Next customer please

Why, at the supermarket checkout, are some people reluctant to put their shopping on the conveyor belt behind yours without a having plastic divider to separate the shopping?  Are they afraid I’ll maliciously buy all their shopping and take it home?

Their solution seems to be to create a Grand Canyon sized gap between my shopping and theirs. 

Perfect.  It makes more sense than simply adding a divider once one becomes available.

Also, what about when it’s a ‘self service’ checkout? 

I’m pretty confident that I’ll know when to stop scanning my items.  I won’t accidentally buy your tampons, microwave cheeseburger, budget bread and extra large condoms.

Oh wait, those last ones are mine.


checkout divider

A quick shout out…

To all you commuters who like to change direction on a whim right in front of me, often two or three times, causing me to either bash into you, do a Matrix style maneuver around you or change direction entirely, often two or three times, thus perpetuating your retarded inability to fucking walk in a fucking straight fucking line….

To all you pricks who stop right at the top of the stairs in a station to decide your next life choice, causing me and the hundreds of unstopping masses to practically fall over you; resulting in us almost making the fucking choice for you….

To all you tedious twats who are simply stood still until the moment I’m literally about to walk past you, at which point you decide to walk out directly in my path resulting in me virtually FUCKING YOU UP with a full on body slam….

To all you meandering rimlickers who get on the train and then stop in the aisle to put away your train ticket, or change the track on your iPod or locate your disappointing genitals, unaware that the rest of us are stuck behind you,followed by not rushing to move or apologising when you do….

To all you shitbiting fuckers who sensibly stop in a doorway to sort out your luggage because it somehow seems the least obstructive place to be, despite the fact everyone uses doors to get into and out of places…

And to all you festering cockwarts who desperately try to get In front of me whilst walking and then, once you’ve succeeded, choose to either slow down to the speed of fuck all or stop altogether, making me wonder why you so desperately had the need to push in front of me, or breathe in and out for that matter…

To ALL of you absolute fucking bastards on my daily commute, may I just take this opportunity to say….


Phlegm fatale

On the London Underground this morning I was watching a woman sat down, meticulously adjusting her hair in a small hand-held mirror.

This little bit back there; this bit brought forward etc… 

She was being very thorough and at one stage appeared to be struggling to get one part of her hair to go where she wanted it to.  This may be because the train was being jostled left and right vigorously, but it’s likely because gravity actually exists.

Suddenly she stopped and looked up, like a deer hearing a twig snap in the quiet wood or that realisation that you’ve probably left the iron on at home.  She was motionless, looking directly forward with intent and concern at no-one in particular.


She sneezed into her hand.  The hand she then re-applied to her hair.

I always thought sneezes were unpredictable and unintentional, but her (now ‘gravity defying’) hair would suggest otherwise.

snot hair gel

Grand theft awful

Just seen a woman in HMV ask for a copy of Grand Theft Auto 5 (certificate 18 I hasten to add) for her son who couldn’t have been older than 7.

She was told they’ve completely sold out.

The little fucking spoilt brat then completely LOST…HIS… SHIT!!

Makes my blood boil

The office I work in is very modern and contemporary.  We have funky red sofas, LED TVs dotted around on the brilliantly white walls and more glass and steel than an episode of Buck Rogers.

One of the contemporary and modern fixtures we have is a tap in the kitchen that provides boiling hot water…on tap.  It’s perfect for making a brew quickly and so it should be; I believe it cost around £2000.

And yet we still have a kettle.


I’ve lost count the amount of times I’ve walked into the kitchen, said hello to the idiots waiting for the kettle to boil, made my drink with the tap and then said goodbye to the idiots still waiting for the kettle to boil.

I ask them why they’re not using the tap and I get inane answers like:

“The tap doesn’t get it hot enough”

Really?  So the billowing steam coming off the water suggests it’s lukewarm does it?  I dare you to run your hand or genitals under it.  No?  Why not?

“It’s just what I’m used to; the water tastes better from the kettle anyway”


If anything, the tap tastes better because it’s filtered and it stays hot rather than being boiled over and over and over again.  And besides, who really gives a smoking shit about the flavour of the water, considering you’re infusing it with whatever shit you’re drinking.  And you’re probably making it wrong.

And what’s more frustrating is when they simply look at me and shrug.

What can I say to that?  There’s no reasoning with stupid.  I hate smashing into a wall of pillock.

