This Week I Hate

Moving

2007-02-21T10:22:00.000Z

I'm here now: http://www.avoidingeurope.blogspot.com/

Going over old ground

2006-12-12T11:28:00.000Z

A Christmas card was just placed on my desk, courtesy of the obese woman who works round the corner. It is my first of the year and, sadly, won't be my last. She even said 'I've done all mine already', as if to gloat, assuming that everyone has to write out 20-odd cards. I don't and I won't.

I don't like cards. Not just christmas cards - cards in general seem an awful waste to me, most of the time. Not all cards - there is a place for some - like birthday cards from distant relatives that contain a small note about how they're doing. Or maybe a get well card for the person from the office who's been off for the last year with some unknown disease. It must be quite depressing sitting at home, barely able to get out of bed, not knowing when, or if, you will get better. A card for them must be quite nice, perhaps even bring a smile to their face.

What I don't like is cards for the sake of cards, cards because 'that's when you give a card'. Moving into a new house, getting a new job. Bollocks - that's just life. Things change, shit happens, you don't need to go buying fucking cards just because Clintons say you have to. Same principle with the Christmas bollocks - waste of money and trees.

You may remember, however, that I wrote about cards this time last year, hence the title of this post. It made me realise that I've been doing this blog for just over a year now and, in a way, it's come full circle. I thought about writing it off as 'a year of hating', with the thought that another year won't produce anything hugely different. That may well be the case. I'm undecided as to whether I will continue to vent on here or not. Things are changing though. This time next year I won't be working in an office, getting Christmas cards. After five years of doing so, I'm not going to spend the next year sitting at a desk wondering what sort of life this is, how I ended up here, where I want to be going, what I want to do. I'm giving this shit up because I'm bored of it, because it's too easy and, mainly, because I can't do this for the rest of my life. It would kill me, one way or another. So I'm getting out. I'm going on an adventure. If I find something to hate, I'll be back.

Christmas Markets

2006-11-22T23:07:00.000Z

The sign pretty much says it all:

"Welcome to Southampton's German Christmas Market 2005"

'Christmas Market' is a slightly misleading term actually. What it should be called is 'Christmas Sheds', or rather just 'Sheds', seeing as it's nowhere near fucking Christmas just yet.

I'm not lying about the sign though and in fact, neither are they. It's exactly the fucking same as it was last year. And the year before that.

If there was some strange chemical imbalance in my brain that made me want to buy vile 'lamps' that are supposed to look like rocks, I'd have bought one two years ago. Beads on string, which are apparently classed as jewellery these days - and even 'rustic German jewellery' just because the woman looks like a bit of a pikey - no thank you, again. For the third year running. I didn't want them last year or the year before so, suprise surprise, I don't want them now.

Come on German Market people and suited wankers at the council who book them every year - innovate, challenge, evolve. It's not that fucking hard.

The only good thing about this is the beer and sausages. Although, to be fair, it's not often I walk down the high street and think 'I'd love an overpriced pissy beer and undercooked sausage right now, so I can stand in the rain and eat it whilst getting cold and wet.' They even put a sign on the sausage stand that says 'Meeting Point'. Like we spend the rest of the year walking round in a fucking daze trying to find our friends.

Our Cooker

2006-11-14T22:47:00.000Z

The hobs. I've lived with it for five years, and I have got used to them, but it doesn't stop them being fucking annoying.

They're electric, you see, which is a bad thing to start with. But it's worse than that. If you were making an electric hob you would design it to perform along the following lines, right?

Hob is set to 'number 3' (out of four). Hob heats up to 3 level and stays at 3 level. Hob is reduced to number 2. Hob reduces heat to '2' level and stays there.

It's easy, isn't it? I mean really fucking easy, right? So why the fuck did someone think it necessary to make our hobs like this:

Hob is set to number 3. Hob gets REALLY FUCKING HOT - LIKE, HOTTER THAN YOU WOULD EVER NEED IT. Then, after about two minutes, reduces to what you would expect to be about number one level.

