May the farce be with you…

Whilst travelling on the tube this evening, I saw a poster for a phone network that had Yoda on a poolside diving board. Yoda!

It just didn’t sit right with me. Or maybe I should say: “sit right with me, it did not”.

Star Wars is sacred and awesome.


I’ll even concede that the prequels, despite being nowhere near as good as the original trilogy, weren’t all bad…except for Jar Jar (I’sa wanting to punchy puncha da fishyfacey Binks betcha betcha). So to see the wise green Jedi master reduced to advertising talk plans makes me want to go all Bantha-shit crazy on their asses and shove a lightsaber up their thermal exhaust ports.

Come on George, have some dignity!

I’ve also seen Darth Vader advertising all sorts of shit in the past. Unless its Ventolin or black Turtle Wax, it’s not on!

I have a bad feeling about this.

So please don’t allow Chewbacca to start promoting hair straighteners, or Queen Amidala start advertising make up. It’ll break my heart.

And don’t even think about touching R2-D2; there will be blood.

Bleep bloop beep booweeeeee!

You said it R2.

Retro art?

This has appeared on a wall near work.


This is either an awesome piece of retro art, or a warning that they’re coming!

This makes me wonder; if Anakin Skywalker eats a meal that just isn’t filling enough, does that mean there’s Space In Vader?


You snooze you lose.

This morning I did that rare thing of waking up a whole minute before my alarm went off. This instantly sent a rush of mixed feelings through me.

On one hand I’m as chuffed as chips that my body clock is so cool it can tell when I’m supposed to be getting up. If it had a voice it would casually lean over to me and smugly say “who needs a clock when I’m this good?”, but it can’t…so I’ll shut up.

On the other hand I’m deprived of that gorgeous sensation when you realise you’ve got hours left of sleep and can snuggle back into your warm pillow and rejoin your old maths teacher and her pet unicorn, Alan, as they try and navigate through your old school (which looks suspiciously like your place of work) en route to finding the washing machine that will finally clean the chicken you’re hoping to cook for dinner when Michael Jackson comes to visit.

(Dreams; they make no sense. They’re daft and ridiculous, and yet we don’t question or challenge them, despite most if us being intelligent and rationally minded individuals. No, instead we just blindly go with it. A lot like watching TOWIE really).

So I was a bit annoyed laying there in bed looking at my alarm clock as I knew that going back to sleep wasn’t an option. In 60 seconds or less I was about to be ripped from ‘Operation Chickenwash’ by some twat on the radio trying to be funny.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. (This minute is taking longer than usual)

And there it was. The loud and unfunny drivel from some mindless fool blaring out of my clock radio to remind me I had another exciting day in the office before the weekend.

I reach over, fumble a bit and -click-

The snooze button.

Aaaaaaaah, that’s better. See you in 9 minutes sucker.

By the way, why is it 9 minutes? Why not 10…or 8? I think it originated in Germany:

Klaus – “It is time to get up out of ze bed Hans”
Hans – “But I vant to sleep longer”
Klaus – “Ok, shall I vake you in a few minutes?”
Hans – “Nein”

I could be wrong of course…

But that said, I am the king of the snooze button, the lord of lazy, the duke of…well you get what I mean. At weekends I’ve been known to snooze for up to 4 hours. I love it. I can’t get enough of it. If only I could put a snooze button on people…that would be nice. Maybe I’ll have the word ‘snooze’ tattooed on my knuckles. At least I’ll get 9 minutes peace.

I then start doing that thing where I tell myself when I’m going to get up. It’s usually on one of the 5 minute intervals; for example…I’ll get up at quarter past. But then I accidentally snooze till 16 minutes past. Do I get straight up as promised? Do I fuck! Now I tell myself I’m going to get up at 20 past. But then the song on the radio is one of my favourites, so I’ll get up AFTER its finished and captain twat is back. Oh, but by then it’s 22 minutes past. Ok, I’ll get up at half past.

I was late leaving the house today.