But above all this; above all the reasons and blank faced idiocy there’s something I’ve observed that really grits my shit. 

Once they’ve made their hot drink, they put it in the microwave to get it hotter.

I’m sorry, hotter??

How fucking hot do you need it to be?  Surely when it’s bubbling away like a witch’s cauldron it’s not wise to introduce it to your soft fleshy insides?  No, of course it isn’t, which is why they proceed to sip it very gently, blowing on it to cool it down.

What?  Sorry, what?  I just don’t get it.

Yesterday I challenged one of them as he took his drink, now at the temperature of the sun, out of the microwave.  I asked him why he was subjecting his already piping hot beverage to microwaves and he simply replied with, “it wasn’t hot enough”.

He then started to sip it tentatively and carefully.

“Don’t you dare blow on it”, I subtly warned.

“What?” he asked stupidly.

“Why make it hotter just to blow on it to cool it down?”

He looked at me blankly, as if this somehow hadn’t occurred to him.

“What’s the point in zapping it in the microwave if you’re making it too hot to drink?”

“Erm…” he intelligently replied.

“Don’t you dare blow on it, or slurp it” I continued, “I want to see full on sips with full on lip contact”

He did exactly that, wincing the whole time as he fought to hold the microwave-hot ceramic handle of the mug.

Even the Americans don’t do this.  That’s how bad it’s got.

Right, I’m off now to start a fire in my garden so I can cook my dinner using random sticks as skewers, rather than utilise my fully loaded kitchen with gas cooker, oven, pans and utensils.

Because, you know, it’s just what I’m used to.

monkey shit pc

A rosy outlook on life

Earlier today one of the lovely ladies on reception at work offered me a small chocolate chip from her bag of granola. 

Being on a diet (of sorts), I declined. 

At this point she paused for a second, held it closer to me and said in the most serious face she could muster, “actually it’s a rabbit poo”.

This immediately caused me to grin and I replied with, “well in that case, I’ll have one.  I prefer rabbit poo anyway as they’re more nutritious and full of fibre”.

The other lady on reception looked at me in disbelief; mouth open and nose wrinkled.

“Why are you like that?” she asked, slightly bemused.

“Like what?” I asked innocently, knowing what she meant.

“Like that; saying you’d rather eat rabbit poo”.

“Because”, I replied, “it’s funny”

What’s even funnier is the fact that I know she’s reading through my blog today.


It’s all in the voice

The woman on the table across the aisle from me has done nothing but whine on the phone about the delayed train we’re sat on.

I can’t see her because of the rather ‘stinking of booze’ mountain of a man sat directly next to me chugging wine from a selection of mini bottles in his satchel, but she’s really getting on my tits.

I imagine from her chavvy voice that she’s a bit grubby with lank greasy hair scraped back from her fat, spotty, fuck ugly face.

I look over.

It’s a little skinny man in a suit.

Game changing

For gamers, like me, today is a landmark day in gaming.  Today is the launch of Grand Theft Auto V.

It’s been described as one of the biggest game releases of the decade and cost something ridiculous like £170m to develop!  I read today that it’s ‘as much a cultural event as it is a videogame’ with shops opening at midnight to sell it to the queuing masses, and people up and down the country taking the day off or calling in sick to play it.

I am excited to the point of wetting myself.  I can’t lie.  Luckily I have the joy of working all day and having to wait until late this evening to play it. 

Yay! (sarcasm).

A couple of days ago I was having a discussion with one of the guys at work about this game and he asked if I was taking the day off.  I told him that I usually do when a GTA game is released (because who is productive on a day like this?) but unfortunately I don’t have enough holiday entitlement left this year to allow myself this luxury.

It was at this point that one of the women we work with meerkated (yes, I’ve made it a verb) her head over her computer screen and proceeded to snort derisively, calling me a “saddo”.  She then proceeded to tell me that when I have kids (which I don’t) I won’t have time (which I do) to play videogames. 

But I’m assuming I WILL have time to change nappies, lose sleep, stink of baby sick, haemorrhage money and overdose on patronisingly painful children’s TV?

This got me thinking about the attitudes I’ve had from non gamers throughout my life.

Non gamers are quite narrow minded in my experience.  Oh, and they’re usually women.

In fact, this morning I was having a conversation on Facebook about GTAV and one of my female friends piped in with “relax boys, it’s just a game”.  I swear they still think we sit in a dark room playing PacMan and Space Invaders.  Just because their only exposure to ‘gaming’ is Candy Crush or some generic bubble shooting shit, they believe that all games are pretty much the same; simple and easy to pick up and play with.

