I am livid

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?

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?

Do any of you out there climbing your own career ladder have a harder time at work than the recruitment staff within Al Qaeda?

I am sure that when they are pitching to potential recruits, tales of an eternal after-life in paradise, plus lots of virgins and that, is all very enticing but there is no real way around the ‘blowing yourself up’ bit. I would imagine that bit is a show-stopper in many recruitment negotiations, much like their really bad pension scheme.

If I was a recruiter for Al Qaeda (hello people from Echelon, and I said IF) I would look for the path of least resistance in getting people to sign up. If you think about it logically, the best place to go looking for potential martyrs would be in a staunchly Muslim hospice.

I know, you might think this is in bad taste, but if you are working for Osama’s army, you have really got to fancy your chances in a place like that.

“Look man, you’re gonna be dead in a couple of weeks anyway, why not have a queue of virgins waiting for you when you get to Heaven? All you’ve got to do is drive into this airport and avoid any mental looking baggage handlers in high visibility vests.”

If you can not recruit any martyrs in a place like that, then you really need to think about a change in career.

“I’m sorry Osama, I really don’t think I’m cut out for terrorist recruitment. I’m fine with the deceit, misinformation and ulterior motives, but I’m having trouble with the violence. I think I’m just going to go back to being an Estate Agent.”

Yes, people also hate estate agents, so they are probably still going to have a hard time picking up women, but at least it would provide some talking points at speed dating events and such like.

“What do I do for a living? Well, I’m an estate agent, but please don’t let that colour your judgement, because I used to recruit suicide bombers for Al Qaeda among the terminally ill Muslim population.”

Nothing ever happens where I live. Ever.

I know that a passing read of this website would give the casual observer such a magnificent impression of daily excitement and adventure that you and your fellow readers would do well to turn green with envy. But they are just the highlights. Mostly I spend my days looking out of the window waiting for something exciting to happen.

Something exciting like the sound of multiple police vehicles getting closer and closer to my flat.

And then closer still.

Then staying really loud, i.e. not disappearing into the distance like they normally do, but staying REALLY close.

I was starting to wonder what could possibly be happening when a black 4×4, driving way too fast, passed by my kitchen window and into the cul-de-sac court where I live. I wandered through to my living room to see it reappear at the other side of the block, but it did not arrive.

I walked out onto my tiny balcony and looked to the right to see that the 4×4 had mounted the grass and had been abandoned by the driver and passenger after knocking down a fencing post. To my immediate left a police car arrived and skidded to a halt. The policeman looked up at me and spoke to me with both speed and authority.

“Which way did they go?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you see what they were wearing.”

“No.”

“Can you describe the driver or passenger?”

“They were white, I think.”

Then, without so much as a thank you, or acknowledgement of my help, he went off in pursuit of the fleeing potential criminals.

It is public snubs like this that ensure we civilians feel like we have no rapport with the modern police force. How hard would it have been for him to ask how my day was going? Or whether I was coping all right and dealing with the stress of witnessing a brief moment in a live police chase.  This is how people develop Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Later I learned that there had been a robbery at a jewellery store in the town, and despite my assistance they have not yet detained the suspects.

Is it any wonder the youth of today do not feel like helping the police?

“Have you noticed how there are more fat people in the gym recently?”

My mate asked the question over a pint in the local. Yes, I had noticed actually, but I had put it down to the fact that the new years resolutionists were hanging around longer than expected, or making much slower progress than they had hoped.

“Well, it’s because the Doctors have started prescribing gym memberships to the clinically obese.”

I am stunned.

Being the completely normal, middle-of-the-road, non-member of any minorities that I am, I have never felt discriminated against.

Until now.

I am truly shocked that the fat people are getting free membership, whilst I have to pay full price. Without wishing to regress to my fourteen year-old self, this is just so unfair!

If getting fit is considered an NHS priority, then let us see everyone given complimentary memberships to the nearest gym, regardless of physical conditioning. Surely this granting of freebies to the overweight is just a case of closing the door after the horse has bolted?

I know this policy is designed to help fat people get thin, and reduce the burden on an already at-breaking-point NHS, but where do we draw the line? Free Mr Kipling’s to the painfully thin? Jongleurs tickets for the clinically depressed? Free Rohypnol to the frighteningly ugly?

It is utter madness I tell you. That said, Fat Jim made his appointment with the Doctor first thing this morning.

