What ARE they doing?

Posted on Oct 31, 2014 by headinablender

I want to know if this happens to anyone else.

Sometimes I’ll send a message to a friend on Facebook regarding plans for a catch up or something. Well, actually it’s usually regarding plans we’d planned to plan, but hadn’t actually planned anything except planning to message each other about planning to arrange plans.

It’ll be something like:

“Hiya. So what’s the plan for tomorrow then? I was thinking we could head into town around 11am, and then go for lunch around 12:30 at Pizza Hut afterwards. What do you think?”

Simple enough.

I don’t use ‘textspeak’ BCOZ I H8 IT WEN PPL TXT IT 2 ME TBH. FYI. LOL.

So I send it and wait to a) make sure it sends and b) see if they’ve read it.

Soon enough this icon pops up…

…to show they’re typing a response.

Great; not only have they read it, they’re replying.

Then it disappears.

Eh? Where did they go? Did they decide not to reply after all?

It pops up again.

Aha! Maybe they got interrupted for a second. It happens.

The icon sits there for a bit before it disappears again.

Maybe they don’t like my suggestion for tomorrow and are thinking about what they would prefer to do instead. That’s fine with me, I’m pretty easy going; I’ll go with the flow.

It’s back again. They’ve thought about it and now they’re typing their counterproposal for tomorrow’s plans. I’m sure whatever they suggest will be absolutely….

….oh wait, the icon has disappeared again.

Did they change their mind? Are they now worried that I might be offended if they don’t go with my suggestion?

They don’t need to feel that way. I’m happy with whatever we decide to do. It’s really all about us catching up anyway, so we can do whatever they want.

Or maybe they just stopped to think about how they wanted to compose their message and now they’ve found the words.

Sentence structure is important in a sentence that you’re typing on a text that you really want the structure to be right in.

The icon disappears again.

Seriously? What’s going on over there?

Maybe they’re driving. Yes, that must be it; they’re driving.

Or skydiving.

This time the icon is gone for a longer period of time.

Maybe they’ve given up.

Maybe they want to cancel meeting up tomorrow but can’t bring themselves to tell me so have instead chosen to ignore the whole conversation and come back to it later.

Oh wait! Never mind; it’s back.

This time it’s around for a lot longer.

Maybe they’ve found the words to let me down gently for tomorrow, which sucks. I was really looking forward to it.

Or….

Maybe they’re looking forward to it just as much as me and they’re putting together a string of ideas and suggestions for tomorrow that will blow my mind.

There are so many possibilities out there and, now I think about it, my plans were pretty normal and boring. I can understand why they’ve taken the time to really consider how best to utilise the time we have together so we can both have a fulfilling and enjoyable time.

It’s nothing short of embarrassing to think about the message I’d sent. I wish I could somehow take it back, but it’s out there now and there’s nothing I can do about it. My friend is basing their whole elaborate and comprehensive reply on my recommendation for ‘a bit of a wander around the shops followed by a pizza’, but as I said earlier it was never about WHAT we do, but rather about us catching up.

So, actually; who the fuck do they think they are? Who are they to suggest something else as if they’re so bloody special? What’s wrong with some shops and a pizza? Hmm? Are they too good for that? Are they too good for me!? Maybe they’re not the friend I thought they were! Maybe is should be ME cancelling on THEM!!

Oh.

When nerds collide

Posted on Oct 28, 2014 by headinablender

Today in Forbidden Planet a couple pushed past me; bickering over which of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles is the best.

He said “Leonardo obviously” and she insisted it was Raphael.

They were deadly serious.

Come on guys; they’re just fictional characters. They’re not real!

Pfft…nerds.

Besides, everyone knows R2-D2 is the best.

Occupeed

Posted on Oct 27, 2014 by headinablender

I finish work at 5.30pm, so at 5.25pm I thought I’d nip to the toilet to empty my increasingly aching bladder before the 2 hour journey home.

2 cubicles. Both in use.

Alright, that’s fine. I’m clearly not the only one who’s had that idea.

I waited for 3 or 4 minutes before deciding the occupants were clearly masturbating or dead and gave up. There are another 2 cubicles near the entrance to the building so I thought I’d use those on my way out.

Both also in use.

I waited outside for about 5 minutes, calling out loudly to my wife sat in reception that “I won’t be long as I’m just waiting for these people to finish using the toilet!”

Despite there being noises from within, including flushes and the washing of hands, they weren’t taking the hint or showing any signs of emerging.

“I think they’ve fallen in darling, they’re taking forever!”

Still nothing. I think I heard one of them re-sit down for another performance.

What were they doing in there?

I decided, with bursting bladder and a wife reminding me that we could miss our train, that we should leave the office.

A full bladder is one thing, but proving my wife right is another!

So we left and joined the throng of London commuters and their inept sense of direction.

I tell you, attempting to navigate heaving crowds and packed underground trains with a hairpin bladder is an adventure. A nervous, sweaty adventure.

We made it to Victoria station and straight onto the train. Unfortunately, because we’d left the office so late, the train was really busy. Thankfully there were 2 seats available at a table, so my wife and I grabbed them.

I removed my shoulder bag and put it on my seat like a tourist with towel on a sun lounger.

“Watch my bag, I really need to use the toilet!” I said, hopping from one leg to the other.

I walked through to the other carriage and found the cubicle.

In use.

Fuck!

