This week I've been thinking...

If I had a body to dispose of, one of the places I'd consider is the middle of a big roundabout. There's one near here that is fairly densely covered with shrubs and trees, and I bet not many people actually go on it. Maybe a council worker once a year, just to prune things back a bit and maybe pick up a bit of litter? I suppose the problem with it is that the body would, inevitably, one day be discovered and there would undoubtedly be a small fibre from my jumper in the mouth of the victim that is distinctive of that particular clothing manufactuer and after a Crimewatch appeal my family recognise the jumper and say 'Hey, Percy, you've got one of those jumpers!' and I would have to go and be 'elimminated' from the investigation, only for them to discover that my DNA matches that from the small spec of saliva that was on the victims trousers, when I had involuntarily dribbled as I struggled to man-handle the body out of my car, over the road and onto the roundabout.

Hmm...on second thoughts, maybe I should just go back to the weighted, sealed barrel, middle of the ocean plan.

Our Landlady

On the day we moved in to this flat, about five years ago, the landlord was in the kitchen doing something with the washing machine. He was very nice - apologised that the cleaners they had hired to prep the place before we moved in hadn't done a good enough job by his standards and he would, if we so wished, finish the job properly before we moved in. No, we said, we're used to damp, moulding student shit holes, this place looks like a palace, don't worry about it (that and the fact that we had a van full of our stuff sitting out the front). He also said, and I quote, 'If anything goes wrong it's best to tell us about it as soon as you can, because it's in our interests to keep this place in good nick as well as yours'.

That day was unique in two repects - 1) It's the last time either my brother or I have seen the work-shy cunt, and 2) It was the last time they showed any interest in the 'nick' of anything within these walls.

It turns out it's not even his flat - it's the Mrs's - and they have since split up, meaning she is now 'in charge' of it all. I'm using a lot of 'these' here because, when it comes to our landlady (or 'That Bitch' as I've taken to calling her) nothing is as it seems. Or rather, nothing is as she says.

I think we're good tennants - in fact, I bloody know we are beacuse we always pay the rent and we don't phone her every day because the taps leaking or the bath needs re-sealing - we just fix it, get on with it or ignore it. There are some things that she needs to sort out though - like when the washing machine broke or I needed a new mattress. Shit she needs to sort or, at least, pay for. It's the fridge that best demonstrates That Bitch's bone-idle twattyness the best.

About two years ago the fridge was quite obviously fucked. The seals were rotting away and it was making a hell of a racket just trying to keep itself barely below room temperature. So I phone That Bitch, get no answer (as usual) and leave a message. Two weeks go by and nothing. I phone again and leave another message. Another two weeks, nothing. I phone again and she answers. 'Oh yes' she says, 'I was going to call you about that this week. I'm in town next week visiting relatives so I'll sort you out a new fridge while I'm down there'.

'Next week' comes and goes - nothing. I phone again. 'Oh yes, I'm going to arrange it with a local firm. I'll sort it this week and let you know'. Another week, another phone call from me. 'I'll order it today and let you know when they'll deliver it'. Finally an un-provoked response from her - she phones to say it's being delivered on Friday of that week.

Friday comes, Friday goes. No fridge.

I think you can probably see the pattern here, can't you? In fact, I'm getting irritated with her just writing about it so I'm not going to finish the whole story - the point is she's a lying, lazy, impossibly fucking annoying bitch of a woman.

I have put up with it thus far because the rent's cheap and, recently at least, I know I'm getting out fairly soon. But don't worry - I won't be leaving without doing something. I'm not sure what yet, but it'll definitely be something that inconveniences her at least half as much as she has me over the last few years.

The only thing is, what?

Celebrity Adoptions

Is it wrong for Madonna to whisk a small African child away from a life of poverty to go and live with her in egotistical luxury? The little fella will undoubtedly live a privileged life now (provding the rules remain broken for her), if you can count privilege in pounds and dollars. But what has he been taken away from?

His mother died through birth complications and, as I understand it, his surviving family do not have the means to support him. He was living in a orphanage, like many thousands of other childrens in Africa. His life would have been tough, again, like many thousands of others. But a life none the less. An African life.

Who is Madonna to say that her life of mansions and money is a better life than a poor African one? Does her version of life have more worth? That's what gets me - the arrogance. Yes, (parts of) Africa (are) is tough. They need help and we should help if we can and if it's wanted but this isn't helping, is it? Wouldn't her money, time and influence be better spent doing all she could to help a bigger group of people? And not just taking one child away from his culture and people to satisfy her own humanitarian ego?

I'm asking questions here because I don't know the answers, but it strikes me as a knee-jerk reaction to a bigger problem, designed more for the benefit of Madonna's own well-being than that of the child.

Binge Drinking

I live a reasonably healthy lifestyle most of the time. Monday to Thursday I don't drink alcohol, exercise every day, eat fresh fruit and vegetables everyday, don't drink caffine, don't eat processed food, or food that is high in salt or fat, and try and get at least 8 hours sleep a night.

Come Friday night, I feel justified in having a beer or two. It's the end of the week - I've endured another five days at work. And I won all my squash games! So why not? There's nothing wrong in that. So I have a couple of beers after work and go home...get changed and go straight out to the pub again and end up at three in the morning staggering home with a half eaten kebab in my hand.

Fine - I was winding down from the week. Ok, so maybe the Jack Daniels was slightly unnecessary once I was sick of beer, but there you go.

Saturday night presents a whole new set of problems, as I normally get a phone call from my friends who have just finished watching football and meet them in the pub - at 6pm. Invariably another night of 'just a couple of beers' ends up in a 3am mess.

I start back at work on Monday feeling like I've completely un-done last week's good living in two days. In truth, I probably have. Five Days of good eating and exercise wiped out in just two (long) nights.

The thing is, I like going to the pub with my friends. I might not have friends forever, so I should make the most of it while I can. Well, that's one of my excuses anyway. But it can't really be good for me, can it? So what to do? Get some fucking will power I guess.