I'm just...I dunno. Dumbfounded. Speachless. Who the fuck are these people and why aren't they being rounded up and shot? No, actually, not shot. I want answers before we kill them. Rounded up, tied up and made to explain their fucking backward thinking. Then shot.

Back to hating: Crap Drivers

2006-11-08T16:38:00.000Z

I spent approximately eight hours on our lovely motorways at the weekend and, as always, I was struck by JUST HOW FUCKING STUPID SOME PEOPLE ARE.

Middle lane hoggers. A motorway IS NOT a slow lane, a fast lane and a faster lane. A motorway is, essentially, one lane (the left hand lane) and two overtaking lanes. If you are not overtaking someone (and no, the car two miles ahead travelling 2mph slower than you DOES NOT count) you get in the left hand lane and FUCKING STAY THERE until you need to overtake someone. Once you're done overtaking, return to the left hand lane. This way, those of us who want to go faster than you have two lanes in which to organise ourselves instead of (legally) one.

But we all know this, right? If you're sitting there thinking, 'No, the left hand lane is the slow lane for lorries' then it's you I'm talking to YOU ANNOYING CUNT. And it's no surprise that most of the middle lane hoggers I pass are talking on the phone. I've seen enough accidents and near misses in my many motorway miles to know that it's a risky business and you sitting there chatting on the phone is putting me one step closer to getting killed, so fucking stop it.

When a middle lane hogger is encountered another breed of annoying motorway driver is inevitably experienced - those cunts who come as close behind you as possible and flash their lights in a 'get out of my way' style gesture. Now this, used against the middle lane lot, or similar, is fine (maybe not the getting-as-close-as-possible-thing, but the flashing). They're illegitimately in the way and you're asking them to move. If I'm overtaking someone, however, having pulled out with plenty of room, legitimately taking up overtaking space, I'll be fucked if I'm speeding up anymore just so Mr Wanky Audi can prove he's even more of a prick than is blatantly obvious. And it's always Audis, isn't it? Next time you're on a motorway and you think 'what a wanker', have a look - I bet it's a fucking Audi.

I'll tell you what else I hate - fucking motorway service stations. Most of the time you want to pull in, fill up with petrol, then continue, right? So how come I always end up in the tossing HGV park? Or driving round the fucking car park? I'll tell you why - because the signs are crap and they're trying to fool you into going into their overpriced, piss-stinking excuse for a set of shops. No, I don't want to spend £1 on a packet of crisps that would cost me 20p from a normal shop, you thieving bastards!

It's been a bit of a week for genitalia

2006-11-03T16:00:00.000Z

Walking through the park the other lunchtime I passed a fairly ordinary looking bloke. He was about 50-ish, I would say, and slightly scruffy - not a drinking-cider-all-day kinda scruffy, just not particularly smart. He was clean shaven, wore a blue coat and a smart-ish pair of trousers. He was carrying a carrier bag but, again, it wasn't a holds-all-his-worldly-posessions kinda carrier bag, just a normal sort of couldn't-think-of-anything-better-to-put-it-in kinda carrier bag. He was as non-descript as it gets really, minding his own business, apart from one thing - his cock was hanging out the front of his trousers. I've no idea if he knew this or not, but there it was, dangling around for all to see. I suppose he might be a park-wanking pervert of some kind, I don't know. He seemed not to have particularly noticed.

My Spanish teacher is a middle-aged woman of average height and build and, like park-wanker, fairly non-descript. That is, of course, apart from one thing - she was today sporting the most blatant and extreme case of cameltoe I have ever seen. Quite frankly, it wouldn't have been any more obvious if she were naked. Some less-selective perverts than myself might have seen this as a good thing. I have to admit, it was difficult to ignore after I'd seen it initially, but I certainly wasn't storing the memories away for later, if you know what I mean. No - loud, scatty, middle aged, very, very Spanish women don't really do it for me I'm afraid, even if they are showing off their bits. And, for some reason, I can just imagine them being very, very hairy bits.