I waited.

I waited longer.

I looked at my wife in the other carriage in disbelief.

I even asked some kids I’d they’ve seen anyone go into this toilet (in case it’s out of order).

“Yeah, a girl went in there, innit”

Eventually, after 10 minutes I gave up and joined my wife.

We’re still sat on the train and the toilet is still occupied. We’ve been on this train for 45 minutes.

I’m about to test the absorbency of these seats.

Let me ask you….

Posted on Oct 22, 2014 by headinablender

Why does only one square of toilet paper come off in a crisis?

Wait! No! Oh shit!

Posted on Oct 21, 2014 by headinablender

Aaaaaaargh!!!!!!!!!!!!

That pretty much sums up my feelings right now, but I realise that doesn’t really explain my anguish in much detail.

I’ve just realised that if you delete images from your media library in WordPress, it actually deletes the pictures from the posts they were featured on.

I did not realise this.

This means that I have a lot of posts without images; a lot of which were photos taken by me that have since been deleted!

It’s a sickening feeling when the gravity of the situation hits you, like jumping out of a plane and then realising you’d emptied your parachute the night before. However, the gravity in THAT situation hits you a little harder.

It still results in an “Aaaaaaargh!!!!!!!!!!!!”, but it inevitably ends with a ‘Splat!’

I now have to (somehow) replace all the images in the following posts:

Thoughts from a non GQ reader

This paint can be used on metal. What about iron(y)?

Are you being followed too?

Getting under my skin

Biting the hand that feeds us

‘Faeces’tious and ‘Poo’dantic

Guzzling gas and soda: A comparison

Getting your fear on track

When intelligence goes backward

Waiter minute!

What I really think of Pandas

Any I’m unable to replace will just have to be substituted with a link back to here to explain myself.

If any of you find any others, please let me know.

I’m such a twat.

Thoughts from a non GQ reader

Posted on Oct 20, 2014 by headinablender

I once flicked through an abandoned copy of GQ magazine in an airport lounge. Have you ever seen one of these behemoths?

I was bored and it was just there on the table I was sitting at, so obviously I was going to leaf through its pages.

At first I wondered why anyone would buy a brand new magazine and then leave it in the departure lounge.

Then I picked it up. This was a heavy magazine! Maybe the owner was worried it might prevent their flight from leaving the ground and left it behind.

I turned over the cover and was greeted with an advert. Fair enough, plenty of magazines start with an advert. This was followed by an advert, then another advert before moving on to numerous pages of adverts and adverts. By ‘numerous’ I mean 22.

That’s right; the ‘Contents’ page was on page 23.

By this time I had this overwhelming urge to grow back some stubble, head back to duty free and buy a suit/watch/aftershave whilst pouting and looking intensely into the distance. Maybe THAT’S where the owner of the magazine went?

I kept turning pages and eventually I found an article, on page 37.

This was ridiculous. I was being bombarded with more images of men in various states of undress than I’d like. I have a limit. That limit is roughly 0.

I decided to test a theory. I closed the magazine and then let it open at any random page.

Advert.

I tried again.

Another advert.

I flicked the magazine like a flipbook and stopped it randomly.

It was an article about a man who, whilst walking through the autumn leaves in his coat had decided to….oh no, wait, it was another advert.

What a infuriating, pointless and really, really, ridiculously good looking waste of my time.

This paint can be used on metal. What about iron(y)?

Posted on Oct 16, 2014 by headinablender

Seeing stuff like this makes my day.

Are you being followed too?

Posted on Oct 15, 2014 by headinablender

319.

It’s following me.

I know, I know, I sound a bit crazy…but I’m serious, I see it everywhere.

It all started with the awesome song by Prince called….yep, you guessed it…. ‘319’.

I didn’t think anything of it (except for it being a great track) until I starting noticing the numbers popping up from time to time.

I’d say, “Ha, it’s like the Prince song”, but that was it; just a coincidence. However, over time I noticed it more and more.

Often, when I look at the time it just happens to be 3:19pm.
A few times I’ve woken up in the night to pee and when I come back to bed my alarm clock says 3:19am.
I once took a walk into town during a late lunch break and wandered into a store that sold household furnishings. As I passed the section that sold clocks I noticed they ALL said 3:19pm (I could’ve walked past or looked up at 3:18pm or 3:20pm, but no)
Many times I’ve loaded up a video game from my last save and noticed I’ve had 319 coins, or 319 experience points, or 319 health, or 319 bullets left etc.
Usually when I visit the supermarket to pick up something specific like, I don’t know, a roast chicken or a cheese grater; the price will be £3.19. And it will be the ONLY item at that price.
Last night I was fast forwarding through an American football game (because I was only interested in the final score) and I needed to pee, so I pressed pause and the game clock was at 3:19.

I remember the time I first told my wife about this oddity. At the time she was still living in America (in Nevada to be precise) so the conversation was over Skype. I was using my phone because the charger for my laptop had died. There was a problem with the version of Skype on my phone which meant the video didn’t work so we were forced to speak the old fashioned way with just audio.

Just audio! Can you imagine?

What next? Drums and smoke signals? Maybe we should just grunt and throw our poo at each other.

Anyway, as I was telling her about this number stalking me I could hear her tone of voice becoming that of someone slowly backing towards the door or reaching for pepper spray. I couldn’t blame her; I know how insane it sounds.