Just like women.

Oh sorry, was that rude?  Am I stereotyping or belittling?  Am I making massive uninformed and ignorant assumptions?

No; I’m making a point.  I’ve taken the time to understand that there are many different types of ‘game’ out there. 

Some are dull, some are colourful but boring, some are interesting, some are scary, some are exciting, some are more difficult than others, some are too easy and not challenging enough, some are unpredictable and some are just downright amazing.  Those are the ones you keep hold of and NEVER trade in.

This all depends on how the ‘game’ was developed; who had input and influence in the programming, and sometimes how long it actually took to develop.  I don’t just assume that all games are the same simply based on the shit I’ve been exposed to.  That would be unbelievably short sighted and retarded.

The thing is, gaming has been around for decades and over that time it has just gotten better and better and better.  I remember my first Binatone back in the early 80’s with games like Pong and, well…Pong.  This was followed by my Atari 2600, ZX Spectrum+2, Commodore Amiga 500, Amiga 1500, Super Nintendo Entertainment System (SNES), Sony Playstation, Playstation 2 and now my Xbox360 and Playstation 3 (although I mostly use the PS3 for BluRays to be honest). 

Over that time I have witnessed an evolution in games the likes of which these judgemental jockstraps haven’t seen.

The gaming industry is now bigger than Hollywood with budgets to match.  You’re not considered a ‘saddo’ for watching a film, but you are if you indulge in an interactive experience that can now rival the biggest celluloid blockbusters. 

At least with gaming your brain cells and reflexes are kept sharp with puzzles and challenges.  In fact, the very first time I skidded my car in the rain I instinctively knew to turn INTO the skid.  This actually stopped me spinning out and may have saved my life.

More recently I had the opportunity to fly a £10m flight simulator and the controls weren’t that dissimilar, which made it a lot easier and impressed our instructor.

I learnt all that through gaming.

Whereas watching a movie involves just staring at a screen….and eating.

Now, considering Pong came out in the early 70’s it’s safe to say that gamers have grown up alongside the technology, growing and developing alongside some of the most amazing innovations in entertainment.  I once read that the average gamer now is approximately 34yrs old which would explain the 18 certificate games that now exist.  Think about it.

So it seems I am considered a ‘saddo’ for wanting to take a day off to play a monumental game that has taken over 5 years to develop, has a budget of £170m, creates an immersive experience with a deeply thought out plot culminating in different outcomes depending on how I interact with it and creates a sense of wellbeing and joy through sheer and undiluted entertainment. 

And yet if I take the day off to sit on a sofa and watch 22 men run around a field kicking a small leather ball whilst wearing the same colour as my friends, just to see if these overpaid pansies (who I’ll probably never meet and who couldn’t give a squishy shit about me) manage to win a cup that has nothing to do with me, then I’m considered ‘a proper man’.

Gaming is social, entertaining, educational, thought provoking and interactive.  It can invoke emotions like fear, excitement, anger and happiness.  It can create real moments of adrenaline pumping tension one minute and have you laughing out loud the next, but most of all gaming is fun.

Can the same be said for some of the dumb ‘reality TV’ shit on television nowadays?

Game Over.


Stupid trucking idiot

As I walked to my garage this morning I was greeted by this.


What an unbelievably considerate place to park.  How am I supposed to get my car through there?

Looks like I’m going to be late for work this fine Monday morning, which is always a great start to the week.

He eventually turned up and I said, “is this you mate?”, to which he didn’t apologise and simply said “one minute mate”.

Being politely British I resisted the urge to call him a cock tugging chimp and instead opened my garage.

I got into my vehicle and started the engine; an action not shared by this festering arse rag who had started unloading his cargo.

Are you fucking kidding?

Words escaped me.

Well…. actually they didn’t.

And ‘better by miles’ weren’t among them.

A sign of irony

There’s a pub on a street corner between the office and the station that always has people spilling out onto the pavement.

Often literally.

Today as I walked by there was a large freestanding sign outside the pub with the words:

‘Can all customers outside the pub please avoid obstructing the pavement’

The sign was chained to a lamp post on the corner of both streets, right in the middle of both pavements.

I had to walk into the road to get around  it.




Well done Dan, you successfully chose the only seat on this empty train opposite the only penis who has now decided to talk at length on his phone.