I really need to go and not think about this.

This week I've been thinking...

2006-10-29T22:32:00.000Z

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

2006-10-20T22:26:00.000+01:00

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

2006-10-17T11:05:00.000+01:00

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

2006-10-09T10:25:00.000+01:00

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.

Dogs

2006-09-26T21:09:00.000+01:00

One of my earliest memories is of sitting outside a shop in my pushchair, while my mum went inside to quickly buy something (not something you'd see these days, no doubt, what with parents being in constant fear for their children's lives at the hands of all the paedophiles roaming the streets (that's paedophile, not paediatrician, for anyone reading this from Portsmouth)). While my mum was at the checkout I thought I'd make friends with the small, fluffy poodle sitting next to me on the pavement, so I offered it my thumb, for reasons best known to my three year old self, and it bit me. Not that hard, in hindsight (I still have the thumb), but still - it bit be. From then on I didn't so much have a fear or hatred of dogs, just a general distrust in them.

Today, cycling home from work through the park, as I always do, four dogs were playing to my right on the grass, next to the (wide) path I was cycling on. I kept an eye on them, as I always do, because I always think they are likely to either a) start chasing me, or b) run infront of me. This time it was b. I pulled on the brakes, swerved to my left, made slight contact with one of the dogs (which produced a pitiful yelp), ditched the bike and flew about six foot, landing on the path. Instinct had prevented me from being too seriously injured - it was more of a roll in the end, rather than a full on face plant into the tarmac - and I wasn't particularly shaken, more pissed off. "Are you ok?" the dog-owner asked me. I sat on the path and looked at him, then his dog. I nearly started having a go at him but a moments reflection told me it was better not to. No one was in the wrong, particularly. You are allowed to have your dogs off the lead in the park. You are allowed to cycle in the park. Ok, so maybe I could argue that he should have better control of his dogs, but looking at them I could tell they were, as most dogs appear to be, pretty stupid. So I left it. It wasn't really the owners fault.

Which is more than I can say about the other dog-related incident you may have also read about in the news this week - the one where they ate the baby. "Blame the owners" is a cry we hear from the tabloids. I do. But I don't blame them for sculpting the dogs into menacing, ruthless killers. Oh no - I'm going back further than that. I blame them for having the fucking maniacs in the first place.

I don't buy all this 'don't blame the breed' crap. There are certain breeds of dog that are, or have the potential to be, dangerous, no matter how much 'training' they've had. That's a fact and I say bollocks to anyone who disagrees. The ones that ate the baby were kept as guard dogs because they are fucking dangerous. There's no need. Get a burglar alarm and a baseball bat or some CCTV or something. It might be a bit more expensive, but at least it won't eat babies.

American Lawsuits

2006-09-21T12:38:00.000+01:00

Global warming is, as we should all know, becoming a bit of a problem. All these fumes that we generate for all manner of wonderful things will, eventually, we are lead to believe, make our planet uninhabitable.

Which is fine - ok, I'll have a think about it and probably try and change a few things. I'll use my green wheelie bin and generally 'do my bit'.

That's not good enough for California, though. See, instead of appreciating the impact these things are having and looking for ways of cutting back and trying to make things a bit better, they've decided, as is The American Way, that it's much easier to just blame someone else.

So who to blame? The people creating the toxic fumes? No, they voted them in. The people refusing to increase the tax on the things that create these fumes, thus providing no incentive for the users to find alternatives? No - don't be silly, that's them. No - they're blaming the people who make the cars.

In their words "For creating a public nuisance" and, more laughably, they claim to be combatting "Global Warming (that has) already injured...the health and well-being of (California's) citizens."