During this conversation I was also looking for my laptop because I needed to find out what the required voltage was so I could buy the correct replacement power cable. It was then that I noticed the serial number on the back of my laptop.

It was something like HP759187564-319.

I was actually mid conversation about this number and there it was, as clear as day. I felt like Hurley in ‘Lost’.

(Oh, and by the way, Nevada is home to State Route 319).

Is it just me or do others have this weird thing with numbers?

Am I seeing it because I want to see it?

I mean, I work in travel, so should I be concerned about this?

Surely others see 319 everywhere too, but they just don’t pay attention to it because, well, they have a life? I see lots of numbers every day but that doesn’t mean they’re stalking me.

Am I going crazy?

Should I be taking medication?

Earlier this year I decided to have 319 incorporated into an existing tattoo I have on my shoulder.

When I told my tattooist and long term friend about it he was understanding (at least that’s what he said from the doorway whilst holding pepper spray). I recall going home later that day and then something happened with 319 that made him say “Bloody hell, you’re right!”, but annoyingly I can’t remember what it was!

He was a bit freaked out.

Anyway, here is what it looks like.

I actually had it done on March the 19^th (3/19) at 3:19pm exactly. Of course!

So why am I telling you about this now?

Well, this is my 319^th post.

Seemed fitting.

Getting under my skin

Posted on Oct 10, 2014 by headinablender

Following a tattoo session earlier in the week I’ve been wearing Bepanthen (nappy rash cream) and cling film on my arm for the last few days.

Not the most comfortable of attire.

Well, today is Friday which means the dress code policy at work is relaxed, so I’m in a t-shirt.

As a result, people have noticed my arm is trussed up in cling film. This has led to an exercise in stating the bleeding obvious.

“Your arm is in cling film.”

“You’ve had another tattoo.”

No shit.

But in all honesty, I’m not being fair. Of course I’m aware my arm resembles a beef joint in the fridge; it’s just a typical way for them to start a conversation about it; one I can’t wait to have, over and over again.

The conversation always starts with:

“What have you had done? Can I see it?”

Sure, no problem. Let me cut away the strategically placed tape and peel off all the cling film that took ages to put on this morning with one arm so you can see it and say “Oh, right. Cool”.

Maybe I should reply with “You’re wearing make-up. Can I see what you look like underneath?”

Maybe not.

I attempt to show them through the layers of cling film which looks like a black and grey Jackson Pollock and I still get the “Oh, right. Cool”, so that’s good. Then the conversation moves on to include one or more of the following:

“What does it / they mean?”

Unfortunately this is unavoidable. After all, I have two full sleeves on display. To me, tattoos are not about how they look or because it’s ‘cool’, they’re very personal and they all have meanings no matter how small. I choose my tattoos carefully because I’m going to have them for a very long time.

So am I going to disclose everything to just anyone? No. I have my life on my sleeve, not my heart.

If it’s a close friend or a family member, I’ll talk them through every line and every detail, but to everyone else I tend to glaze over the question with “Oh all sorts of things”.

This is because I know that, deep down, they’re keen to move onto the next question.

“Did it hurt?”

No, it was like being licked by kittens.

This question is not to be confused with “Do they hurt?”, which is a dead giveaway of a person who doesn’t have tattoos. These ink virgins then follow up with:

“I don’t like needles.”, and/or “I couldn’t have a tattoo.”.

Well, I don’t like needles either. It’s not the same thing. Having a tattoo feels similar to a hot scratch across the skin whereas a needle feels like you’re being punctured right to your very soul.

(shudder)

And, why couldn’t you have a tattoo? Of course you can. Just sit in a chair and get one.

I believe you meant to say you WOULDN’T have a tattoo, which is different. I’m assuming this is because you fear the pain, or is it because you simply don’t like or agree with them? For your sake I hope it’s the former because, as you may have noticed, I have a few tattoos and you’ll likely offend me (despite the fact I look like I bite the heads off kittens to you).

Then comes the classic “What about when you’re 70 years old?”

What about it? When I’m 70 years old I’m going to:

Be awesome
Not give a shit about how I look.
Be surrounded by a generation of other 70 year olds also covered in tattoos.

Don’t base your judgement on the elder generation of today with their tweed jackets and flat caps. When I’m 70 I will be part of a generation of old farts covered in tattoos and all sorts of piercings, punctures, modifications and randomly positioned flesh holes. If anything it’ll be YOU who will stand out.

“Look dad, that old man over there is a funny pink colour!”

“That’s called skin, son”

Having said all this, a majority of the time I get drawn into a conversation about the tattoo(s) they’re planning to have.

With women it’s usually a flower, or writing, or a butterfly, or their name located either on the wrist, hip, lower back (*cough* tramp stamp *cough*), foot or behind their shoulder.

Oh, and stars. There’s always room for stars.

With guys it’s ALWAYS the upper arm and usually over the shoulder. They demonstrate what they mean by running their hand along their upper arm and over their shoulder as they describe it to me, just in case I don’t understand what the upper arm and over the shoulder means, despite BOTH of my sleeves covering my entire arm and going over my shoulder.

On top of this it’s usually tribal, or a dragon, or stars (again), or a Koi fish with Japanese waves, lotus flowers, cherry blossom and clouds. Fucking clouds. Fucking mashed potato clouds.

I once saw a guy on the tube with a whole sleeve made up of stars and fucking clouds.