Wednesday wafflers

Just starting to doze off on the train when we pull into a station and loads of people get on. Now this is fine as it’s an every day occurrence…however, today as a woman walks past there’s a voice from the seat behind me that says “Karen??”

She turns around, clearly recognising the owner of the annoyingly plummy voice.

Woman – “oh my god how are you??”
Man – “I’m fine, how are you?”
Woman – “so good to see you, how ARE you?” (Which, by the way, is the same question)
Man – “yeah I’m good thanks, how are things?” (Again, same question)
Woman – “shall we sit here behind Dan and talk super loud so he can’t sleep?”
Man – “absolutely, and if possible let’s try and disturb all these other commuters who are also clearly trying to sleep, or read, or work”

She sits next to him.

Woman – “blah blah blah”
Man – “blah blah blah”

Blah blah blah blah blah ha ha ha ha! blah blah blah blah oh I know! blah blah blah blah really? blah blah blah ha ha ha! blah blah blah…..

Ad nauseam.

Oh the looks they’re getting. Oh the stares. Oh the multitude of headphones being fished out of bags and pockets to drown the endless noise emitting from these waffling wankers.

The headlines tomorrow will read: ‘commuter strangles couple with headphones’

I hope they do it quietly; I’m trying to sleep…

Wired for sound…

Picture the scene.

A curvy young black woman sat next to me on the train, with FAR too much foundation, more extensions than than a call centre and hoop earrings a parrot could sit in.

She has 2 phones that are both on FULL VOLUME which she keeps checking every 3 seconds just in case she’s missed a text; switching them back and forth in her hand like a croupier with a deck of fucking annoying beeping cards. The multitude of messages are coming in thick and fast and here’s nothing like the pop pop pop of the keyboard as she types awkwardly with 2 inch blue fingernails. This is in addition to the click click click of her talons hitting the glass.

Of course, the noise of the phones have to be at FULL VOLUME so she can hear them over her Dr Dre Beats headphones banging out some generic R&B for all of us to enjoy. I mean, shes looking AT these phones without blinking, AND she keeps them from going into standby (the phones are screaming “come on luv, let us rest, we’re knackered!!”), so why the FULL VOLUME?

Also, she MUST be serious about her music. I mean, Dr Dre Beats headphones right? Why else would you spend triple figures on headphones?


Ah, she can’t hear me. Maybe I’ll text her….

Caught in a trap…

Ever walked under a tree, or between a couple of houses, and had a spider’s web draped across your face or hair? To me it’s a similar feeling to finding a hair in your food, but only once it’s in your mouth. My ‘go to’ reaction in either circumstance is “Aargh! Bleurgh! Get it away from me! Yuck yuck yuck!”

So as you can see, I handle it like a man.

But it got me thinking about these invisible tickling threads of stress and anguish. Well, actually it got me thinking about a couple of things.

1. What were they trying to achieve?
2. How did they get it across such an expanse?

So lets look at number 1.

I know the purpose of a spider’s web (or cobweb…although I’ve no idea what a cob is) is to catch unwitting flies and bugs for dinner. This in itself must be difficult as a fly’s eyes are huge and therefore they must see the webs…or they’re incredibly dumb in which case they had it coming. A web is usually quite intricately designed with dense patterns and very little room for their bug-eyed prey to fly through them or wriggle free. So why have all these random long strings spanning alleyways and our garden gate?

Then it struck me. They’re trying to catch ME! But why? Am I the arachnid equivalent of matching 6 numbers on a Saturday night? Will there be little spider news reporters talking to my captor asking “so now that you’ll never have to worry about feeding your family again, what will you do?”, to which he’ll reply “it won’t change me”. Is it a revenge thing for evicting his uncle last week or sucking his mate up the Dyson?

Whatever the motive, trying to garrotte me with a thin strand of something as strong as candy floss isn’t the way forward. Whenever I’ve walked through his trap and walk away doing my “Aargh, Bleurgh! etc…” He’s sat there, stroking the spider equivalent of a white cat and saying “next time…next time”. Or maybe he walks away deflated like Wile.E.Coyote after another thwarted plan to catch the road runner, complete with the ‘wah wah waaaaah’ played on a horn.