Peach of the nice arse is leading a community project to write a book on behalf of War Child.  Now, I do not read as many newspapers as perhaps I should, but I was under the impression that there were more than enough children involved in warfare around the world.

Clearly I was wrong.

You should go to her site her and read about it, and if you feel strongly enough, then submit a piece.  I am thinking about doing so.

If the blogging world unites, then together we can ensure that every army around the world has its fair share of pre-pubescant front-liners. 

I am just about old enough to remember Simon Bates’ Our Tune on Radio 1. For the children reading this, Our Tune was a segment of his radio show where he would read a letter from a listener detailing some sort of emotional turmoil they had undergone, and how one song in particular had helped them through the hard times. They would then play that song, which would normally be some sort of ballad, love song or something else from this musical genre.

I was listening to Radio 1 the other day when I realised that Jo Whiley has brought back this popular formula, for an entirely new generation, and has renamed it Changing Tracks. I decided to pay attention to the tale from one listener.

He told a story of a one-night stand he’d had, and how he immediately regretted it and confessed it to his girlfriend (mistake number one). She was upset, but one night he went round and played this particular song and all was forgiven.

Wow. That must be one fucking brilliant song. I listened more intently, and then they played the song.

As the pounding base began at 220 bpm I assumed they had put the wrong song on. About a minute in and I had not heard a lyric. It was a song with all the emotional depth of the Estate Agents Association AGM. I could only assume he had been forgiven as the tune had put his girlfriend into a malleable hypnotic state.

Is this what Our Tune had become?

I undertook a quick Google search and found the submissions page right here. Well, there is only one thing I could do, isn’t there?

Name: Mr Angry

Email: My Mister.angry one.

Daytime Tel: Supplied

Where you’re from: London baby

Tell us the song: Adele’s current chart hit “Chasing Payments”

Tell us your story: I came from an underprivileged background. I learned to survive on the harsh streets of Northamptonshire. It was dog eat dog for most of my childhood (though I never actually ate a dog, no matter what Fat Jim says). Coming up the hard way, career opportunities were few and far between for someone like me. One thing I seemed to have a talent for though, was extorting money. My physical presence and general demeanour seemed to make people want to pay up sooner rather than later. As you can imagine, this skill set was very much in demand, and before long I rose to the top of this particular career ladder.

Soon though, I began to question my lifestyle choice. Was I really put in this world for putting the frighteners on people and making welshers pay up, or something more? I had always wanted to paint, you know, pictures and that, but maybe it was too late for this particular leopard to change its spots. Then, one day on my way to a particularly bad payer, I heard this Adele song on Radio 1 and it was like she was actually speaking directly to me. Not like a mental though, just through the song.

“Should I give up, or should I just keep chasing payments. Even if it leads nowhere.” It was the philosophical question I had been asking myself for months and months and months.

Then it struck me. It was like one of those epiphany things from off of the movies. THIS is what I’m GOOD at. How many of us in this life get to do something they are genuinely good at? It made me think about all the characters who would lose money if it were not for me, and I finally accepted my fate, to live my life as the best possible debt collector/enforcer that I can be.

And I owe it all to Adele.

I look forward to hearing the broadcast of this particular roller-coaster of emotion any day now…

I heard on the radio yesterday that the BBC has been inundated with complaints about its new drama series, Ashes to Ashes. The show, for the uninitiated, is a follow up to the hugely successful series Life on Mars, about a policeman hit by a car an who then appears to have traveled back in time to the 1970s.

On this occasion however, it is about a policewoman, and she has traveled back to 1981. With me so far?

Many of the characters remain the same, but a few years older (if not wiser), and a central character is that of DCI Gene Hunt. It is about him that the BBC have received all the complaints.

Well, not so much him, as much as his car. You see, the model of Audi sports car that he is seen driving in 1981, was not actually available until 1984, and this appears to have infuriated the masses.

The wrong model of car. Which could not possibly have been in existence in 1981, except perhaps on a drawing board in West Germany.

Please note that they are perfectly happy with the premise of a woman being shot in the face and traveling back in time 27 years and finding herself attending a boat party dressed as a prostitute. That is absolutely fine. No problems there whatsoever. It is just the car they take issue with.

What type of person complains about something like this? We should be grateful that the current series of Points of View has finished, or Terry Wogan would spend his brief television appearance discussing the relative merits of early eighties German automotive engineering.

