I am livid

If I was a benevolent deity, I would definitely speak to my followers by inscribing my name in the cooked carcass of a dead cow.

It is the only sensible choice.  With all the spam emails, junk mail, and telesales cold calls we get in a modern society, you can only be sure to get your message across by using a pattern of gristle in some charred bovine flesh.  Then the people will really take notice of what you have to say.

Especially when what you have to say is just your name (in case they had forgotten that bit of information about you).

Admittedly, this is where the use of a well done steak becomes a little less practical, because after writing your name on it there isn’t much room left to put things like, “Please stop blowing yourselves up, we are fresh out of virgins.”

There is also the very real danger of the deity being branded a graffiti artist, after all, graffiti artists have successfully bagsied the ‘Surreptitiously Writing Their Names On Their Creations’ modus operandi.  Then again, you never see Allah and Banksy in the same room, do you?

Perhaps these food based messages should be transferred to one of those American steak restaurants where you can have a 64oz steak for free if you can finish it.  There is room for a good couple of paragraphs on those.

Unless of course this particular Nigerian restaurant patron only noticed his meat was inscribed with the name of Allah after eating a good proportion of it?  Maybe the full meal contained a great message of hope for the human race, but due to his gluttony (a Christian sin, oh the irony) all we are left with is, “Thanks, Allah X.”

Not all messages in food mean something though.  When I was at school I had a piece of toast that said, “Spastic Noodles”.  I spent all afternoon wondering what it meant until Little Alan admitted to scraping the words into it with his (now very illegal) penknife.

I am not saying this is the work of Little Alan, but no-one has seen him since he went to a meeting with a rich Prince from Nigeria that he met on the Internet.

I heard over the weekend that Thames Water have been been given a “Best Water in the UK” award.  Or something.   I only half heard it on the radio, but it caught my ear due to my own recent water based heroics.

There was no mention of cape-less crusaders delivering water to needy homes, which I am sure you would agree is much more news worthy.  Instead, they just went on a bit about it being ‘good’ water, followed by a brief discussion on why it is the best water.

Apparently, Thames Water is the ‘best’ because they had the least number of complaints last year of all the water companies.

This strikes me as a strange way of determining which is the best.  It is a bit like saying Gary Glitter is the best Paedophile because only two girls complained about him.

It is a pretty damning indictment of the industry if having the least complaints is the new benchmark to aspire to.  What about counting customer congratulations?  The numbers would be much smaller, so it would be an easier process to manage and it would offer the consumer a nice bargaining chip when discussing and bill related queries.

There would be a lot of nil-nil draws though.

When I was young I thought I was double-jointed.

I could bend my thumb all the way back so it was resting against the outside of my wrist.  It used to make people feel quite ill.  It was truly brilliant.  If ever a lesson became quieter than I would like, I merely had to bend my thumb backwards and someone would cry.

Then I got older and realised that, in all honesty, being bendy is a bit rubbish.  I was twenty one before I realised it was better to talk to a girl than ask her if she wanted to see something that would make her vomit.

Luckily, my bendiness left me as I drifted into my very extremely late 20’s.  Unfortunately, some people take this to a ridiculous extreme and then try to make a career out of it though.  Those people being contortionists.  I have seen them on reality shows such as Britain’s Got Retards or whatever the latest one is called.

I do not see why this is a talent worthy of prime time television?  Why would anyone want to stuff themselves into a box usually reserved for transporting cats, and then be forced to examine their own anus at close quarters?  It is not as if it is even making anyone cry (which sort of makes it worth it).

Yet people clap wildly (and text premium rate lines in their droves) when they see this sickening garbage.

I have also noticed that it is mainly women contortionists who appear on the stages of our favourite reality shows.  Is this a coincidence?  What is it about male contortionists and their ability to to get up close and personal with their own nether-regions that ensures they would prefer to stay at home than exhibit themselves before the nation?

I note with interest that the authorities in South Africa are looking to legalise prostitution for the duration of the World Cup in 2010.

I think this is a bit premature on their part.  Firstly, England have yet to qualify, and even if we do, there is no guarantee that Wayne Rooney will make the squad.

No-one likes a show off.

Unless of course, that particular show off happens to have a moderately popular blog.

It is much better to keep any particular ’skills’ to yourself, and not go around subjecting the world to your dubious talents.  Which is why I hate birds.  Why are they such noisy fuckers?  Particularly if it is nice sunny day.

If the weather is nice, I am going to find out.  When my alarm goes off.  I do not need to be made aware of this fact at 5:30am each and every morning.

Yes, I can hear the nature-lovers amongst you thinking, “Oh but Angry, birdsong is such beautiful music.”  Well, that is all well and good, but some (utterly deranged) people say Celine Dion makes beautiful music, and I would be just as pissed off if she was singing in a tree outside my window at the crack of dawn.  Probably more so.  Especially if she did that Titanic number.

So why do they do it?  No one feels horny at that time of the morning, so it can’t be a mating call. There must be a reason.  Unless they are actively trying to piss us off?  In fact, I like to think that we are not the only animals that get thoroughly pissed off at them.  What about the predominantly nocturnal animals?  I can’t for one minute imagine a fox or a badger would be happy after a hard night of killing and pillaging to be woken up shortly after hitting the pillow.

