Bloody commute…

Whilst riding the tube this evening I was witness to something you don’t see often; a man covered in blood.

Now allow me to quantify that by pointing out that it’s Halloween. Even so, it’s still a little unnerving when the guy who gets on the tube next to you is, indeed, covered in blood.

Did I mention he was covered in blood? Well he was, y’know, covered in blood.

So there we were stood side by side on the packed train as it slowly departed the station. It was then I noticed the reactions of the other people crammed in with our crimson pal, or rather, the lack of them.

Here he stood, covered in the red stuff and no one even bats an eyelid (no pun intended). I guess they all had the same thought as me which was “this guy must have had some sort of Halloween dress up thingy at work today, good for him”.

This lack of blind terror, screaming and uncontrollable sobbing did get me thinking. What if this guy was REALLY covered in REAL blood? What a perfect cover. He seemed so calm and unassuming, but then again aren’t they the ones we should be careful of?

I edged away from him slightly.

Some of the commuters were desperately trying to stare without being too obvious as he was, without question, covered in blood. What fascinated me the most was the way they’d quickly look elsewhere when he made eye contact. I mean, it’s rude to stare, right? And we don’t want to upset the blood soaked stranger do we kids?

Then I wondered; what if today had been a regular day? What if it hadn’t been halloween? Would we have all acted differently? I would’ve certainly filled my trousers with all kinds of nasty, but what about everyone else? Maybe one day I’ll just dress as a zombie and stand on the train at rush hour, dribbling and groaning.

Although I suspect I won’t need to stand with all the empty seats.

But the most amusing, and yet appropriate, reaction was when the train pulled into our destination. There, stood on the platform, was a small oriental girl waiting for the train. She’d obviously positioned herself so that she would be right in front of the sliding doors when they opened.


We all started piling off the train and I was directly behind Mr Bloody so I had a front row seat for what happened next.

As we stepped off the train, the oriental girl looked up and made a face that simply said “what the fucking shit?!?”, complete with wide eyes and even wider mouth. This was accompanied by a sudden and violent sidestep which was clearly a kneejerk reaction not dissimilar to ducking when a pigeon flies at your face.

(Although seeing a pigeon hit someone full on in the face is just a beautiful thing; at least for the spectator and not the person picking beak, shit and feathers out of their mouth)

Her reaction was absolutely priceless. I can still picture it now and I cant stop smiling; It was so bloody funny.

Pun intended.

To pass or not to pass?

Readers of this blog (or my Facebook page) will have noticed that I have the occasional (ahem) issue with the shuffling morons I share my commutes with every day.

There is, however, another type of commuter that I feel needs a mention. 

This one isn’t as slow as the others, nor are they as randomly multidirectional as their brethren.  These ones tend to walk with purpose and determination, usually at a speed just slow enough to attempt overtaking them, but fast enough to fail.  Trying to pass these people means speeding up to a point where it actually starts to become uncomfortable and you look awkward because, well, you’re practically running.

If you do manage to overtake them you then have to decide; do you slow back down to your normal speed (which might make you look a bit stupid as they’ll inevitably walk past you and put you back to where you started), or continue walking really fast like someone needing to poo?

Tough decision.

Unless you actually need to poo.

London Undergrind!!

Faaaaarkin’ hell!

What a tube journey!!

The whole thing started badly when I left work late which usually means I miss my train from London by literally one minute.

One. Whole. Minute.

I made it to the tube station, having successfully avoided black cabs and ninja cyclists, and attempted to enter the station. And when I say attempted, I mean attempted. It’s amazing how many people just stop dead when walking, or don’t know how to walk forward.

It’s not that hard; it’s the direction your fuck ugly face is pointing. Can we please fit these people with brake lights or, at the very least, indicators??

I managed to slalom these bungling bell-ends and get through the ticket barrier (which, interestingly, was the only thing that was reliable this evening). I then joined the escalator and started walking down on the left, which is the understood escalator etiquette on London’s underground network. I made it half way down when some twat stood on the right realised everyone on the left was walking down and decided to step out and join them, taking each step at the speed of dark. The stationary people on the right arrived at the bottom quicker.

Finally I made it onto the platform just as a train pulled in. “Result” I thought to myself as I jumped on.

The train then sat there for four minutes, which, on the underground, equates to about 3 weeks.