And what about number 2? (snigger).

The average house spider is about the size of a 50p coin (although they do get bigger…which is just plain wrong), so how the hell do they shoot their web at such a distance? When I was at school many MANY years ago I remember having pissing contests with my friends to see who could get it the furthest. In order to equal what the spiders are doing I would’ve had to produce a stream that would clear the school…and the teacher’s car park (cos I wouldn’t want to get in trouble now would I??). That’s some serious pissing power and no-one could do that, except maybe one of my friends who freakishly was able to get it over the toilet door and into the toilet. Legendary.

But this would be some serious distance! How the hell do they get those arcing white ropes of bum jizz so far? Not even Peter North could do that! (Don’t know who he is? Porn star. Look him up). Are they doing it as a team? Are there arachnid builders complete with scaffolding and blueprints? Did I destroy it before its finished?

I feel a bit guilty now.

I think tomorrow I’ll thrash around a bit and make them feel better. It’s the least I can do for ridding my house of those dumbass flies.

To boldly go…

On the trains there are these huge great toilets with an automatic curved sliding door, not dissimilar to the turbolift door on the bridge of the USS Enterprise (which completely redefines “captain’s log” for me).

These doors take an age to close which is useful if you’re crowning. So imagine my amusement when i saw this…

A guy resembling a cross between Napoleon Dynamite and Wally from the ‘where’s Wally’ books was walking past the toilet just as the snail paced door was closing for some trembly-kneed commuter. On this occasion I knew exactly where this Wally was going as he was so preoccupied on some bloke’s iPad he started to veer towards the toilet. He hit the sliding door with the centre of his bespectacled face.

Full on.


I laughed. I mean I really LOL’d.

Thankfully I’m reading Simon Pegg’s book at the moment, so I had a scapegoat, but it did very little to mask the dribbling wreck I became having witnessed this beautifully crafted moment.

He then apologised to the door which was priceless, as he fumbled to straighten his glasses…and his tattered pride.

I don’t think I was the only person who pissed themselves.

Smart Decisions…

I have a confession to make.

I think, to most people, I come across as the sort of guy who sees how things go. I don’t tend to worry about the detail and have a real ‘suck it and see’ approach to life; the sort of guy who would ask “what does this red button do?”

– click –

But in reality, I do have a tendency to analyse and over analyse certain things when I need to make an important decision. I’ve also noticed that the word ‘anal’ appeared in that last sentence twice….not that I was picking up on that, or now stressing over whether the word ‘anal’ on its own might offend you reading this…..oh damn, I’ve done it again.

– BBBBOOOOOOOoooooooooommmmm!!!!! –

But coming back to my point; I do tend to get a bit ana….er, obsessive (yes, obsessive; a much better word) about making certain decisions. It’s nothing trivial like deciding whether or not to donate money to charity or if I should actually attempt to avoid the slow walking old lady in the road as I drive closer and closer. No it’s the life changing decision we all have to make at pivotal times in our lives……

What phone do I upgrade to now that my contract is nearing its end??

You see my issue? This is serious stuff!

For 2 years now (almost), I’ve had my ever faithful iPhone 4. Not the 4S, no…the 4 (dammit!). I used to have some regular Nokia something-or-other before and the iPhone opened my eyes to the joy of swiping, double tapping and pinching (although they all sound like words you’d use to describe going for a poo, but hey….let’s not deviate here). I found a new love for those lovely little things we call apps. Tiny quadrilateral delights that bring so much creativity, innovation and the chance to catapult a variety of bad tempered feathered creatures at scaffolding in the hope of killing some verdant swine. What more could I ask for?

Flash maybe?

But the restricted nature of Apple’s little black slab of joy now has me considering doing what Dave Lister and the rest of the Red Dwarf crew did……….and pick up an Android.