You think the foxes are rummaging through the bins in the dead of night looking for food?  Hell no.  They’re just making as much racket as possible in a revenge attack on the sleeping birds.  And we (those of us who sleep with the window open) are all casualties of war.

Maybe that’s why noisy birds evolved wings in the first place.  All the ground based noisy fuckers were killed off by sleep deprived carnivores?

There is trouble in the Court.

I am not really up to date with the politics of the flats where I live, mainly because I couldn’t give a monkeys fart about the intricacies of managing the communal aspects of forty plus homes.  Despite this, I am approached by an eager looking pensioner on my way home one evening.

“The has been coup!” whispers my elderly neighbour.

I will admit to knowing very little about military history, but I am sure that a coup is generally a violent affair with blood-letting on both sides.  I am intrigued, as this is by far the most interesting thing she has ever said to me, including the time she gave me a blow by blow account of the extraordinary general meeting which was held to decide what colour to paint the garage doors (it was ‘royal’ blue in the end).

“Really?  What happened?” I asked, excitedly.

“I have been removed from the gardening committee!”

Now, technically speaking, this is not a coup.  It is a sacking.  Her knowledge of military terms is clearly worse than my own.  All was not lost however, as the details could yet save the tale.

“Forcibly?” I enquired, with visions of a screaming and spitting pensioner being strong-armed out of Mr. Aldridge’s front room.

“Well no.  They sent me a letter saying my services were no longer required.”

This is clearly the worst coup in the world.  This is how a coup would take place if a country was not taken over by it’s military, but by it’s accountants.

Or maybe it is the way that all coups should be undertaken from now on? How would Morgan Tsvangirai have got on if he had just sent a letter to Robert Mugabe saying that his services were no longer required?  He can’t have done any worse, after all.

We briefly discuss using weed-killer to write anti-authority slogans in the lawn, but she soon corrects me and points out that weed killer will not leave a mark on grass.  It will in fact help the lawn thrive, which is a pretty rubbish protest when you are hoping to illustrate the incompetence of the new gardening committee.  She goes up massively in my estimation by conspiratorially informing me that old car oil is the best thing you can use to kill grass.

I go inside and Google for popular anti-establishment slogans.

“So you see, I’m basically like Jesus.”

This is a pretty bold statement.  Fortunately for us punters, he did not stop there.

“In fact I’d go so far as to say I’m quite a bit better than Jesus, because I’m essentially an electrician as well.”

This is the culmination of a pub conversation with a twenty-something local carpenter.   He had been told that since Jesus didn’t do any Bible stuff until he was thirty, he was basically just your average ‘chippy’ during his twenties.  Just like him. But Jesus couldn’t rewire a kitchen, so therefore he was rubbish.

“We don’t even know if he was a good carpenter or not.  I know loads of rubbish apprentices.  He might have had to go down the religious route because his workmanship was so bad.”

This is true.  I would imagine there are few better ways at avoiding your warranty obligations than being the son of God.

It is all well and good giving praise for his healing of the lepers and feeding of the thousands, but you never hear about poor old Mrs Jones who had to get someone else in to redo her shelving because of Jesus’ shoddy workmanship.

I imagine his early gatherings, where he began to preach, were full of people wanting DIY advice.

EXT. DAY - A MOUND SOMEWHERE OUTSIDE JERUSALEM.

JESUS is preaching to a crowd, they are enthralled as he comes to the end of his sermon.

JESUS
…and so let those of you who are without
sin, cast the first stone.

There are sounds of awe amongst the crowd as they take in Jesus’ wisdom. One man at the back, DAVE, is frantically waving his hand.

JESUS (CONT’D)
Yes my son, what is it.

DAVE
Oh, hi Jesus, that was really interesting, what
you just said there, about the stone throwing and
that, but I have a question.

JESUS
Certainly my child. What is it?

DAVE
Well, what I really want to know is, in order
to stay within acceptable standards, is how far
above the counter top should I hang my kitchen cabinets?

JESUS
What?

DAVE
Kitchen Cabinets? My mate Bob tells me you’re a carpenter.

JESUS
Well yes, I was, but now I’m following my calling
as the son of God.

DAVE
So the carpentry thing has fallen by the wayside?

JESUS
Yes, I am no longer a carpenter.

VOICE IN THE CROWD
(shouting) He fitted my kitchen last year!

JESUS
(to the crowd) Look, that’s not what I do now, OK?

DAVE
If you could just give me a ball park distance
for the cabinets?

JESUS
About 16″ is standard, but you’ll need 30″ if
it’s above your oven. Right, any more questions for me?

CHRISTINE
I was wondering if I could get a quote for a
new set of upstairs window frames?

JESUS
(ignoring her) Are there any more questions about God?

There is some murmuring in the crowd. At the front BOB raises his hand.

BOB
Hi Jesus. I have a question.

JESUS
Hello my child, continue.

BOB
God is all seeing and knowing, and he
loves us all, right?