I was going to blog about him but decided against it. I didn’t want to point out that he looks like Harley from Rizzle Kicks but with geeky glasses (which I assume are intentional), cute little pink sparkly cross earrings and a high top fade in his head like Kid missing Play.

I’m also not going to ridicule the fact he’s wearing a colourful plaid shirt with the top button done up and his beanpole arms sticking out from rolled up sleeves.

And I am certainly not going to comment that he has the campest, most feminine voice I’ve ever heard and is talking to his ‘mummy’ about not returning to college or university (or some establishment of learning) because of the drama and stress.

No, I’m not going to do any of that.

And do you know why?

Because I realised, as I pulled my headphones out of my bag to drown him out, that my headphones are bright pink.


Knot annoying at all!

Today I did the imaginable and wore a tie to work.

Oh the scandal!

It seems that wearing a tie results in the following tediously repetitive remarks… 

  1. “Are you feeling ok?”
  2. “I bet you’ve got an interview today”.
  3. “Oh you look nice/smart today”.

Allow me to comment on each of these in turn…

“Yes I’m feeling ok”. 

If I’m wearing a plaster cast on one or more of my limbs, or a pink ballerina dress complete with snorkel and top hat whilst dribbling the Benny Hill theme then yes, please ask if I’m feeling ok.  Otherwise S.T.F.U.

Wearing a tie with my usual trouser/shirt combo at our office in central London isn’t actually a cause for concern.  This plastic sheeting you’re standing on however…is.

“No, I haven’t got an interview today”. 

Do you honestly think I would wear my tie into work if I DID have an interview?  Surely I would get changed before I came back into the office?  Honestly, how stupid do you think I am, despite the fact I’m rapidly losing brain cells talking to you? 

I also don’t wear Speedos into the office if I’m swimming that day or a rubber gimp costume if I’m visiting your mum.

“Oh, thanks for saying I look nice/smart today”. 

It’s always lovely to know that I usually don’t. 

So do I take off the tie?  Or do I sit here fantasising about choking the living shit out of everyone who asks?

(Adjusts tie and smiles)




Tonight at Victoria train station there was the usual rush to be the first at the platform 100 metres away despite the trains not actually leaving for another 8-10 minutes.

As usual there were all sorts of ‘people’ (I use the term loosely) moving at different speeds and, oddly, in different directions towards the same platforms.

I’m 6ft tall and have a pretty hefty pace going on, but I could feel the presence of someone desperately trying to overtake me. I say I could ‘feel’ the presence but in actual fact I could blatantly see her from the corner of my eye as she took up more room in my peripheral vision than was necessary.

This woman was big. I mean BIG.

I’m not racist and therefore I’m going to be sensitive in describing her without causing offence.  In an attempt to be ambiguous and vague I’m going to refer to her as Shaniqua.

She was puffing along on my left and, not wanting to be a hypocrite by becoming one of these people…

…I moved slightly to the right allowing her to pass.

She bumped into me, possibly to indicate she was in a hurry and I was in her way, but probably because I could’ve moved 8 metres to my right and she still would’ve collided with me due to lack of space.

She was a big girl.

Once she’d barged me she muttered something like, “fucking come on!” and starting jogging slightly.

Well, I SAY jogging….

Picture this, she was a BIG girl and was wearing a very SMALL tight white dress with a VERY visible white thong underneath.

I know that thongs visible above jeans are sometimes affectionately referred to as a ‘whale tail’, but this one was to scale.


And it was screaming for help.

So when I say jog, take a moment to think about that.

Got it?

Ok… I’ll carry on.

Her ‘jog’ lasted about 2.5 seconds (which coincidentally was about the same distance in metres) before she went back to a walking pace; a pace that was 95% slower than mine.

I passed her again in about 4 seconds. I had to walk an extra 12 metres around her to do it, but in no time I was ahead of her again.



I love driving in my ca…AAAAaaaaargh!!!!

Yesterday afternoon I had the pleasure of driving home from Kent with a hangover, which was nice.

When your eyes feel like they’re being dry humped by deranged badgers, the last thing you want is a bright light shining in them relentlessly.  Does the sun come under the category of ‘bright light’?  Hmm, yes I think it does.

It had been raining earlier in the day and the lovely English weather had meant there wasn’t enough heat to evaporate the wet sheen that was glazing the M20 motorway.  In fact there was less heat than a nice beefy fart from a tired gnat in a snowstorm.