Finally we pulled off and we bumped, swerved and jiggled our way to my final destination. Great if the carriage was full of busty bikini clad girls.

It wasn’t.

The good news is…I could still make my train here.

We all got off. And it was at this point I was utterly and violently fascinated by the speed we all disembarked. It defies logic that people in a hurry….aren’t! It’s not because of bottle-necking or anything because I managed to wriggle through the plodding pillocks like a good looking knife through thuddingly dumb butter. I now know where George A. Romero got his inspiration, although his zombies would go hungry with the lack of delicious grey matter in the vicinity.

At last i made it to the final escalator and decided to opt for the left hand side walk up. This time no-one stepped out in front of me because they were all too bloody lazy, and they didn’t need to as the person in front of me was clearly struggling to climb the steps. Would it have been wrong to grab them by the shoulders, shove them to the right and exclaims “for fuck’s sake!!” Loudly as I stomp past? Hmm….possibly. I opted for silent rage.

I made it to the top, through the rest of George’s flock, through another non-obstructive ticket barrier and onto the conc…. onto the conc…. onto the conc…

Will you get out of the fucking way people!!!!

…onto the concourse. Jesus! It seemed no-one could walk in a straight line, or continue without stopping, or control their kids, or luggage, or their knuckles as they dragged along the floor.

It’s been an emotional journey and, oh look, I’ve missed my train by one minute.

The appliance of wrong

There’s currently a competition on Facebook to win some kitchen appliances.

Im not promoting it in any way I hasten to add!

All you have to do is ‘like’ the page to enter the draw. It’s accompanied by a picture which I’ve included in this blog.

Now is it me, or do the words just under the child seem a little inappropriate?

Fantasy Vs. Reality – Part 2

Guys swaggering along with their jeans hanging low, below their asses.  You know the look i’m talking about right?

Fantasy:  Everyone thinks they’re proper ‘gangsta’.  Everyone shows them respec’ cos dey is, like, street blud; you get me?  People feel jealous pride for their urban flava and know that they are not to be messed with.  These are dangerous peoples man, dangerous peoples! (kisses teeth)

Reality:  Everyone thinks they look like a bunch of pricks who desperately need to pull their jeans up.  We can all see their pants, and therefore their asses….which makes them look like a toddler, complete with a full nappy.  Their choices of pants usually leave a lot to be desired.  You recokon you’re ghetto?  Well the Spongebob pants are suggesting otherwise! 

We all laugh at them because they have to walk with wide strides to stop their jeans actually falling down to their skinny, knobbly knees….or they have to walk along holding them up with one hand, which is daft considering they’re already wearing a belt.

And if they ever have to run (for a bus, to cross the road, away from their parole officer), it’s like watchin a penguin in high heels running across a glacier covered in banana skins.

You get me?

This is not something I make up….

This morning, after a long and cramped commute into London, I was chatting with a friend and we began comparing our vacuum packed journies into the capital.

The subject eventually turned to women (obviously), but more specifically the different types of make-up they wear; the tones, the colours, the thicknesses and the way they apply them (brushes, pens, trowels etc..)
There seems to be a myriad of methods and styles adopted by this country’s fairer sex.  Mind you, having said that, it’s not really accurate to describe them as ‘fairer’anymore when they come in so many colours, like the iPod.

For example, this morning on the underground, there was a young(ish) girl stood in front of me whose make-up was flawless.  I mean it was ‘photoshoot’ flawless.  I think she’d been photoshopped to be honest.  I couldn’t stop staring at her, not because I found her attractive or anything, but simply because she was ridiculously unflawed and unblemished.  it was truly a work of art.  And stood next to her was a woman whose tone resembled a rusty car.

What a contrast.

The Oompa-Loompa’s boyfriend must be a plasterer as she’d clearly had help with applying half of Arizona’s desert to her face.  In addition to this she was extremely shiny with big pink Santa cheeks and blue eye shadow that would make a porn star blush.  I find it a little saddening that she’d clearly taken time to smear on half of Superdrug’s stock that morning and yet my attention was drawn elsewhere.  At least, it WAS drawn elsewhere until Miss Loompa starting talking loudly to her friend through very, VERY red shiny glittery (and badly pencilled) lips.

And what is this fascination with being orange?  I’ve never understood it.  I can appreciate the need to look tanned as it gives that holiday glow, but orange makes it look like you’ve been on holiday to Chernobyl…and that glow is probably uranium, or Ready Brek.