Why? Was he a meteorologist?

I doubt it.

Even if he was, at least choose something a little more imaginative like rain and meteors and comets and hurricanes and tidal waves.

That would be awesome!

Nope, “clouds and stars please”.

The famous tattooist Kat Von D has this quote on the sleeve of her first book:

“I am a canvas of my experiences, my story is etched in lines and shading, and you can read it on my arms, my legs, my shoulders, and my stomach.”

Or, if you’re just eager to get a sleeve to look cool, have clouds and stars.

What a waste of your body’s real estate.

In addition to all this, I sometimes get asked advice on designs and ideas. I’m happy to do this, but I usually find that as soon I start showing them where to look online for great ideas and inspiration, they suddenly know better and disagree with and/or reject everything I suggest.

Not enough stars maybe?

Sometimes they insist on showing me the online portfolio of the tattooist they’ve chosen.

Sometimes these tattooists look like they use an Etch-A-Sketch.

But they seem excited, so I play along. I then show them the portfolio of my tattooist in the hope they’ll see the difference between them. They don’t.

In fact, they often suggest I try their tattooist instead; a tattooist they haven’t even used themselves rather than the amazing artist I’ve been going to for 10 years.

Yeah, that’ll happen.

After all said and done, tattoos aren’t for everyone.

The one thing that some people (especially tattoo virgins) can’t comprehend is how much it costs to get a tattoo. These are the people that will have no problem buying an expensive LED 1080p 3D Smart TV which may last them 5 years or so. My tattoos will be with me forever.

THAT’S value for money.

And when I’m asked “Don’t you ever regret having them?”, I look the person in the eye and say:

“When you die you can’t take your money, your house, your TV, your car or any of your things with you; someone else gets all of that. My tattoos are mine. I’m taking those and my memories with me.”

Or…

“Fuck off”

Depends on my mood.

Biting the hand that feeds us

Posted on Oct 8, 2014 by headinablender

This morning I saw a packet of popcorn that claimed to be hand popped.

(accidentally deleted an image here – click to read what happened!)

How exactly does one ‘hand pop’ corn?

You would need some seriously hot hands.

This got me thinking about those shops advertising their sandwiches as ‘hand cut’. I assume this is to make them seem more appealing by conjuring the belief that love, attention and care has been taken over your particular sandwich by someone who really loves making sandwiches.

No-one loves making sandwiches.

To me this conjures images of someone manhandling and fondling my sandwich. I don’t want deep finger dents in my bread, thank you.

Also, doesn’t ‘hand cut’ imply the sandwiches are being cut using their hand and not a knife? That would just make a mess.

This madness needs to stop.

It’s assumed that sandwiches aren’t cut by a machine, and we’ve come to terms with popcorn being popped in some big heated metal contraption of some kind; you don’t need to tell us otherwise.

Oh and it’s not ‘real home cooked food’ if you’re not at home.

Just saying.

‘Faeces’tious and ‘Poo’dantic

Posted on Sep 26, 2014 by headinablender

At work, someone has put up these notices in all the toilets in the entire building.

Note the use of an ‘@’ symbol instead of the word ‘At’, as if to save space or something. I hate that, especially when the word ‘At’ was actually used a bit further down.

And what if I leave my toilet in an awful state at home? Does that give me permission to do the same at work?

Ultimately, I want to do the right thing, so I’m going to take heed of the advice offered and (being the literal and pedantic bastard I am) do exactly what it says.

I’m going to enjoy flushing the toilet non stop and shitting in the bin.

Guzzling gas and soda: A comparison

Posted on Sep 24, 2014 by headinablender

Last month, whilst in Vegas visiting the in-laws, my wife and I stopped for gas (or ‘petrol’ as it’s known in the civilised world). The way they ‘pump gas’ in America is in complete contrast to how we do it in the UK.

Here we drive up to the pump, get out of the car, open the petrol cap and start filling. When we’re finished we head into the shop and pay for it. In America they drive up to the pump (from any entrance I might add; none of this ‘way in’ and ‘way out’ bollocks), go into the shop, pay in advance for fuel (and snacks and beverages) and then head back to their vehicle and fill up.

The American approach comes with two pros and a con.

Pro number 1 – If you decide you want to spend $30 on gas (petrol), you pay the clerk in the shop and your pump is credited with exactly $30. There’s no chance of putting in more than you can afford. And on top of this, you can clip the trigger in position and leave it pumping fuel knowing you will never put in more than you want to spend.

Genius.

Why aren’t we doing this?

It saves on hand strain and gives you more time to do other things, like eating.

If you then discover that your tank only needed, say, $25 worth of gas (petrol) you go back inside and the clerk behind the counter gives you back the difference.

Simple.

Pro number 2 – There’s no chance of people filling up and then not having the means to pay, or filling up and fucking off.

It’s a bit like prostitution but with pumps instead of pimps.

Con – You don’t get to play the ‘Petrol Pump Game’.

The what?

Allow me to elaborate. Let’s say you want to put £30 of fuel in your vehicle’s tank. You start filling up until the price gets to somewhere around £29.85 at which point you ease off the trigger, slowing down the pumping speed.

(He he)

Then you start to adopt the technique of squeezing the trigger gently at little intervals to hit the price exactly at £30.

£29.85

Gentle squeeze.

£29.91

Gentle squeeze.