This reflective coating of rainwater coupled with the ‘bright light’ low in the sky had created a mirror effect that had essentially lit up the entire motorway with the full intensity of the sun.  This was causing the badgers to freak out and thrust wildly and erratically.  I basically couldn’t see the road, the cars or even my dashboard.  I didn’t know where I was going or how fast!

I soon discovered I was able to remedy the intensive glare by closing my eyes, which made driving at 70mph (ahem) a little more ‘challenging’ and ‘exciting’.  I say the following not to racially offend or to upset the saladly challenged, but I had to squint my eyes until I resembled a really fat Chinese kid.

Eventually the sun moved a little lower in the sky and the angle of reflection shifted.  Fortunately we could all see the road and cars again.  Unfortunately it was now shining a direct beam into our faces, which was nice.

The badgers were nearing climax.

I smugly reached up and lowered my sun visor only to find it wasn’t quite low enough.  

That’s annoying. 

I then had to sit bolt upright in order to block the piercing rays burning into my skull.  This worked to block the sun and allowed me to see about 3 metres of the road in front of me which, at 70mph (ahem), wasn’t worrying at all.

Soon enough the motorway would have a slight bend and the sun would reposition itself, attempting to attack from another angle.  I lowered the passenger sun visor but it wasn’t enough.  I was now sat bolt upright and leaning to the left.  I looked like I was checking my lipstick in the mirror.

Again, another bend and the sun went in for attack vector delta and the badgers were fast approaching their vinegar strokes.

This time I grinned because I knew I was going to be defended by my faithful rear view mirror.  With a lowered sun visor either side of it, it was unlikely the sun would penetrate that tiny gap between the mirror and the visors in order to hit me right in the eye…..oh wait, no, I was wrong.  It found the 2 inch chink in my armour and was exploiting it to sear my retinas and send the badgers into full lock on.

What were the chances?  No matter which direction the motorway turned, the sun would avoid every single piece of shielding my car could provide.

Somewhere in my head I could sense the faint smell of a post coital cigarette and the flush of a toilet.


Grab a seat

I was sat on the train next to the window.  There was a woman sat to my left reading a book on her Kindle.  The train was packed and there were people stood all the way down the aisles.

At one point the train started to leave Clapham Junction station and then abruptly stopped.  The law of Inertia did its thing and threw a man onto the lap of the woman sat next to me.

She instinctively put her hands up to catch him and she succeeded, resulting in her holding his arse perfectly with a buttock lovingly held in each hand. 

Is there anything more funny than a perfect and accidental full on arse grab?  I don’t think so.

Without removing her hands she pushed him back to his feet and he said, “I’m so sorry!”

She said, “That’s ok”, but it clearly wasn’t.

Her Kindle wasn’t the only thing that was re(a)d.


A massive fumble

The train guard entered the carriage this morning with the usual, “tickets please!”

Today’s guard was a woman.  Well I’m sure she still IS a woman, but this tale is being told in past tense…so shut up.

She started walking down the carriage acknowledging the various cards and plastic ticket wallets being thrust towards her with a nod, a smile and a “thank you”.

Nod, smile, “thank you”

Nod, smile, “thank you”

The businessman in front of me was stood up and fumbling desperately through his backpack that was stuffed into the overhead luggage shelf.

She was getting closer.

Nod, smile, “thank you”

Nod, smile, “thank you”

He was really going to town now; elbow deep in a bag that would’ve been easier to search if he’d actually had the sense to take it down first.

Nod, smile, “thank you”

The guard eventually arrived at him, stopped and said, “Tickets please”.

The man ignored her, continuing to rummage around in a bag that had started to resemble the TARDIS; he was unnaturally shoulder deep.

She waited about 20 seconds before saying, “it’s ok, I’ll come back to you” and continuing on to me.

“I’m trying to get it out but it’s too big”, he replied.

I’m sorry, what?  Did he just say what I thought he just said? (snigger)

The guard grinned, turned and without missing a beat said, “What is?”

I chuckled.  The man didn’t.

Realising this rucksack ransacker hadn’t got the innuendo, she backpedalled with, “oh you mean the ticket?”

“Ah, here it is”, said the humourless bell-end.

Nod, smile, “thank you”

She then looked at me, exchanged a knowing smirk and continued up the carriage.

Nod, smile, “thank you”

Nod, smile, “thank you”

He sat back down and carried on playing Candy Crush or talking bollocks….whichever is more annoying.