I Am Livid

This image is courtesy of the very excellent Scaryduck.

I quite like the idea of being a big screen action hero. I think it suits me. The likeness above is uncanny, what with the swagger, the steely glare, and the man bag.

Anyway, I am off to Cardiff for a long weekend as it is Superstars time again. I will be back next week with tales of victory. Probably.

Cooking dead things on an open fire is one of lifes great pleasures. It is a bit like extreme toasting and gives further justification for the lifestyle of meat eaters, and also God’s decision to make animals out of delicious meat products.

Alas, with me not having a barbecue (due to not having a garden in which to put it) it is something I do not get to do very often.

So, when I received a text message from Fat Jim inviting me to a barbecue at his new-ish house I was obviously going to accept.

I sent him a text asking if I was required to bring anything, and was told no, they had everything in hand. This was good news, as my text was merely me trying to be polite. I did not want to actually take anything round, as that sort of defeats the object of eating at someone else’s house. If I wanted to buy the food I was going to eat I might as well just cook it at home.

Anyway, I arrived at chez Fat Jim to see the food was about to be put on the barbecue. Unfortunately, it was not the sort of food I recognised as being traditional barbecue fare. None of it looked even remotely like a delicious dead animal.

“What are they?” I asked, pointing at dangly things on a skewer.

“They’re bell peppers filled with Emmentel cheese.” replied Fat Jim like a grinning simpleton.

“Right. In that case I’m sort of afraid to ask this, but what are those?”

“They’re a bit of an experiment. They’re pear slices marinated in coconut milk and wrapped in parma Ham.”

And they wonder why I got a kebab on the way home.

Quite a few of my friends are getting married this year, including, somewhat bizarrely, Fat Jim.

I have no idea how he managed to convince his girlfriend to marry him, but she does not appear to be under the influence of any long-term drug regime, I have checked.

They are getting married despite me making them aware of the damning marriage statistics in the UK. In this country 40% of marriages end in divorce. What is more worrying however, is that 60% of marriages end in DEATH. My friends do not seem bothered by this, but if I asked them to take part in an activity that killed over half its participants I am sure they would react differently.

Anyway, Fat Jim and his surprisingly normal girlfriend were in the pub on Friday and we were discussing their impending nuptials. Although it is still a few months away, their wedding day numbers are now fixed, and I have been told I will not be getting an Angry+1 invitation, as I am currently single (but accepting applications). So, if I happen to meet the girl of my dreams in the next few weeks, I will not be able to invite her to the wedding.

Which is disappointing.

My compromise solution was not well received.

“OK,” I began, “I understand the numbers are fixed, but I definitely think you should have a reserve list for the big day.”

“We do.” replied the soon-to-be Fat Jim.

“That’s great, well I suggest that we put “Angry’s +1″ on the waiting list, and should one of your guests happen to have an unfortunate accident, you know, just before the big day, then she can jump in and save the day. You know when - I mean if - someone can’t make it.”

At this point Fat Jim signalled to me to stop talking as there have already been some drop-outs on his girlfriend’s side due to death (I bet they were married). This is obviously unfortunate, for her, but it does mean that I have a better chance of taking someone on the day. Which is nice.

Applications from fit women accepted via email by the way.

We entered the pro-shop of the quite posh golf club in a slightly timid manner. This is because I always feel a little bit out of place in posh places. I always think I am about to get caught out and asked to leave. Luckily, I am now well-skilled in feigning poshness, so I was only slightly uncomfortable going to the pro-shop desk to check-in for our fast approaching tee-time.

The bored looking young lady behind the desk was sat on a high chair and on the phone. Her mobile phone. She examined her nails as the conversation continued.

“Yeah, so I don’t have my inhaler you see, and I’m a bit, like, wheezy and that.”

I looked at her and she made that hand gesture that means ‘just one second’. The gesture you generally do not make to paying customers.

“So I was wondering if it might be an asthma attack?” she continued, whilst looking closely at one slightly damaged cuticle.

“No.” she responded, to a question from the other side of the conversation.

“No.”

“Not really”

“I guess not.”

Now, I do not have much experience with Asthma attacks, in fact the last one I witnessed was on a cross country run at school, and I used it as an excuse not to complete the run.  What I do remember is a sense of urgency from the kid having the attack.  It was obvious he was in trouble as his pleading look and inability to speak led to mass celebrations on my part for a legitimate excuse not to finish the run.  The state of his nails was not a priority.