£29.95

Very gentle squeeze.

£29.96

Very gentle squeeze.

£29.97

VERY gentle squeeze.

£29.99

A squeeze so gentle it wouldn’t pop a soapy bubble even if your fingers were covered in coarse sand.

£30.01

Bollocks!

You then decide to go to £31.

Squeeze.

£30.85

Gentle squeeze.

£30.91

Very gentle squeeze.

£30.97

VERY gentle squeeze.

£30.98

A squeeze so gentle it can’t be measured at a microscopic level.

£31.01

Fuuuuuuck!!

This continues until you either:

Finally hit a round number.
Admit defeat and pay the extra penny, convinced the clerk is laughing at you behind those eyes.
Fill your tank.

It’s not a great game and can be quite costly, but there’s no feeling like hitting the price dead on, first time. I’ve been known to let out the occasional air grab, sometimes accompanied by an “Aww Yeah!”

Anyway, whilst at the gas (petrol) station in Vegas I decided to get a drink because it was a very hot day, or as the locals call it; “a day”. I was expecting to see a few fridges full of various beverages, the brands of which I’d never heard of, but nothing could prepare me for the sheer choice of refreshments available to me.

As well as the aforementioned fridges full to the brim with beer, wine, sodas (soft drinks) and so on, there were also aisles (plural!) of crisps (chips), nuts, beef jerky, slim jims (Peperami), candy (sweets and chocolate), cakes, sandwiches, cereals and other brightly coloured bags of chemicals and deliciousness too numerous to mention.

Most of these on a ridiculously huge scale!

And it didn’t stop there. There was a hot counter that had burgers, hot dogs, burritos, nachos, pies and pasties (the UK word for a type of pie and not the US word for a small plastic nipple hat)

In addition there was a coffee station that had more options than a Starbucks, a milkshake station that not only allowed you to choose your flavour(s) but also how thick you wanted it, a massive slushy machine with various flavours and the most amazing machine I’d ever seen; a touch screen soda dispenser with an overload of choices.

Oh, and everything was self-serve.

So let me tell you about this epic soda machine.

Firstly you’re presented with a screen with 24 choices of beverage.

That’s 24.

This is a significantly larger choice of drinks than any dispenser I’ve ever seen in the UK, which usually consist of Coke, Diet Coke, Sprite and Fanta.

That’s 4.

It’s an impressive choice but I wasn’t surprised at all because it’s what I expected from an American soda machine. I selected Caffeine Free Diet Coke and prepared to fill up my oversized 64oz (approx 2 litre) plastic cup.

But no, there was another layer of choices awaiting me.

Yes, that’s right. I could have…

Cherry
Orange
Vanilla
Raspberry
Lime
Cherry Vanilla

…versions of Caffeine Free Diet Coke.

What the hell?? That’s AWESOME!

This got me thinking, is it the same for other drinks?

Yep.

Orange Fanta Zero comes with the option of:

Cherry
Strawberry
Raspberry
Grape
Lime
Fruit Punch
Peach

Lemonade comes with the option of:

Cherry
Orange
Strawberry
Raspberry
Fruit Punch

Even Ginger Ale gets a flavour makeover:

Orange
Cherry
Vanilla
Lime
Raspberry

My wife wanted Dr.Pepper and she had the choices of Cherry Dr.Pepper or Cherry Vanilla Dr.Pepper in addition to the (now somewhat boring) regular Dr.Pepper.

I’d never seen anything like it.

And yet, with all the awesome innovations in convenience and technology, the Americans STILL don’t appreciate the importance of privacy in the toilet!

“Peek-a-boo! I see poo!”

Getting your fear on track

Posted on Sep 19, 2014 by headinablender

This morning I saw a man on the London Underground accompanied by his wife who was dressed in a Burka.

Some people unfairly assume that, being a Muslim, he is probably up to no good like bombing the train or something equally insane.

This is, of course, ridiculous. It is an irrational fear created by the few extremists out there ruining it for the rest.

I have to say that I disagree with the oppressive nature of the burka, despite the excellent UV protection it provides. Having said that, I do have Muslim friends and my experience has taught me that their religion is no more or less peaceful than any other (except maybe Buddhism).

Also, this dude had his wife with him. There isn’t a man alive (or dead) who wants to be greeted by 72 virgins with his wife!

Unless that’s their thing.

Which I doubt.

So I wasn’t worried.

However, this guy was wearing a T-shirt that wasn’t doing him any favours whatsoever.

It read:

I must not think bad thoughts

I must not think bad thoughts

I must not think bad thoughts

Hilarious.

There were some uncomfortably sweaty people on the train this morning.

When intelligence goes backward

Posted on Sep 17, 2014 by headinablender

As we all know, doctors and ambulances tend to have ‘Doctor’ or ‘Ambulance’ written on the bonnet (hood) of their vehicles in reverse. This is for 2 reasons.

So some people can make complete twats of themselves by mistakenly mocking the vehicles for putting the stickers on backwards.
So the car in front can read it in their rear view mirror and get the fuck out of the way (in case the siren and flashing lights weren’t enough).

Well, this morning whilst walking to work through central London, I saw a small van attempting to adopt the same principle whilst advertising its plumbing and cleaning services.

I say ‘attempting’; it looked a little something like this:

How was that supposed to be effective?