Is it worth it? Is it as good? Better? Worse? I really don’t know. I’ve watched hours of YouTube footage and reviews (and some amusing videos including a Thai guy destroying a Mariah Carey classic) and I’ve read almost every opinion, thought, rant and criticism of both Android and Apple’s IOS and no-one seems to be able to say “this is the one you want Dan….this one is the way forward”. Bastards…all of them.

So I’ve decided to not worry about it for now and instead become one of those nuisances in every phone shop on the high street ‘trying out’ different phones. The time I spend in there will obviously depend on how long it takes for the salesperson to come over and say “you alright there?”, to which I’ll say “yeah, just looking mate” followed by 6 more seconds of ‘trying out’, pretending to take interest in the price (usually with raised eyebrows, downturned mouth and nodding to suggest ‘Mmmm, not bad’), and then casually walking out of the store whilst overdoing the act of taking interest in all the other phones, phone covers and tedious shite they peddle in those places. Basically so they don’t catch on that I’m taking the piss a little bit and I’m probably going to do it all online anyway.

I was like this when I bought my TV, BluRay player, Dishwasher (seriously!), Dyson etc…. I didn’t even put this much effort into buying my house; the place I actually store most of this crap! In fact, I’m spontaneous about making decisions like, who my friends are, what I’m going to have for lunch, which nostril to pick first (although that’s not directly related to my lunch), what to watch on my carefully chosen TV, which pair of black socks I’m going to wear today….etc…

So I CAN do it….

I think I need a drink.

Tea? Coffee? Horlicks??

Ooh, I know, I’ll see what they suggest on YouTube.

Compute this….

‘Information Technology’ sounds really important and futuristic….and let’s be honest, it is.  It’s the cornerstone of our modern society.  From iPhones to, we all rely on some form of modern tech to help our lives feel easier, convenient, more stretchygoaty and somewhat less like our parents told us it used to be in the “good old days before all this youtunes rubbish!”.
Yeah right!
So why then, when we abbreviate it to I.T. does it become the subject of gripes, groans and the rolling of eyes?  ‘Information Technology’ is the need to strive for the future along the superhighway of science, progress and utter coolness; Tron style….whereas ‘I.T.’ is a bloke called Dave who asks you if you could “switch it off and then switch it on again”.  How did that happen?
It occurred to me, whilst I snaffled down my disappointing lunch from Tesco and engaged in conversation with our resident I.T. guru, that he wields an exceptional amount of power in our place of business.  Think about it….if you piss him off, he could “log your issue and get back to you”, whereas if you ply him with chocolates and praise him, he’ll switch your machine off and on again FOR YOU!
Don’t get me wrong, he’s a great guy and his initials are PC….I shit you not.  Hmm, maybe I’ll start using the nickname ‘Mac’, just to mix it up a bit.  But ‘great guy’ aside, what a wasted opportunity.  If it were me, I’d be sat behind a big-ass desk in a big-ass office with big-ass shades on, looking like some kind of stereotyped mob boss, complete with big-ass bodyguards in Apple Genius t-shirts, hot dancing girls dressed like Trinity from the Matrix and a gunholster under my jacket for not one, but TWO smartphones. 
Oh yeah…
I’m relatively switched on as far as modern tech is concerned, but on occasion I also get frustrated with it and resort to percussive maintenance (hitting it until it works).  This is when I need help understanding why my printer won’t print (the ONE thing it’s designed for), or my browser won’t get online (the ONE thing it’s designed for), and this is where ‘Mac’ comes in….complete with cape, goat-friendly lycra, and his own theme music. 
Is anyone else thinking the Ride Of The Valkyries?
So as I finished my lunch and left our guru to his meal I was reminded of the fact that the self checkout in Tesco overcharged me by 30p and it took 2 members of staff with keys and security overrides to fuss and fight before deciding to switch it off and on again.
End of line.

Stag do doo…

Hangovers.  They’re fun aren’t they?

Having just returned from a stag night out in sunny (ahem) Newcastle, I’ve found it amusing just how a collection of hungover guys recall the events of the night before.  Well, I say recall, but actually most of us needed it described back to us accompanied by wincing faces, looks of disbelief and the occasional ‘no, really?  Awesome’.