I had thought this girl must be an asthmatic, due to her mention of an inhaler, but surely all asthmatics know what an asthma attack feels like? Isn’t a history of such attacks what technically defines you an asthmatic?

She wasn’t there when we finished our round, so maybe it was one of those slow burning attacks.

Celebrity autobiographies always contain confessions, whether they be of a drug taking past, or a dubious history of bulimia.

In keeping with this trend Cherie Blair’s recent autobiography contained the confession that she spent the night with Tony the first night that they met. A lot of women will say she gave it up to early, but personally I can only think that maybe Tony was alright after all. I think that this incident might also be the first recorded use of Rohypnol, though Tony probably used it on himself.  There are only so many experiences you want to endure whilst sober.

I have to wonder though, at what point during the evening did he start chatting her up? I have always thought of Cherie as a ‘ten-to-two’ bird. The one you chat up when all other options have exhausted themselves. I am not being mean, it is just that there is a natural order for such things. That said, one of my friends has had great success by bucking the trend and ‘going ugly early’.

One of the my ex-girlfriends got extremely upset when a bloke tried to chat her up at just before 2am, not because she had a boyfriend at the time (me) but because he hadn’t tried it on earlier even though she was a ten-to-one bird at the very least. You women are truly fickle creatures.

So, do we think any less of Cherie and Tony  as a result of this confession?  Absolutely not.  In fact, it sheds an entirely new light on any young couple you might see getting together in the nightclub of your choice.  Just remember, you could we watching a future Prime Minister and Judge.  So make sure you take a photo.

I have never been a bully. At school I was far too popular to see the need for resorting to violence to boost my ego. For that reason I sometimes struggle to understand the mentality of people who seek influence by fear.

There are some basics that I do understand however. Firstly, if you are selecting a target, you select someone you are confident in attacking. Someone who you can definitely beat up, or whose response will be so weak that you will be seen to gain a ‘victory’.

You do not, under any circumstances, attack the mental kid. Because he will kick. Your. Arse.

It is the unpredictable nature of the mental kid that makes him such an avoidable target. Mentals already have a famous knack for uncovering hidden depths of super human strength, without you giving them an excuse find it.

No, it is much safer for the bully to pick a fight in which he will not be embarrassed.

Which is why Al Qaeda are a bit like a school bully. Yes, they have a stated aim of ridding the world of the anti-Islamic infidels in the West, but that is obviously just a cover. They have chosen to ignore the mental kid in the corner of the playground, China. You see, in China, Islam is essentially ILLEGAL. Not frowned upon, or simply a minority. No. It is effectively banned.

Now you would think that this would be cause enough for Al Qaeda to flex it’s muscles in China’s general direction, wouldn’t you? But no, that would be liking prodding the mental kid with a shitty stick. Only in this case the mental kid is the biggest kid in the WORLD, and he has nuclear weapons.

Whilst the the West will take on Al Qaeda is carefully (or not) chosen battlegrounds, China would simply send a few dozen nuclear missiles their way and we’d be left trying to explain to our grand-kids what this place they read about in the history books, the Middle East, was actually like “back in the day.”

I wrote last week about the hypocrisy in the nature documentary business. I have been thinking about this a bit more, and I have realised that since the untimely death of Steve Irwin, we are basically relying on David Attenborough to make these films. Once he goes, we are in trouble.

So where are all the young nature documentary makers?

I blame the Internet.

Or more specifically, I blame Internet porn. Since the Internet came along kids are no longer interested in nature any more. And why would they be? They no longer need to spend hours in bushes and hedgerows looking for discarded porn. Nowadays it is just a click away. They are truly spoilt.

I remember many bush-based conversations as a kid that went along the lines of, “Would you look at the gash on that!” followed closely by “Oooh, look! A pretty butterfly!”

I tell you, everything I know about which leaves sting exposed flesh is thanks to discarded porno magazines. There are some mistakes you only ever make once. When it comes to this country’s fauna within 20 feet of a public footpath I am like David Bellamy. Which I suppose makes me as qualified as anyone to take over from Mr. Attenborough?

I have been at home for a couple of days visiting my folks, which always seems to offer me plenty of things to write about on here.

Last night they insisted on watching a programme called ‘TV’s Funniest Music Moments’ on ITV2 which showed clips of various celebrities making utter arses of themselves to music at various points in the last thirty years.

One of the acts the featured was The Krankies, which reminded me of one of the most disturbing days of my childhood. The day I found out Jimmy Krankie was actually ‘Jeanette’, the midget wife of Ian Krankie.