For starters, the van looked like this:

It wasn’t tall enough to be read through the rear window in stationary traffic anyway. Plus, the text was so small it was virtually impossible to read unless your rear window was a huge magnifying glass.

Now THAT would scare the shit out of anyone driving behind you.

“Honey, the children in that car in front are huge!”

This got me thinking.

Assuming you COULD read the writing on the van behind you, and assuming you DID need a plumber AND a cleaner simultaneously, who the fuck has a pen and paper at the ready to take down all those details whilst driving?

Gnitsuahxe si elpoep emos fo ytidiputs eht.

Waiter minute!

Posted on Sep 12, 2014 by headinablender

I’m a fast eater.

I always have been.

I’m not sure where it stemmed from, but I’ve never remembered a time when I ate slowly. My brother is the same. Maybe it was due to having Italian relatives (on my Father’s side) who loved to feed us whenever we visited, or maybe it was from our time spent in prison.

I’m joking of course. There’s no way my relatives are responsible.

I suppose I began noticing my accelerated eating pace when I became an adult and started dining with other adults. Whenever I go out to a restaurant with anyone I’m usually the first to empty my plate.

This isn’t an issue for me as I’m happy to sit there having a conversation as they painstakingly take an age to eat their meal that probably went cold an hour ago.

Really, it’s fine. I can always lick my plate if I get bored.

Or can I?

You see, my big issue with finishing first is the fact that the waiter/waitress inevitably comes to the table and does the unspeakable; they take away my plate.

Why?

Are they so bereft of crockery in their restaurant that they need to relieve me of mine as soon as possible?

They’re like sharks, circling the table and watching.

What makes it worse is when they quietly ask “are you finished?” whilst reaching for my plate before I can answer “yes”. And let’s be honest, the only answer I can possibly give is ‘yes’ because my plate is empty. I can’t say no because, well, my plate is empty.

“Actually, I’m not finished yet. There’s still a pattern on this plate” is not a well received answer.

And once I’ve been parted from my plate I’m left sitting there watching the others eat. I realise I was doing this beforehand, but somehow I now feel less involved. I’ve now become an outside observer like a scientist with a room full of chimps.

I really hate this behaviour in restaurants (from the waiter/waitress, not my chimpy friends). I’m sure the waiting staff think they’re doing the right thing, but I find it intrusive, unwelcoming and a bit rude; and they don’t even have the decency to leave a copy of Watchtower magazine to keep me occupied.

To me it’s the same as saying:

“Wow, someone was hungry weren’t they Mr Piggy McOink? Look everyone! This guy has finished before anyone else at his table! How Fatty-Boombatty is this jelly-belly?”

This is all made worse when it’s only two of us having a meal. Now they’re not only mocking me non-verbally with their smile, they’re piling the pressure on my fellow diner (usually my wife):

“One down, one to go. Come on slowcoach, you’re wasting everyone’s time. Pay up and get lost; I need this table for another couple.”

A while back I went for a meal with a friend who is the slowest eater in the world. And when I say slow, I mean s-l-o-w. Usually, by the time she approaches the end of her meal, the restaurant has become a bank and cobwebs have formed on her plate.

As frustrating as it could’ve been, I didn’t mind. We were so busy catching up on old times that it didn’t matter she took an additional 20 minutes to finish her food.

Seriously, 20 minutes. Time it. That’s a long time on a single plate of food.

The worst part was when the waiter unashamedly cleared my plate and cutlery after I was finished (5 minutes, tops). My friend, who was now feeling the pressure, apologised to me.

It can’t be a good thing when the person you’re eating with feels the need to say sorry for being ‘too slow’.

I didn’t care. I was there for the company and the conversation…and dessert, but there was no way I was seeing that for at least 2 hours.

My point is, don’t take plates away until everyone has finished.

In America they get it right. And here’s why

They don’t usually take away your plate until everyone has finished.
If they DO take your plate away, they replace it with something else (free refills on soup in Olive Garden anyone?).
Usually the meal is so massive it’s almost impossible to finish it anyway.
Sometimes the meal comes with more than one plate of food (breakfast at Denny’s for example has one plate for your massive breakfast platter and one plate for your massive stack of buttermilk pancakes).

Sometimes a waiter/waitress will also attempt to take your plate after a period of inactivity, despite how much food is still on your plate. It’s like some kind of evil computer screensaver with a plan for world domination through malnutrition.

If you stop eating for a period of time (I estimate this to be about 2 minutes), it is assumed you’ve finished and they will attempt to wrestle your food away from you.

I will stab you. Be warned.

This behaviour wouldn’t translate anywhere else would it?

For example, whilst writing this post I’ve stopped a few times to re-read paragraphs, check my splellnig and make coffee. This means I’ve left the keyboard for small periods of time. By their reckoning I’m finished with this post and they’ll simply attempt to take it away from me, even if I’m in the middle of a

What I really think of Pandas

Posted on Sep 3, 2014 by headinablender

Pandas are idiots.

“What did you just say? Are you mad?”
“Pandas are cute and cuddly and adorable!”
“They look like oversized teddy bears”
“Coochicoochicoo”

No, sorry; you’re all wrong. Pandas are idiots.

Don’t misunderstand me, they DO look cute but it’s all a lie; a ruse to shield you from the fact that they are unfathomably stupid, fat, bamboo chewing twats.