In much the same way we call a collection of lions a pride, I shall now refer to a collection of painfully hungover guys as a ‘shame’.

My most amusing observations of the morning (which wasn’t easy through eyes that felt like they’d been dipped in gibbon piss), was when the stag suggested that one of the shame had probably been bumming a chimp at some point.  I have to say I laughed so hard I nearly followed through…

…which is my main topic about the morning after the night before.  The PAP.  Or as some call it, the Post Alcohol Poo.

Us guys, and indeed any shame when sharing a hotel room, like to offer a thin threat of suffocation and toxic choking by announcing that at some point we’re going to need to drop a shit that resembles King Kong’s thumb.  This is usually met with nods of acceptance, followed by the occasional “me too”, or “let me brush my teeth first”.  I can only assume the last one is due to fear of the brush actually melting in the Chernobyl-ish meltdown that it’ll be subjected to.  Plus who wants to put that in their mouth after your mate has dropped off the kids at the pool and stunk out the bathroom….and the bedroom…..and the corridor……

In fact, come to think about it…I could smell it in reception when we left.

And yet, despite there being a mutual understanding that the aftermath of last night’s poorly chosen kebab is soon to make it’s debut appearance in a toilet bowl near you, it’s still met with “faaaarkin’ ‘ell mate!  What crawled up your arse and died??”.

I don’t think housekeeping get paid enough.

Bitter Sweet…

So Nick and I take our seat at our table on the train and wonder who’ll be sat next to us. Then 2 young attractive ladies join us. We exchange a look that says “result!”.

Then they open their mouths.

It’s all ‘yah yah..” and “absolutely daaaahling”. And it’s non stop. Theres not a microsecond gap of silence at all! And they keep saying “L&D” and “strategy”.

Nick and I exchange a look that says “oh for fuck’s sake, really?”

We have this for 3 hours. I swear I just saw Nick kiss his knuckles.

Add to this the gravelly voiced toddler behind us who clearly smokes 40 a day and our disappointment is complete.

Oh, hang on…a screaming baby.

Where’s the beer carriage?

Aboot to slap her eh?

I know everything about the Canadian woman who’s sat two tables behind me. In fact, everyone on the train does…in every carriage, including the driver.

My god she talks loud, and lots, and punctuates every sentence with “I was like….” and “oh my god…” and “he was like…” and “I know, right?” and “she was like…”

The guy she’s talking to is English and really quiet. At least, I think he’s quiet; he might be normal volume…who knows against this vocal avalanche of cliches!

Also, I don’t think she’s breathing between sentences so its likely she’ll be stopping soon.

I bet she doesn’t fart. She doesn’t close her mouth long enough to build up any pressure.

I know, right?

Gotta Start Somewhere….



Never done it before….

Bit scary to be honest; putting yourself out there for all and sundry to read, review and ignore.  I guess this is the literary version of dancing around a pole wearing nothing but a smile and a sense of nervous shame.

But don’t worry…this isn’t what my blog is all about.  It’s not stripper metaphors and cheap laughs (well, maybe a couple)….this first entry is purely ‘cos I want to see my words up on the interweb.

After this it’ll be daily musings, observations, and pretty much anything that titillates me (stripper joke already?  Really?).

This all started when I had requests to put my Facebook status’s* online as they were fast becoming the daily staple diet for all my friends and family to read.  They all told me how much they looked forward to my (comedy?) ramblings.

Hmm, maybe the word ‘ramblings’ was a clue to quit while I was ahead,,,,

For all I know, it’s only them who’ll read it…in which case I should’ve stuck to Facebook.  I might be like those deluded individuals on the X-Factor who believe they have the vocal talents of Whitney Houston because they got applause at the Dog & Duck Thursday night karaoke sessions; when in reality they sound like Joe Pasquale going through a chipper and it was pity clapping.  So here I stand, on the virtual stage, about to open my mouth and impress.

Or not.

Anyway….without further ado….I’m going to finish this first entry and start putting my original Facebook status updates on here so I’ve got them all in one place (even though they’re already on Facebook)

*or is it stati….like cactus’s is cacti?