But if you really want to look orange, dip your face in carrot soup.  Just let it cool down first.

I do have one last observation that is actually something i’m impressed with, and that’s the ability of some women to be able to apply make-up on a moving train full of people whilst standing!

I have seen this on numerous occasions and it never ceases to amaze me.  Not only can it be done on a bumpy and swervy train, but also whilst squished up against other people.  I swear these women practice in their closets.  They adopt the arms of a preying mantis and manage to juggle brushes, pens, pads, sponges, mirrors, curlers and mobile phone whilst bouncing around the carrriage with everyone else like some weird, emotionless, slow motion mosh pit.

And the fact they don’t have it all over themselves is nothing short of impressive; I can’t even keep inside the lines in a colouring book.

My friend pointed out that if it were us, we’d end up looking like the Joker.

It could be worse, I could be orange.

Licky licky…

The suited guy at the other table on the train keeps licking his lips.

And I don’t mean in a normal ‘stop them from being dry’ kind of way, but more like a ‘trying to be erotic, really going for it like a child with jam around its mouth and now the area between his bottom lip and chin are actually glistening in the fluorescent lights with gross man-dribble’ kind of way.


I’ll huff and I’ll puff….

The train I’m on had been sat in the starting station for 20 minutes with no real explanation as to why (which came as no surprise).

What I found amusing were the huffer puffers; the commuters who feel it necessary to huff and puff to show they’re annoyed and inconvenienced. I swear these people have the deluded idea that the more they huff and the louder they puff, the sooner the train will leave.

Anyway, the amusing thing about these carbon dioxide producing dickheads and their vocal exhalations is when their overwhelming need to ‘beat the system’ backfires.

Allow me to clarify.

The guard’s cockney voice came on the tannoy to apologise for the delay and that we’ll be underway at some point, but he didn’t know when. The HPs all HP’d in unison and started filing off the train like some trade union strike.

This was clearly in an attempt to ‘stick it to the man’ by jumping on a later train that will no doubt leave the station earlier than this one.

No sooner had about 8 people got off, the doors shut and the train pulled away.

Ha ha! Gutted.

The plants are going to have to photosynthesise for England tonight.

We’re gonna need a bigger head…

I pointed out to a lady at work today that her headphones were massive.  And when I say massive, I mean they were akin to strapping two halves of a football to the sides of her noggin.

It was at this point that one of her colleagues proudly announced they were actually his.  I mocked him for a few seconds (included finger waggling and derisive laughter) before he concluded with “well why don’t you just blog about it”.

So I did.


And for those of you out there lacking the imagination to picture the sheer enormity of these beasts….here’s an example:

Keep in contact, four eyes.

Today I’m wearing contact lenses for the first time ever. It’s a 5 day trial.

The word ‘odd’ comes to mind.

With classes there is an obscured field of vision, considering you actually have something on your face. With lenses you can see everything.

I would best describe it as ‘the world in IMAX’

Annoyingly I keep attempting to adjust the glasses I’m not wearing. So far I’ve styled it out as an itch on the bridge of my nose, but I suspect I’m not fooling anyone and people are getting suspicious.

I’ve been told I look weird without my glasses. It’s lovely to know that my natural unobscured face looks weird.


Hello? Is anyone actually there?

I’ve noticed some bizarre behaviours and trends regarding mobile phone usage.  And by ‘bizarre’, I actually mean ‘fucking stupid’.
I’m sure this won’t be my only blog regarding people and their phones, but for now I just have to get this off my chest.  And if this applies to you in any way….in ANY way….shame on you!
(Judgmentally waggles finger)
A mobile phone has many features, depending on the make/model etc.  However, there are a couple of features that remain constant throughout them all, and those are the positions of the earpiece and the microphone.
The earpiece is customarily at the top and the mic is traditionally at the bottom, assumingly because your ear is higher up on your head than your mouth. 
(If it isn’t, then please send me a photo of yourself.  I’m curious how that looks, and if you’ve ever had to pick bits of food or dribble out of your ear)
Now, the best way to hold a phone when making a call is against your head so the earpiece lines up with your ear and the mic is close to your mouth (or upside down if you’re someone who’s sent me a picture).  Similarly, if you’re like a lot of people I know, put the phone in your back pocket with the mic facing down.
But assuming you don’t talk shit, it’s safe to say that the accepted way to hold your phone as close to the input/output parts of your head.  Right?
So will someone please explain to me why there are idiots out there talking into them like walkie-talkies?  I saw a guy this morning holding it in front of his face with the loudspeaker on, blissfully unaware of what a total penis he looked.  I don’t know about you, but if I was on the other end of that call I wouldn’t want everyone to hear what I’m saying….I’m still working off the last restraining order.
Also, what’s with the talk/listen approach?  You know the one.  It’s where they hold the phone (facing them) close to their mouth, talk, then move the phone to their ear to listen to the response, followed by moving it back to their mouth, talking, then back up to their ear.  How utterly dumb is that?  It’s pretty much the same technique adopted by 7yr olds with two tin cans and some string.
I know we’re all individuals and we’re entitled to do things however we like, but there’s a limit!  I wonder if, when brushing their teeth, they hold the brush still and violently shake their heads from side to side. 
I wouldn’t be surprised…..most of them can’t even hold their jeans up.