That'll be the same citizens who are driving around in Humvees and Cryslers then, will it? The people who drive 200 yards to the shops because the lack of pavements or cycle ways makes it much easier to just jump in the car? The people who are paying less than two dollars per gallon for 'gas'?

It's called supply and demand, California. They only make the cars because you lot buy them and use them (excessively). If you really want to do something about the effect cars are having on Global Warming, teach your 'citizens' how to ride a bike and stop blaming other people for your own mess of a consumer society.

Norfolk Pub Opening Times

2006-09-05T16:35:00.000+01:00

5.30pm, returning from a 'day out' on our 'relaxing' break. Before battling with the problems associated with trying to cook a meal in a tent, in hurricane force winds, a pint is in order. Maybe two.

One problem - the pub's shut. It's nearly six o'clock in the evening! This is prime fucking pint time!

I thought they stopped all that in the 80s sometime. They did where I live. Mind you, I don't live in the middle of bloody no where, where they seem to do what the fuck they like. Must be nice.

Permanent 'Open' Signs

2006-08-29T22:48:00.000+01:00

Driving around unfamiliar territory in a car running on the last of the fumes is a nervy enough experience, made all the worse by people who put up signs like this:

SHOP - PETROL - 100 YARDS LEFT - OPEN!

Who, I discover, after a sigh of relief and a left turn off of a busy road, aren't bloody open at all. Ok, so it was Bank Holiday Monday and, no, I didn't expect every petrol place to be open, especially in the back of the back of beyond, as we were, but I also didn't expect them to put up signs that were fucking lying.

That wasn't the only one I encountered over the last week or so, on holiday. In fact, when I think about it, they're everywhere.

Hand Car Wash - Open! Cafe - Open! Open for food and drink!

Open 24 hours a day, are you? Every day of the year? No? Change the fucking sign then you tedious cunt.

Getting a response

2006-08-11T11:11:00.000+01:00

What did I say? I'll remind you:

"It's just a yes or no I want."

Easy then, isn't it. No problem. Yes - great. No - oh, bollocks.

What do I get? A sort of 'thank you, it's good, not our normal sort of thing but we like the idea, so we'll keep hold of it' maybe.

Fucking maybe.

Waiting for a response

2006-08-02T13:35:00.000+01:00

It's just a yes or no I want, nothing complicated. I sent it to them two weeks ago - that's plenty of time! But they keep me waiting, keep me wondering, hoping, checking my email.

I'm done with the suspense thing now though - I'd just like to know, thank you very much. Then I can get on with the rest of my life.

Hot, isn't it?

2006-07-19T11:37:00.000+01:00

Yes. Believe it or not, I had noticed. Have you never experienced changes in the weather before? Or seasons? This one is called Summer! And in a few months we will have gone through Autumn and into Winter, when it will probably get quite cold.

I expect you'll be bleeting on about that when it happens.

Blogging

2006-07-06T14:32:00.000+01:00

That'll do for now.

Thanks for reading.

Re-claiming Luggage at the Airport

2006-06-21T14:58:00.000+01:00

The conveyor belt thing that goes round, yeah? The one that sits in the middle of that massive room, clearly visible from every angle and distance? That's the one. The one that people seem to find it necessary to stand right fucking next to, so they are poised for when their suitcase comes out of the black hole, creating a human barrier impossible to penetrate when, inevitably, my bag comes out before theirs.

Just stand three steps back you fucking retards! You'll still see your precious little fucking suitcase! And when you do - this is the clever bit - you step forward and take it. That way, while we're waiting, we can all see the bags emerging from the little black hole, instead of having to looking at the backs of you bunch of wankers.

Stabbings

2006-05-31T11:14:00.000+01:00

Would people please stop going around fucking stabbing everyone.

Procrastinating

2006-05-24T15:30:00.000+01:00

I'm only writing this because I've got nothing else to waste my time on. I've checked all five of my email accounts for the third time today. Checked my alter-Myspace-ego. Read the news on the BBC and Sky News websites. Posted on my alter-Blog-ego. Checked the three forums I frequent for the third time today.

