other events would you like to see brought into the new series?

I was shocked to see that John Prescott announced over the weekend that he was a sufferer of Bulimia.

Not shocked that he had it, more that the qualification criteria to be defined as a bulimic is so much lower than I had thought. I was always under the impression that bulimia sufferers would sneak off after every meal and make themselves sick. I did not realise that you were also bulimic if you threw up after every six hundredth meal. I would prefer to concentrate on the many MANY meals he consumed that were allowed to fix themselves to his ample waistline. I suppose we finally have an explanation for his second Jaguar, it was nothing more than a mobile larder.

I always thought that one of the nice side effects of being bulimic was always remaining skinny. How are we supposed to spot them now? We could always look out for traces and smell of vomit, but I do not wish to tarnish this country’s binge drinkers with the bulimia label.

There is of course the possibility that he came up with the story to help sell his book.  I am not saying that he definitely did, but it is a possibility.  It would be pretty difficult coming up with a believable and sympathy-earning failing after being part of that government.  David Blunkett bagsied the blind thing, and Jack Straw got the familial drugs shame, so I guess he had little left to work with.  He tried the adultery angle, but that didn’t seem to work, so I suppose an eating disorder was a logical choice.

I just want to know how big he would be if he had never thrown up a meal in his life?

Dear [manager at a charity to which I contribute on a monthly basis, but do not like to talk about],

Hello.

I am sure from your records that you have already identified me as a monthly contributor to your worthwhile charity. Yes, it is a modest amount. But I am a modest man, the sort of man who would never publicise my chartitable donations on a popular Internet weblog.

I am writing in connection with a number of communications I have had from yourselves in the last few months. Firstly by post, where you politely asked if I would be willing to increase my direct debit to offer further help with the great work that you do.  I already give you the money that could be spent in the pub on a pint and some delicious corn-based snacks each week.  So, as I am a man of modest means, I politely declined by disposing of your request in an ecologically sound manner.

You wrote again a month later, asking much the same. Again I politely declined, and recycled.

Then you phoned me. Or rather, an operative from a call centre phoned me, to ask if I would be willing to increase my direct debit. I made it perfectly clear that I would NOT be increasing my monthly donation, due to reduced circumstances, at which point your employee said, “What, not even by a pound?”.

I ask you, as a philanthropist, would you consider increasing your donation to a charity that appears to be spending more and more  of its donated money targeting existing contributors for further funds, rather than on the cause for which it was established?

Let me be more explicit. I am happy to donate, as I currently do, to your charity.  I think [it] is a good cause. But I am concerned that my money is merely funding unsolicited mailshots and call centre begging programmes.

This is not why I give you my quite-easily-earned-actually money.

I have made my position clear. I will not be increasing my monthly donation. As such, I am informing you that if I receive a single further request to increase my monthly donation, I will consider it waste on your part and I will immediately cancel my direct debit and move it to a charity which spends a greater proportion of its funds on its stated cause.

I do hope that this does not happen, but you have been given fair warning.

Regards,

Mr. Angry.

Vending machines have traditionally been pretty dull offerings. You could choose condoms, or, if you were lucky to be in an exotic upmarket bar, then you could also buy some form of breath mint.

But that was it. I understood the logistical difficulties in having these machines offer the wide variety of products expected by today’s inebriated man. It is difficult to carry magazines, car oil and cornish pasties on the wall of a toilet.

So I was pleasantly surprised to notice that one of my local pubs has a new machine on its wall.

The first option was for featherlite condoms. Now, I have never used a condom that I considered to be particularly heavy, but clearly this is a strong seller. There are men that need to use the gym more often, clearly.

Then there were a couple of flavoured options, which I have never seen the attraction of. It is very disconcerting to go for a wee in the morning and wonder where the smell of bananas is coming from. I do not think they even taste like proper bananas. If the retching is the be believed, anyway.

The final compartment contained something I have never seen in a vending machine before.

Nurofen (other pain medication is available).

At first I thought this was a cunning ploy to offer hangover relief in advance of the actual hangover, which in itself is quite a clever idea. Then I realised I was wrong. There is only one reason why Nurofen would be stocked alongside condoms. It can be explained if you can picture the following scene taking place in your home town tonight; there is a man is being rebuffed with the immortal line, “I have a headache…”, only to counter it with a box of Nurofen and an extremely loud, “Ta DA!”