Fantasy Vs. Reality – Part 1

I came across a realisation this morning as I walked to the train station; that more often that not we are confused between fantasy and reality. In fact, I’m so convinced of this that I’m going to start a section entitled “Fantasy Vs. Reality”…of which this is part 1.

Allow me to explain.

Tonight I’m off to a friend’s house for the evening to play video games and probably gorge myself on dough bin lids covered in churned milk, plants and processed animal flesh…or ‘pizza’ as they’re better known. It’s going to be a proper old school video games night; you know…actually sat side by side on a sofa, rather than over the interweb. As a result I have to pack an overnight bag as I’m, well, staying overnight (duh!).

But I digress…

So this morning I walked to the station with a mini suitcase on wheels (I know it’s only for one night, but i’m not a tart; I had a complete change of clothes for work tomorrow, plus trainers, plus toiletries, plus Xbox games and a controller); rumbling along the road at 7am like a small Boeing 747…so I’m sure I didn’t wake anyone who had their bedroom windows open. I then got to thinking about negotiating the London Underground with my case.

All the people I’ve seen in the past with cases get on my tits because they just have no spatial awareness and they drag their cases behind them like horny dogs on very long leashes trying to take out the legs of anyone in the vicinity with the vain hope of buggering those who fall. Whatever happens, I’m not going to be what the train station posters call a “Wheelie Wally’…(or ‘Wheelie Wanker’ as I like to affectionately call them).

Then I made it to the station, stood on the platform and patiently waited for my train. It soon arrived and Fido and I boarded without issue.

Then I heard it…

Clip clop clip clop clip clop…

…the door light on the train was flashing and the beeping had begun to indicate the doors were about to slide shut…


…the doors began to close…

…CLIP CLOP CLIP -silence-

A woman appeared from nowhere! She was small, unassuming, and was on board the train before the doors had finished closing, complete with big coat and quite a large rucksack. How the hell did she do that? She didn’t even touch the sides! (Words than can reduce a man to tears under alternative circumstances by the way)


She calmly scoped the carriage for a seat, found one and sat down. She didn’t even look up, she didn’t seem harassed or flustered in any way like it happens all the time; she’s like some kind of anoraked ninja.

Indiana Jones would’ve been proud.

I found a seat, sat down (otherwise I’d just be a weird guy who finds seats) and thought about the situations with my case and the slippery woman.

Here are the fantasy and reality of each.

You strut through the station or terminal with your wheeled case behind you, proudly displaying it like a slightly over smug flight attendant.

Fantasy: Everyone looks at you with both wonder and jealousy as they’re curious of where You’re going and who you’re seeing. Let the man through…he has a case!

Reality: Everyone is avoiding you like the plague because you’re going to get under everyone’s feet. What kind of penis takes a fully packed case onto the tube in rush hour? I hope I don’t get stuck standing next to you. Idiot.

Your train is pulling in so you make a run for it. You clatter along the platform like a deranged moose and, as you hear the beeping of the closing doors, jump on the train at the first available opportunity. You make it.

Fantasy: You not only made it on board, but you didn’t even get bumped by the doors, resulting in a flawless finish. You’re not out of breath at all and others were there to witness your awesome Hollywood entrance. No need to look around for looks of admiration and awe, you already know they’re there. Just sit down and be confident in the knowledge that you’ll be talked about around campfires for years to come.