Complaining about this is akin to complaining to the BBC that the angle of the sunrise on the Teletubbies is completely inaccurate for a planet inhabiting the earth’s solar orbit. The silly fucking car-loving twats.

I do not play the Lottery, and have not done so for probably five or six years.

I also rarely watch television on a Saturday night as I am normally out and about being suave, sophisticated and charming. In pubs. I did however catch the National Lottery television extravaganza briefly the other night, after having my interest piqued by mention of an obscenely large European jackpot.

Of course, it had already been drawn by then, I did not have a ticket for it, and it was for a European draw, but that is all beside the point.

I was alarmed to see, right there before me on the screen, reference to not one, but SIX different lottery games. All based on picking random numbers. Now, back when I played the lottery, it was “The Lottery” and everyone knew what you were talking about. Now if you mention doing the lottery, it immediately begs the question, “Ah, but which one? The Lotto? Euromillions? Thunderball? Dream Number? Daily Play or Lotto Hotpicks?”

What if you were the sort of person who was stupid enough all those years ago when the lottery began, to pick your numbers based on family birthdays and dates relevant to short-lived teenage romances etc. (hypothetically speaking, and anyone who says different is a liar etc..)? Do you now have to pick the same numbers on all six games?

I can not imagine anything much more sickening than having the same six numbers week on week for years, only to find they would have won the jackpot in one of the other five games.

So you can’t just do one competition, can you?

My first job was with one of the founding companies of the successful Lottery bidder, Camelot, so when I say this, I say it with some authority on the subject - they are just money grabbing cunts, the fucking lot of them.

It is understandable that readers of this site could be mistakenly under the impression that my life is one long series of disastrous events, interspersed with minor annoyances at regular intervals. Though this is mostly true, good things do happen to me from time to time.

This week was one such occurrence.

The end of January is normally a nightmare for me, due to the Tax return deadline 31st January. This usually results in me spending a week at the end of the month rifling through my poorly-kept records looking for receipts, statements, invoices etc. I hate it. I know I could get an accountant, but why would I pay an accountant a few hundred pounds for something I could do just as well. You will be suggesting I get a professional to service my boiler next.

Anyway, after a week of rooting around in dusty paperwork I was finally in a position to submit my return online.

That is when the magic happened. It appears, that due to some unwise investment decisions on my part, that the Tax man owes me NINE. HUNDRED. POUNDS.

This is unprecedented. I always owe extra. Always. It is like an unwritten law of the universe that they snuck in there between the ones about gravity and atoms and that, “The Tax man will collect a few extra pounds from Mr Angry at the end January. Every. Single. Year”.

I can only imagine this is what it must be like to turn up to court for a speeding offence, only for the magistrate to give you an expenses paid two week holiday in Dubai.

Of course, I do not actually have the cash yet, but it is surely only a matter of time. Surely?

I sincerely hope that in the coming weeks you will not be sat there reading the Jonnyb-esque headline, “I have inadvertently committed tax fraud!!!”

Hello. This is the inaugural I am livid Podcast (posted again due to technical difficulties) where I discuss Christmas and look into securing myself some cheap farmyard animals.

 

 Podcast 1: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download

“Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree, of all the trees most lovely…”

I vaguely remember this song being sung when I was at primary school. Not by me of course. I was too cool for carol singing even at seven years of age. I was however reminded of this song recently when I learned there are over 500,000 acres of xmas trees are cut down in America each year for the holiday season.

Add this to Europe’s demand which is 50% greater, and that means that for a month a year we are cutting down xmas trees faster than we are destroying the rain forests. But you do not see Sting writing a protest song about the poor humble Norwegian Spruce, do you? Maybe if they were farmed by naked men with a plate in their lower lip, or by women with giraffe necks he would feel differently about the issue? That perpetual hard-on of his has clearly deprived blood from the bit of his brain that cares for the environment outside South America.

This year I am doing my bit to save the Christmas Tree forests by not having a Christmas tree. Instead, I will be wrapping some lights around a Yukka plant in the corner of my living room, which is already dying anyway, so I am not killing anything else for Christmas (apart from a delicious Turkey or two).

I am also sending all my friends and family Christmas cards via Facebook and email this year, as another way to prove my green credentials.

What are you going to do this festive season to help save cash the planet?