Whoever came up with this vending machine idea deserves a medal. God bless you Sir.

Living in an area popular with tourists, I tend to see a lot of them as the weather improves. It is a pain in the arse, frankly, but tourists can provide their moments of humour. I very much enjoy misinforming them and it brings a little joy to an otherwise dull day.

“Yes, the queen tends to get her lunchtime cornish pasty from over there, normally between 12 and 12:30. She wears a disguise, so be vigilant. She came dressed as a black teenager yesterday, she is very good.”

There is however one group of tourists that I do not understand, and that is the Japanese. They take more photographs than any other nation on the planet, yet I have never seen any of them smile in a single one of them.

They will readily stand in front of the castle or some famous monument and joke amongst themselves, but the second the picture is to be taken, it is an instant return to stoney-faced silence and a look that suggests an imminent return to Death Row.

Is smiling in photographs a social faux pas in Japan? I do not think HSBC mentioned that in their adverts, so I can not be sure. I will ask them next time I am in the branch.

Or maybe I am wrong and have been a bit of a racist, and it is fact the Chinese that fail to smile? That would be more easily understood if you imagine their return to China and interrogation at passport control.

“Did you have a good time?”

“No. It was rubbish. Look. We were miserable the whole time. We are pleased to be back in the homeland comrade. But, we can go back next year, right?”

I am a big fan of evolution. If there was a Facebook fan page for it (like there is for this here website, ahem), then I would definitely join it. I am such a big fan of evolution that I am sometimes disappointed when I find out that animals have evolved certain abilities that I would like to have, like seeing in the dark as well as cats, or swimming really fast like sharks. Licking your own genitals might seem like a nice evolutionary benefit at first, but I imagine that if we had evolved that particular ability, then the path of human evolution might have taken a slightly different route. We would probably still be living in caves, but we would be blissfully happy.

“Invent fire? Maybe later on, when I’m properly clean. Cleanliness is next to Godliness you know.”

Overall we have been dealt the better hand though, and it is going to be really amazing when we evolve the ability to blow things up with our brains like in Scanners.

One well-evolved ability I am quite pleased to have missed out on is a dog’s sense of smell. I can think of nothing worse than knowing when Fat Jim, a quarter of a mile away, has farted. It would be truly disgusting. Even more disgusting than the text updates he usually sends me, “Oh God that one could strip paint!”.

Which is why I do not understand how animals, and in particular dogs, are so enamoured with the smell of ass. It really does seem like the first thing they check. A shiny coat, bright eyes and clipped paws are all well and good, but it is the whiff of anus that really seems to close the deal. I simply do not get it.

There must be an evolutionary imperative for this, surely? Perhaps it is a way of weaning out the dogs that enjoy Indian food, or those that scrunch instead of wipe. I don’t know.

So why has our sense of smell not evolved in the same way? If it had, then a trip to Selfridges would be fraught with the danger of being sprayed with essence of ass by passing perfume dispensers. We would be more turned on by a trip to the public toilets than the cosmetic counter at Boots. And this is absolutely positively definitely not the case with me. I get horny as hell in Boots.

Arses generally do not smell that great, and though I am no scientist, I would put good money on the fact that any dog sprayed liberally with Paco Rabanne would find it hard to score with the bitches. He would be mercilessly ridiculed by the other dogs.

“Jesus Christ Fido, you smell like shit, well not shit, that smells like ass, which I luuurve. You smell like those tall hairless freaks that feed us. And are you wearing eye-liner?”

In most cases evolution is pretty difficult to beat, as proven by the fact there is very little in this world as beautiful as a female boob. Except maybe two of them (but one is fine if you want to send in pictures, I am not fussy). So if the animal with the most heightened sense of smell is so obsessed with the smell of ass, why aren’t we?

I am in the pub and can not help but hear the following conversation.

“Is it a boy or girl?”

“We don’t know, and don’t want to know. It’ll be a surprise. Apparently you get male and female sperm, so I guess it depends on which were the stronger swimmers.”

“Breast feeding?”

“Yeah probably.”

“Excellent. I think it’s best all round to go that way.”

The conversation then began to turn to baby clothes and decorating but I had heard enough.

“Seriously boys, it’s midweek pub night, can we please talk about the football. Please?”

It is hard being a manly man in situations where your many of your peer group are either new fathers, or are about to join those ranks. My interest tends to end with the act required to have a baby (not book a flight Malawi like Madonna, I mean having sexual relations of the penetrative kind).