Reality: Most people either didn’t notice or don’t care. The rest who saw you just think you’re a lucky sod because you shouldn’t have been lazy in the first place and been at the station on time, like they all were. In fact, a few if them wished you’d missed the train, just to teach you a lesson. They’re now just pissed off you didn’t.

And they know you know it…because you’re avoiding eye contact.

Yeah, that’s it, go and sit down you twat.

Headphone hell

I’ve just watched the woman opposite me on the train attempt to take headphones out of her purse.

She sat herself down, settled in, adjusted her scarf and put her immense handbag on her lap.

She then reached, elbow deep, into her handbag and produced a pair of (massive) white Dr.Dre Beats headphones; well half of them…the other half had snagged on something and was as reluctant to get out of the bag as I was out of bed this morning.

Finally she produced the entire monstrosity, and her keys with it. She put the keys back in her bag and started to pull on the headphone cord.

Out came her purse and a pack of chewing gum. Back in they go.

She pulled a bit more; ah her keys again, and what appeared to be another scarf tangled around the cord.

After about a minute of patiently unravelling this evil spaghetti of rubberised cord and scarf, she pulled again but was faced with a knot in the cord, and some sunglasses. Oh, and her keys.

She had the patience of a saint as by now I would’ve thrown the bag across the carriage, spilling its contents all over the place (which would’ve effectively solved the issue, and most likely decapitated a complete stranger)

Finally she found the jack end of the cord and plugged it into her iPhone.


She then took out a hairband, created some elaborate twisty bun in her hair and held it in place with the band (I assume so she could get the headphones on her head).

Then, and with a noticeably smug smile on her face, she put the mammoth headphones on.

She looked like a Cyberman.

She then sat back to enjoy her music. Alas, she hadn’t emancipated enough cord from the bag and the resulting tension pulled the bastard headphones off her head enough that the hairband came off, her hair went everywhere and the ‘L’ side of the headphones were now sat on her cheek with the ‘R’ on the back of her neck.

She shot me a glance to see if I’d noticed, but I was looking out the window so clearly I hadn’t.

But I had.


Bowling metaphor anyone?

A woman on the train has just talked loudly on the phone all the way from London.

Strike one.

She’s finally shut the fuck up and now she’s texting with her keyboard clicks on full volume!

Annoying much??

Strike two.

If she picks her nose and eats it I’m gong to punch her.

Blah blah fucking blah

As many of you may already know, I’m not a fan of two people waffling at full volume on the train about absolutely fuck all, directly opposite me at a table.

Well, this evening is no exception as the two ladies opposite me are gasbagging about absolutely everything from how cute their dogs are, what’s on at the cinema, X-Factor, number plates and how great their fellas are.

I bet their fellas’ opinion differs.

Oh dear lord, they’ve just pulled the “I really must take your number” out of the bag. Kill me, kill me now.

What makes it even worse is that I’ve established from their perpetual drivel (like picking through cow shit with a toothpick) that they live in the same town as me. That means I’ve got this dribbly bollocks for my entire journey.


Oh, here comes the “how’s your mum?”

I’ll tell you how your mum is 😉

I think I might have to beat them to death with their own handbags, although that might be a bit much don’t you think?

So here I sit, listening to these blathering bints relentlessly chinwagging on and on amongst forced laughter and awkwardly checking their phones for messages they just don’t have.

And as yet, no numbers have been exchanged.

So full of shit.

Bike curious…

Here’s something I’ve noticed.

Cyclists have this ‘more sophisticated than thou’ air about them whenever they’re trussed up in all that specialist skin tight garb. I see them pull up silently on their overpriced bikes, not looking around at anyone, but secretly judging everyone for not being as green and as cool as them.

And regarding those bikes, has anyone else noticed that these things seem to get thinner and thinner the more expensive they get? Ive heard the phrase ‘less is more’, but this is ridiculous. A friend of mine raves about bikes and showed me his £600 ‘baby’ that looked like it was fashioned from un-bent paper clips and bottle tops. The seat resembled a giraffe’s head, and was most likely less comfortable

Anyway, i do have to say that when I see these streamlined sissies all spandex’d up like ballet dancers with their special bike shoes and their special bike leggings, complete with a helmet that looks like a Klingon’s forehead ridge, I can’t help but admit they look the part; all aerodynamic and ‘whooshy’.