How can we add any level of credibility to a species that simply won’t procreate? How hard can it be? (Pun intended)

Their species is endangered (no surprises there) and it seems we work hard to get a boy panda and a girl panda together for some serious (and often heavily televised) jiggy jiggy.

And do they get funky with each other? No.

The female panda usually rejects the male panda for some stupid reason or another, blah blah blah….

Have you ever watched the news reports on these ‘stories’? The reporter delivers it with an ‘ahh, isn’t it cute and adorable’ smile, but their lifeless eyes tell a different story. They’ve died inside; died I tell you. Their career has hit rock bottom and they know it.

Yet there they stand with their manufactured smile and microphone in hand.

“Ling Ling is still rejecting Ping Ping after her 12th day with him”.

If you ask me, Poor Ping Ping isn’t getting Ling Ling on his ding-a-ling. I feel for him, I really do.

Eats shoots and leaves? My arse.

And of course these big, fat, hairy mimes have no idea they’re endangered. But that shouldn’t make a difference. It’s just hardwired into the male of a species to pork the female of the same species (unless the male is a dog and the female is your leg).

Are we flogging a dead horse when we have to artificially inseminate a female panda with the sperm from a male panda that is sat 12ft away playing with his perfectly functioning dick?

That’s not right is it?

Also, we gloss over the poor person who had to wank* off the male.

Ha ha, ‘gloss over’.

“What do you do for a living mate?”

“I’m a wanker”

Maybe we’re going about this all wrong. Maybe we’ve overlooked something obvious? What about putting the female in some sexy underwear? What about a little mood lighting and Lionel Ritchie?

Nope, straight to the plastic syringe full of panda paint.

Not once have I suggested to my wife that we get out the turkey baster. If I did I’d end up looking like a panda.

But seriously, alarm bells should be ringing here. These creatures either WANT to be extinct, or are simply too stupid to save.

They say that pandas don’t know how to procreate because they ‘haven’t been shown’, but that’s got to be complete bollocks, surely? I saw a documentary once that had a TV in the panda enclosure showing a DVD on how to procreate.

Yes, that’s right, it was playing panda porn!

I pity the cameraman on that gig.

This creature has more sexual hang-ups than a bondage dungeon.

It just grates on me that so much time, effort, money, paperwork and stress goes into getting two pandas together from opposite ends of the globe, only for the female to take one look at the male and say “nah”.

Typical woman.

Although, when you think about it, maybe the female panda is turned off by the fact that the boy panda looks exactly like her. That would make sense. After all, who actually goes and fucks themselves when asked to?

Not enough people in my opinion.

By this reasoning, any pandas that DO mate successfully are therefore either incredibly vain, borderline narcissistic or mentally unhinged.

Put a mirror in the enclosure and sit back.

Stupid pandas.

*jerk

Auschwitz to decaf

Posted on Aug 28, 2014 by headinablender

My wife and I were in Starbucks again this morning. We’re always so tired in the morning and it’s just around the corner from work. In fact, there are two Starbucks around the corner from work, practically across the road from each other, but i’ll come back to that later.

As I was stood there looking up at the menu of coffees (despite already knowing what I wanted before we went in), my wife gestured at something behind me and said “Oh my god, would you look at that.”

I turned around and saw this.

(actual photo taken)

“It’s just fucking coffee” she said, rolling her eyes.

I must admit, it was a bit much. I understand that a business, especially one as large as Starbucks, will have a mission statement. Yes it’s only coffee but I can appreciate the need to direct the focus of their global brand through ideals that will benefit both the customer and themselves, but come on!

They want to inspire and nurture the human spirit? Do me a favour! The only thing they want to nurture is my wallet; have you seen the prices of their drinks?

And with regards to ‘one neighbourhood at a time”, I have to agree; these fuckers are everywhere.

In fact, according to Wikipedia:

“Starbucks is the largest coffeehouse company in the world, with 23,305 stores in 65 countries and territories, including 13,049 in the United States, 1,909 in China, 1,555 in Canada, 1,089 in Japan and 927 in the United Kingdom”

Yeah, I’m not surprised in the slightest. I’m convinced a majority of these are in Tottenham Court Road.

After reading that entry from Wikipedia, I decided to Google some interesting facts about Starbucks and I came across this interesting list of 15 things about Starbucks that will blow your mind.

It’s crazy to think how successful their global domination has been, and let’s be honest, it IS a global domination. At least, that’s how their Mission Statement reads.

Don’t believe me?

Replace the words ‘inspire and nurture’ with ‘destroy’ and you have something that wouldn’t have been out of place in Nürnberg in 1934.

But that’s possibly a little unfair methinks.

Make no mistake, I am NOT drawing direct comparisons between the largest coffeehouse company in the world and one of the most evil men in history (That would be like comparing a blowjob to sticking your dick in a blender), but Starbucks have succeeded where Adolf hadn’t.

Maybe he should’ve sold coffee instead of drinking it. All that caffeine made him a bit ‘shouty’.

Just be honest Starbucks, we all know what your mission statement is.

“To make as much money as we can and spread like cancer;
one person, one cup,
and one neighbourhood at a time”

Don’t sugar-coat it with this cheesy and cringe-worthy bollocks.

Oh, and get your punctuation in order; that was one thing Hitler got right.

Then again, he was a bit of a grammar Nazi.

UPDATE – 29th August 2014

My wife and I went into the same Starbucks this morning and the Mission Statement has been painted over. It’s not there anymore!