Do not get me wrong. I will tolerate conversations that veer in the direction of babies and stuff, but not on midweek pub night. That is unacceptable.

I do not interrupt the pillow fights on Girls Night with a critical appraisal of technology for goal line decisions, because that would be very very wrong. I would stay in the shadows and watch from a distance like all normal men.

If baby photos ever get brought in then the whole place is going up in flames, mark my words.

Drunk people are funny. There is no escaping this fact. I realise that much of the humour they bring to the world is unintentional, but that does not make it any less valuable.

As the weather has been improving a little bit of late, and with the lighter evenings, it seems that midweek drinking is again on the rise. And with it incidences of alcohol-induced hilarity.

Just last week I saw three ‘youths’ being ejected from a pub on the High Street in town. Nothing unusual in that you might think, except it was about 8:30pm and they were all utterly arseholed.

The really amusing part was when the ring leader then turned to face the quite-enormous-actually bouncer and took what could best be described as the Karate Kid stance.

“Come on then!” shouted inebriate number one.

I had to stop and watch. My friends could wait. The prospect of seeing a chav-on-the-town torn limb from limb was far too much to pass up.

“Go home, before someone gives you a beating.” replied the bouncer, perfectly calmly.

The lead chav then did what I suspect in his head resembled the finest moves of a particularly intimidating Fourth Dan Karate Black belt. In reality, to those of us fortunate enough to witness the act, it was more like watching a desperate man fighting with a wasp caught inside his jumper.

Now out of breath, and unbalanced, he finally relented, and with a parting shot of, “You’re lucky you’re a chicken mate!” at the bouncer, he was gone.

I live by the rule that if you are going to start a fight when you are drunk, you must ensure it is with someone at least as drunk, if not more so, than you. It is a very simple rule, and has prevented me from having my arse handed to me on a plate on several occasions.

I would love to know if a drunk ever won such a fight? One where he is both drunker, and weaker than his opponent? I picture a scene where he is all flailing arms and wild kicks as he luckily takes down the nineteen stone judo instructor. I can imagine his reaction, “I fucking KNEW it, I AM invincible!” shortly before being mown down by a passing bus.

Drunk people are hilarious.

Welcome to the 3rd ‘I Am Livid’ podcast. Please download it from iTunes (link at the top on the right) and you can hear myself and Fat Jim discussing many of the day’s pressing issues.

These hot topics include being funnier than Danny Baker for a whole week, promoting “What would Robert Mugabe do?” wristbands, men getting pregnant, receiving a face transplant from a convicted paedophile, and what a sexually frustrated teenager would do if they found a female head on a beach.

It is all very high-brow and we hope you enjoy it.

 

 Podcast 3 [35:03m]: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download (408)

When I was at school, we had plenty of thick kids around. I know this because I was considered to be of ‘well above average’ intelligence. When I was ten a teacher told my parents that I should start bringing in a newspaper as there was little more they could teach me.  For that to be the case there must have been some really fucking stupid children around me.

However, it is extremely rare that we hear parents describing their children in such terms. Yes, I am sure you all have high hopes for little James and Felicity, but let us be honest here, the world needs the trolley collectors and shop assistants. Otherwise I would have to carry two baskets around with me and would spend ages looking to find where the bread has been moved to this week. It is a fact that simpletons make our lives easier.

So why not admit the truth. Your child is a bit of a half-wit. We are not necessarily talking about them being eat-their-own-elbow stupid, but we both know they are are never going to medical school.  There are far too many excuses for vacuous behaviour in my opinion, such that a simple explanation of blatant stupidity is regularly ignored in favour of Attention Deficit Disorder, Learning Difficulties, Dyslexia, Dyspraxia etc. There are a million conditions that the modern parent can cling to as the reason their child is not excelling at school.

But why can’t it be that they are simply ‘a bit stupid’? It happens. There are many, many stupid people out there. The fact that Big Brother is in its ninth year is testament to this fact.

Each year when the exam results are published, and the relative performances of local schools are compared, why can’t we have an honest Head Teacher come out and say, “You know what, we have an excellent staff, we work hard, and we did everything we could, it’s just that we had a particularly stupid bunch this year. Lightening doesn’t strike twice, so come back next year when I am confident we will score more highly.”

So come on, who is honest enough to admit they have a relative who is just plain stupid?