But….and this is what prompted me to blog this morning….the moment they’ve locked up their overpriced coat hangers and walked away to join the rest of society, don’t they look fucking ridiculous? Seriously.

The guy on the train platform this morning had regular shorts on with those tight spandex leggings underneath, all feeding into the most girly shoes I’d ever seen. It looked like his mum had dressed him, in the dark, whilst drunk.

With her feet.

And, as he stood there looking like a ninja morris dancer being brutally judged by me in my ‘regular’ clothes, I couldn’t help but think that the smug bastard was warmer than me.

Say Cheeeeeese….

I’ve just spent the evening on a photography night shoot with a friend.  It was, in short, awesome.

I did notice however that there’s a certain level of power that comes with having a proper DSLR camera on a tripod.  There seems to be an unwritten rule that says ‘I’m allowed to get away with stuff that seems a bit weird and might get in your way but you can’t question me because that would just make you a twat’.

Allow me to explain…

At one point we were photographing the Queen’s gaff (or Buckingham Palace as everyone calls it), and we  were stood there, having debated apertures, shutter speeds and ISO settings*, waiting for our cameras to finish taking their long exposure shots of Her Majesty’s crib, complete with traffic light trails.  We soon realised there was a family of people patiently waiting for us to say it was ok to pass.  We ‘gave them permission’, and they hurried past (and I mean they did that awkward run/jog type thing past us) thanking us for allowing them to pass.  One of the guys was built like a brick shit-house and yet here he was, totally submissive to us and our three legged toys.

And it didn’t stop there…

At one point I held up people who just wanted to go up an escalator so they could go to a restaurant for dinner.  I wasn’t in their way, nor did I have a sign saying “None shall pass” like some multi-lensed Gandalf.  No, I was just taking long exposure shots of the moving escalators, and yet here were full grown adults asking if it was ok to use them.

I said no.  They had to wait.**

This also happened with my friend who was photographing the same escalators from the top.  He made people sit and wait there until he was bloody well finished.  They did.  We got the shots.**

This degree of power is increased to include a level of importance when you’re both walking along with extended tripods firmly attached to your equipment.  (Er…that sentence sounds a bit rude!  By ‘equipment’ I meant ‘penis’; ‘CAMERA!’….I meant ‘camera’).  Or at least the perception of importance; allow me to elaborate….

Have you ever  seen a group of young people in a convertible car on a hot, sunny day with great music playing, looking like they haven’t got a care in the world?  I’m sure you have.  And what do we think when we see them?


And yet, when it’s US in a convertible car with friends on a hot, sunny day with great music playing, we just assume that everyone is looking at us ‘cos we’re super cool.  We feel pretty damn good about ourselves and we know that everyone looking at us are jealous of our cool car gang.

What the hell is that all about?

Well, with photography it’s the same principle.

When I see people with ‘proper’ cameras taking ‘proper’ photos of stuff and not just ‘snapshots’, I think they’re pretentious arseholes trying to look important (“Oooh, look at me, I’m so important with my big camera and my tripod and my selection of lenses that are big enough to compensate for my lack of telescopic focal length in the bedroom”)

And yet tonight, whilst walking along with my mate and our camera gear, I had this real sense of importance.  I felt like everyone looking at us thought we were professionals, and that we were super cool, and under no circumstances did anyone think we were pretentious arseholes; not even the woman who asked if it was ok to walk behind us.  She could…if she did it quietly.**

But all joking aside, we got some great photos so I thought I’d share one of the Buckingham Palace pictures and one of the Escalator pictures with you.  Let me know what you think.

*Yes, we really WERE being that geeky.
**Not actually true.

The Turdminator

I’m sat on the train late at night and a guy has just got on and parked himself next to me.

He’s not a small guy.  In fact, I’m now getting very intimate with the window as I’m pushed up against it.

But the weird thing about Shrek here is the way he’s breathing.  Every breath has that strain like he’s bending out a fresh biscuit in his shorts.  His massive, massive shorts.

Any minute now I’m expecting him to shout “finished!” followed by that warm pungent odour of fresh man manure.  And I think to myself, whilst wedged up against the upholstery, that by the looks of him it won’t be a small chipolata affair.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not mocking obesity as I myself was a lot larger up until about a year ago, but logic tells me that the more food he puts in, the more poo he’ll put out.  Fact.

So what if he really is squeezing one out?  What if my suspicions are correct?  Then what?