I’m not big-headed in any way, but I can’t help ~~hoping~~ thinking it’s because ~~hopefully~~ maybe someone working there read this post!

Twink-le Twink-le little Star (bucks)

Posted on Aug 27, 2014 by headinablender

The effeminate young guy behind the till* in Starbucks this morning was more camp than a row of tents as he took our orders and passed them to the young, sour faced girl lurking behind the machinery.

While we were all stood there waiting for the miserable barista to emerge from behind the steam with our coffees, a middle aged, slightly overweight, greasy haired man came in wearing a trench coat and a creepy smile.

He ordered a coffee and started really flirting with the young guy behind the counter. It soon became evident they knew each other. There was some giggling, some pouting and the young guy’s eyelids were being batted more than cricket ball.+

It was becoming uncomfortable to watch so I started looking around the café at anything to distract me. My eyes eventually rested on the supermarket plastic bag that the greasy man was holding. There was something written on it.

“Enjoy Every Mouthful”

Of course.

* Cash register (for our American friends)
+ Baseball (for our American friends)

Commuting is a blast

Posted on Aug 26, 2014 by headinablender

This morning, as my wife and I squeezed onto the London Underground train, we got separated into different parts of the carriage. My wife ended up halfway down the carriage whereas I ended up near the door literally face to face with a tall blonde girl.

She wasn’t un-pretty (I’m assuming; she was hidden behind some heavily applied make-up) and was stood there not making eye contact with anyone as she pouted and posed among the newspapers and armpits.

In my single days I may have given her a second look, but since meeting my wife every one else comes a distant second. Although cheesy, this is absolutely true and has nothing to do with the fact my wife was:

a) five feet away and
b) reads my blog.

Anyway (moving on swiftly), the train began to pull out of the station and a gentle breeze came through the open window in the door between the carriages. The girl took this opportunity to turn her head to face the window so the wind rushed through her hair as she continued to pose and pout.

It was like watching a Michael Jackson video.

She was loving it.

However, as the train picked up speed, the breeze became everything but gentle. After a few seconds it had reached Hurricane proportions and her pouting was quickly replaced with her squinting eyes and flapping lips like a dog with its head out of a car window at 70 miles per hour.

More amusingly was her hair violently whipping and slapping her in the face, sticking to her make-up and going in her mouth.

“Hwaarrgh!” *Cough cough* “Gaaaak!”

Attractive.

After a couple of minutes the train slowed down for the next station and she finally managed to compose herself, pulling fistfuls of hair from her throat and gagging. As she did this she looked at me and smiled with embarrassment.

“That didn’t go as you expected it to eh?” I said, looking at the make-up that had now slid back to her ears.

“Not really” she wheezed, “I was actually worried for anyone behind me getting hit with my hair!”

“It’s ok” I said, “I think the guy behind you enjoyed it”.

She laughed awkwardly.

“Shame it wasn’t in slow motion.” I continued.

“Like a shampoo advert”, she laughed.

Erm, no.

It was more like a ferret being hit in the face with a tumbleweed.

Are we becoming a nation of idiots?

Posted on Aug 22, 2014 by headinablender

In the past I used to believe that America was home to some of the dumbest people on the planet. After all, they have no clue about anything outside America and their grasp of sarcasm and humour (or ‘humor’) is as tight as a slut’s vagina.

But after meeting my wife, who is from Las Vegas, I’ve had a lot more exposure to them (Americans, not sluts’ vaginas) and I’ve come to realise that this belief isn’t true. I mean, it’s true of a lot of Americans, but it’s not fair to tar them all with the same brush.

Since my wife came to England I’ve started seeing the country through her eyes and cracks are beginning to form. I’m slowly noticing that we are a lot more flawed as a nation than I realised, or cared to admit. It’s like peeking behind the curtain at a magic show to see levers, pulleys and a white rabbit taking a colossal dump into a top hat.

England is also home to some of the dumbest people on the planet.

Case in point:

Last night, on the London Underground, my wife and I got off the train at Victoria station and shuffled with the masses towards the two upward escalators leading to the surface. There were two guys in front of us and as we approached the escalators, one of the guys took the left escalator and the other took the right.

Neither of us paid any attention until one of the guys started talking to the other. With a distance of around six feet between them and the combined noise of the escalator and the throng of chatting commuters, I should say one started shouting to the other.

Guy 1 – “So what happened next?”

Guy 2 – “What?”

Guy 1 – “I SAID, WHAT HAPPENED NEXT?”

Guy 2 – “Oh, right. Well she decided she was going to work Saturday instead”

Guy 1 – “She was going to what?”

Guy 2 – “PARDON?”

Guy 1 – “SHE WAS GOING TO WHAT?”

Guy 2 – “WORK SATURDAY INSTEAD!”

Guy 1 – “AH, I THOUGHT SHE MIGHT”

Guy 2 – “WHAT?”

I couldn’t believe it. These two guys were together! It wasn’t that busy in the station which meant they weren’t herded accidentally onto separate escalators; they’d CHOSEN to do that.

I looked back at my wife who was staring at them in disbelief. She looked back at me, rolled her eyes and mouthed the words “Why the fuck?”

As we reached the top of the escalator my wife shared her thoughts with me.

For fuck’s sake England!

When an American living here rants about the sheer stupidity of people around her, it’s time to sit up and pay attention.