JESUS
That’s right.

BOB
Well, what I want to know is, if God were
to build a stairway, all the way up to
Heaven, for us his children…

JESUS
Yes?

BOB
..then between the ground and first floor, what
type of wood should he use?

JESUS
Oh for God’s sake (looking up) sorry Dad.
Look, you lot don’t deserve me. I’m off to
somewhere I’m more appreciated.

Jesus notices PETER is still next to him, scribbling away furiously.

JESUS (CONT’D)
Peter, what are you doing?

PETER
Taking notes, just like you said.

JESUS
Well scrap that last bit, no-one is going
to want to read that.

PETER
And the bit about the kitchen cabinets?

JESUS
Scrap that too. In fact, stop at the bit about
the stone, that had a certain ring to it.

There is a lot to be said for selling your soul to the devil.  Look at the success of odious ginger dwarf Anthony Worrall Thompson, you can not tell me that hasn’t come without the help of Lucifer himself.

Not only has he opened a ‘Grill’ nearby (which incidentally has had some of the worst word of mouth reviews I’ve ever heard) but he has now opened another shop a few doors up the road.  I guess his new shop could best be described as a delicatessen.  I have not been in, obviously.

“Have you seen AWT’s new place up the road?” asked my friend Amy.

“No.”

“It’s great, they’ve got loads of fresh food in there, lots of delicious treats.”

“Right.”

“That’s not the best bit either!”

“Oh?”

“No!  They cook big joints during the day so you can have freshly cooked meat sandwiches at lunchtime, and also a more traditional meal in take-away form in the evening.”

“OK.”

“Plus they do fresh bags of prepared ingredients so you can cook your own dinner at home, to match some of AWT’s recipes.  All the food is healthy, free from additives and I think there’s a lot of organic produce too.”

“So what did you buy?”

“Erm, some wine.”

So you see, when it comes to lining the pockets of AWT, there are some things even the Devil can’t do.

Busy busy week.  I have no idea where that came from.

Back tomorrow.

Promise.

Most of the time I quite like being a smart arse.  I am also quite sure the people with me enjoy it when I am a smart arse, if their polite laughter is anything to go by.

Other times a smart mouth can get you into trouble.

Last Saturday I met some friends in Covent Garden for a few drinks, mainly because it was sunny.  And I like beer with my sunshine.

We found ourselves in a small-ish bar above a Cornish Pasty shop, like you do.  From our balcony vantage point we could watch the various street performers entertaining the visiting children.  They were shit.  No, really, they were.  Maybe I am not their target audience, what with me having the mental capacity of an adult human.

As we sat enduring the entertainment, a rather large chap in a suit with possibly the most impressive afro I have ever seen came over to us.

“Hey guys, any of you got a cigarette you could spare,” he began, before miming the smoking of a cigarette just in case we had not understood the words that came out of his mouth.   To be fair we had been watching the entertainment below, so it was a fair assumption that we were a bit stupid.

“No, I’m afraid none of us smoke, sorry.  Perhaps you’d have better luck if you tried being a pikey over there?” I helpfully suggested.

“What did you say?” he asked straight faced, whilst my other friends began looking around at the incredibly interesting architecture that surrounded them.

A natural tendency to make smart arse remarks, plus several pints, does not a happy marriage make.  The distinct lack of laughter, and the stern looking afro-bedecked giant in front of me made me realise I had perhaps misjudged the situation. Badly.

“I was only joking, you know, what with you asking for a fag.  A bit like a pikey would.  Not that you’re necessarily a pikey.  I barely know you.  I’ve never met a pikey with such an impressive afro so the chances are you’re not one anyway.”

“Right.”

He looked at me momentarily, as if trying to decide if it was worth throwing me off the balcony.  Thankfully he decided against it and I was not forced into gatecrashing the entertainment one storey below.

The warnings on most over-the-counter medicines are, quite frankly, rubbish.

If a list of potential side effects includes the phrase, “May cause nausea.” this does not really help you.   It is a misleading statement.  A bit like those “May contain nuts” warnings on some foods.  The chance is probably much less than 1% but they have to put on there anyway.

I would like to live in a world where all of those medicinal warnings were for things that you definitely would suffer from. Saying that “possible side effects may include” isn’t really very much information when you’re trying to make a reasoned judgement on whether to imbibe a particular medicine.

I want some proper analysis, and if possible, some cold hard statistics.

“This headache tablet will, in 4.3% of cases, make you shit like a rusty garden tap.”

That is a useful warning. I know it’s pretty unlikely, and if my headache is therefore bad enough I would be willing to risk a dose of the watery stools.

It works the other way too.  Would you bother taking a sleeping tablet that only had a 54% chance of making you drowsy?

I recommend these medicines should carry tables much like you see on most food packaging outlining the nutritional facts of the product you are buying.

• 97% chance of pain relief.
• 23% chance of upset stomach.
• 3% chance of vomiting and diarrhea.
• 0.001% chance of elephantiasis of the testicles.
• 0.0000001% chance of crying diamonds.

Would you take a headache tablet with the above information on it?