Forrest Chump…

Clip clop clip clop clip clop CLIP CLOP CLIP CLOP! That’s the sound of a business man running, getting closer behind me.

I move to the side as the puffing blur of black polyester whizzes by. His train has just pulled in and he’s still got 50 metres and a bridge (complete with up and down stairs) to navigate. Other people are similarly moving left and right like traffic to an ambulance in order to allow Insain Bolt here the chance to miss his train in spectacular fashion.

This should be interesting.

I want to scream “come on sunshine, you can make it!”, but there’s also that little bit of me that wants him to miss it (Mwah hah hah!). I prepare a mild smirk just in case he does…

He makes it to the platform and disappears from view behind the train. Did he make it? Place your bets, place your bets!

The train pulls out and…and…he’s still stood there. Teased by the train standing in the station when he gets there but the doors were locked and the guard looks on all powerful and officious. Been there. Gutted. Ha ha.

I, like many others overtaken by this optimistically deluded Forrest Gump, walk past him with that ‘bet you’re glad you ran now eh?’ look on our faces as he desperately tries to style out his heavy panting. He’s leaning casually against the fence, texting with one hand trying to mask his overwhelming need to drain the town of oxygen by ‘gently’ breathing through his nose. It’s like trying to quickly down a pint through a straw. If it were me I’d be on all fours, wheezing and being dramatic.

I’m just saying.

Ready thyself for my prepared smirk….

Signal failure…

Just been listening to the loud guy a table over from me on the train trying to have a conversation on his phone (using mic headphones…like a twat of course; who needs hands free when your hands are free??).

The conversation went:

Can you hear me?
Can you hear me ok?
(puts mic closer to his stupidly bearded mouth)
What about now?
(fumbles with mic) now?
Now? What about now?
Hello? What about now?
(mic even closer to mouth…It looks like he’s snogging his fingers)
Ok, I’ll call you later.
I’ll call you later.
I said I’ll call you LATER!
Later! Yes later!! I’ll call you…
(line must’ve gone dead)

I hate crap signal on a train, but today it’s pretty damn sweet. A 3 minute one-sided conversation about nothing but attempting to have a conversation.

What a tit.

A-vac-naphobia (geddit?)

Massive spider on the landing ceiling. The type that actually has biceps, gold teeth and tattoos. I think it just winked at me with 4 of its eyes It’s so big that I can’t get a pint glass over it to throw it out, so I’m not gonna.

Jus gave me that “you’re not going to throw it out? If you loved me you’d get rid of it for me, but clearly you don’t value our relationship!” look.

Nope. Still not touching it.

She’s just headed upstairs with the Dyson whilst telling her friend on the phone what a useless man I am….

I’m not emptying the Dyson.

Takes the biscuit….

Crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch -pause- slurp -pause- crunch crunch crunch crunch -pause- dribbly slurp -pause- crunch crunch….

That’s all I’m getting (crunch) from this guy opposite me on the train as (crunch) he slowly and annoyingly tucks into (crunch) his impossibly crunchy biscuits and (slurp) drinks his clearly too hot coffee (crunch). Are those biscuit actually made from a mix of popping candy and plastic??

Cant sleep through (crunch) this violent masticating, but to be honest (slurp)…the woman next to him (crunch) looks like she’s wondering if twatting him across the face (crunch) will damage her kindle…

…and no-one should miss seeing that.


Brrrrr…..itish Rail

The air con is turned up so high on this train that I swear I can see ice forming on the carpet. If the train stops a little too abruptly at the next station do you think everyone will slide to the front of the carriage?

Mind you; the stickiness of these carpets can probably counteract the effects of sheet ice…

Oh look, a penguin.

Mis-carriage of communication…

Quite a lengthy train announcement from a guard with a very loose grasp of the English language whilst sat in the station.

No clue what he’s just said. sounded like “baddalada famwa si borfon ja pindol fi boo beep blorpy floodle”

I’m shitting myself now as half of the carriage has just upped and got off.