That was one fucked up relationship. It completely ruined Crackerjack for me. I am sorry, but no-one is going to tell me they planned to become a comedy double-act based on his midget wife dressing up as a pre-pubescent school boy. No. Fucking. Way.

I can imagine this ‘plan’ came about after a surprise visit from the inlaws.

If you can keep the vomit down for a moment, please imagine Ian Krankie at home, getting all ‘worked up’, “Oh Yeah, that’s right. Now tell me you’ve got to do your homework before cubs…”

Ding dong!

“Who the fuck is that? You lace up some more conkers Jimmy and I’ll get the door.”

“Surprise!”

“MOM! DAD?!”

“We just thought we’d pop in to say hello. Is Jeanette in?”

“erm, yes.  Say Hello to Mom and Dad Jeanette.  Och, you’re probably wondering why Jeanette is dressed like a pre-pubescent school boy, eh? Yes, why is that Jeanette?”

“errrrmm…. for a joke?”

“Yes. YES! That’s it. Jokes. We were starting a new double-act. Good idea isn’t it?”

That incident would have been fucking embarrassing for the Krankies though, but I guess no more than most of their TV appearances.  I’ll bet there were times where Ian probably felt like saying,

“Fuck it.  I don’t care.  This material is fucking shite. I like my wife to dress up as a small boy so I can be properly aroused during sex.  Is that so wrong?”

But the censors were even more strict back then so an outburst like that on live television would probably have a got a record number of complaints to the BBC.

A computer is a very personal thing. It is a bit like a car, or a girlfriend, in that it can be quite an uncomfortable experience letting some else have a go in it. Especially if you really really like the car.

Computers can be similar in that they are generally only used by yourself, and over time they learn your habits and idiosyncrasies. It can be as hard to navigate your way round someone else’s computer as it is to find the G Spot on someone else’s girlfriend.

The thing about computers though, is that they don’t immediately recognise they are being used by someone else, which is sort of the where the girlfriend analogy falls down a bit, unless you are using Rohypnol. Because they don’t realise they are being used by someone else, they can betray you in the click of a mouse button.

A friend was using my Mac to check some train times and had launched Google to search for the correct website to use.

“Ummm….” they began questioningly in my direction, “When did you search for Transvestites in London?”

“What?!”

“I only got as far as putting in the ‘Tra’ of ‘Train timetable’ when Google suggested I might be searching for Transvestites in London, as it was a search you’d done previously. So, when did you want to find a cockney ladyboy?”

This was disappointing in the extreme. Like a prison snitch looking to get credit for a tiny piece of information it had managed to gather, Google was grassing me up. As a result, I was then forced into a long explanation of how that search was conducted as part of a project I had been involved in, and how it really is not what it seems, out of context. After a couple of hours they finally conceded that it was not as they had first thought, and it really was a completely innocent bit of research and not conclusive proof that I am a pervert.

So, let this be a lesson to you. Just like the friend’s girlfriend who gets drunk and lets slip your little secret, you should be very careful what you share with your computer.

I have always believed that I will take my place in the history books. I had hoped it would be for something other than this little-read website, but I am not fussy about how I am remembered. So long as I am.

So I was delighted to receive an email from the British Library asking me to take part in their web preservation programme. I must admit to not even knowing that the Internet was endangered, but if people are happy to try and save the Whales, then I should do my bit to save the Internet.

Apparently the British Library are only approaching websites which “represent aspects of UK Heritage”. I am not sure which aspect of UK heritage I represent, but I like to think it is all of them.

I am sure this news is also a relief to all you readers, as you can now be safe in the knowledge that your great great great grandchildren (if you are not barren or a jaffa) will be able to enjoy my witterings as much as you have done. They will probably wonder who Fat Jim is, but I am sure by that point he will have his own page on Wikipedia outlining his various crimes against humanity.

Bearing in mind that what I write is now going to be, quite literally, in the history books, I have a new found feeling of responsibility to address only the serious issues of the day in modern Britain. Luckily, I have decided to completely ignore this feeling and continue in the same vein as I have done for the last two and a bit years.  Lucky, lucky you.

People often ask me what sort of person I am, whether I am a ‘glass half full’, or ‘glass half empty’ sort of person. I inevitably respond by making it clear I am the sort of person who would never serve anyone half a glass of anything, and I expect to be treated the same.

Who gives out half a glass of drink anyway? The tight bastards. I can imagine the first person to ever to ask this utterly shit philosophical question was merely short of booze and looking for a way to justify short changing their guests.

“Hang on, this glass of beer seems to be missing a quantity of liquid.”

“Ah yes!” responds the completely inadequate host “But the question is, do you think the glass is half empty, or half full?”

“Are you taking the piss? You’ve run out of booze again haven’t you?”

“No, I am merely interested in determining your philosophical outlook on life.” 

“Get fucked! I knew we should’ve had gone to Dave’s for poker night. This is fucking shit.”

Don’t be a tight arse, fill up everyone’s glass.

I recently took advantage of a sale at HMV and purchased some DVDs for my collection. These included the box sets for BBC’s Planet Earth and Blue Planet series, as I like watching a bit of nature on my big television with Dolby surround sound. It makes me feel like I am one with the world, from the comfort of my own sofa.

I recently wrote about vegetarians, and their so-called love of animals, but I find this same ‘love’ from the makers of nature documentaries to be extremely hypocritical. How can someone who claims to love animals sit idly by whilst they watch a poor defenceless creature having it’s ass handed to it, or a polar bear swimming out to sea and to its certain death?

It is sickening. If I did such a thing in the local park I would be reported to the RSPCA again. Apparently they are OK though, as it is deemed bad form to interrupt or influence anything which is behaving as per its natural instincts.

I am pretty sure that the police would take a very different view if you stood by and filmed a violent sexual predator in action. My applications for such a permit have been refused so far, anyway.

But what’s the difference? After all, it’s just me filming an animal responding to his natural urges, right?

I have often considered it strange that discussing someone’s potentially violent death is often seen as a form encouragement.

“Oh go on, you could get hit by a bus tomorrow!”

This phrase has always struck me as slightly threatening, especially from my mate Dave, what with him being a bus driver.

But why does the phrase have to focus on such a painful demise anyway? Perhaps we should all try and soften it a bit, “Oh go on, you could die peacefully in your sleep tomorrow!”

See? That’s a bit more pleasant, isn’t it?

It’s not as if alluding to being hit by a bus is particularly accurate either, statistically speaking. You are much more likely to die of some sort of hereditary condition, heart disease or cancer than being hit by a bus.

If someone wanted to encourage me to do something I wasn’t planning on doing, then they would be much better off referring to one of the more believable terminal illnesses, as then I might at least consider the merits of what they are proposing. If they were to start off with the bus thing I could not help but point out the slim possibility of such an outcome (unless it is Dave in which case I just look to clarify his shift times).

I don’t do politics.

This is a deliberate move to prevent people from realising how ill-informed I actually am about world and state affairs.

That said, a few months ago a couple of friends of mine sent me a link to one of those e-petitions on the Internet. Although they had a slightly vested interest in the subject, as they work for Innocent Drinks, I thought it was a very good point they were making, and so I signed it.

This is what the petition said:

“At the moment, all food (including things like hotdogs and crisps) is subject to a zero rate of tax. But people who want to make a healthy choice and buy smoothies and juices get taxed 17.5% VAT. It’s a simple step, and, as more and more people get their fruit in liquid form, it could make a big difference. Our research shows that at least 500 million more portions of fruit would be consumed each year if this happened. Since we all know that eating more fruit and veg is essential to being healthier, it makes sense to help people make positive choices.”

Makes perfect sense, right? You could even swap the VAT over to the junk food if you wanted to avoid a loss in revenue. Just imagine how much a hot dog at the cinema would cost if the DID add VAT.

Finally this week the official response came out on the website. You can read the whole thing here.

“Dietary based taxes were considered by Derek Wanless in ‘Securing Good Health for the Whole Population’ -published in 2004. The report highlights a number of difficulties of principle and practice in any attempt to use the tax system to influence diet.”

It’s a bit difficult? Really? That’s the excuse you are going with? “It’s a bit harder to do than we’d like, if we’re honest”.  Difficulties of principle? The principle I struggle with most of all is that good food is taxed, and the shit food is not.

“Furthermore, European VAT rules require that in most cases, the same VAT rate is applied to all competing products. This limits the extent to which any new reduced rate could be targeted on the most healthy fruit drinks.”

Fucking hellski. So, not only do you consider it ‘difficult’, but it is European basically telling you what to do anyway. And yet again with the ‘difficulty’ in targetting only the most healthy fruit drinks. Well, here’s a suggestion. Why not reduce VAT on a any drink that is made from 100% fruit or vegetables? How’s that for a clear division on what does and does not merit a VAT reduction?

It seems that if you want to use the ePetition site you have to ask for a change that is both easy for them to implement, and requires little change. Perhaps someone should start a petition for them to carry on exactly as they?