The fact that I have two online alter-egos is evidence enough that I waste too much bloody time! Becuase it's not that I don't have anything to do - I have a book to write! I am writing it - I'm about four chapters in but I could be halfway through it if I had the sense to make myself concentrate and JUST FUCKING GET ON WITH IT.

Once I start I'm fine - I'm off. Two hours can pass and I won't notice, so involved I get in the writing. But it's just that first bit - breaking the seal, tipping me over the edge. I put it off as much as I possibly can and I don't even know why. I need discipline. Either that or a smack round the head.

Charity 'Challenges'

2006-05-12T16:13:00.000+01:00

Yes, of course, any money raised for a charity is a good thing. But why dress it up so much and, worse, pretend to actually be 'doing' something?

"Will you sponsor me?" a woman at work asked me.

"What you doing?"

"Race for life," she replied.

"Ok. How far's that?"

"Three miles. I won't be running it though! God no - I'll be walking round."

So, basically, she's walking three miles. I walk about three miles every fucking day! I'm sure most people do. Why doesn't she just say 'please give some money to this charity because I can't be arsed to do anything of note'? I'd prefer that - at least it's honest. It'd be fair enough if walking three miles were a challenge for her. If it stretched her physical and mental capabilities then it might inspire me some more. But it doesn't. It's like me saying 'Sponsor me - I'm going to eat a sandwich!'

The other end of this is freeloading on the back of a charity's name. For example, 'I'm climbing a mountain - please sponsor me'. If they raise enough money it costs them £1000 to go climb Mount Kilimanjaro instead of around £2000 as it normally would. That's not charity, that's a fucking cheap holiday.

'My'

2006-05-10T14:12:00.000+01:00

"I'm really into my hip hop at the moment."

It's 'your' hip hop, is it? You own it, do you? Or do you create it? Neither? There's a surprise. Please fuck off.

Students

2006-05-08T12:00:00.000+01:00

On two occasions already today a student has managed to block my way up a staircase. That's one student on each occassion, each blocking a whole staircase. How do they manage it? Neither was particularly fat. Predictably, they were both using their mobiles. Which is fine, but why do they have to stand in the middle of the fucking way of everyone while they're arranging their next pint of snakebite?

Another student, spotted on the same walk around the campus, had the strangest pair of 'scruffy jeans' I've seen. Now, I realise this is going to make me sound like an aging, out-of-touch-with-the-kids, miserable git, but I don't really care. A three inch gap separated the waist band from the rest of his jeans, with only two thin pieces of material holding it all together. You could see his ass, basically. My first thought was 'what happens if he catches them on something?' He would, presumably, become jeans-less. And it would serve him right, the silly cunt.

Poorly Designed Food Packaging

2006-04-27T10:37:00.000+01:00

It's rice and pasta packets I'm talking about really. Every bloody time I open one, no matter how carefully, it splits itself down the side. Try and pour the contents out and you get a worktop covered in rice. Fold it up to store it, using the little sticky re-sealing device, and the split grows, covering the kitchen again.

Who comes up with this shit? And more to the point, why haven't they realised that it doesn't fucking work properly? Take me to their house! I bet they have their rice and pasta in trendy containers with lids, the packets discarded long-ago. Well fine, in that case provide me with a trendy container when I buy pasta. Either that or don't design the packaging pretending that it works as a storage device. The top peels apart teasingly, hinting that a pouring spout might develop out of the folds at the opening, before the split starts to appear and then grow. And the sticky re-sealing thing. What's that for if not re-sealing and storing the food? They're laughing at me aren't they! The bastards. They've planned this. They want me to spill it all over the kitchen so I have to buy it more often. Either that or they own the trendy container companies aswell.

Well I'm on to them. I won't give in and buy trendy containers. I am going to fight this. I will overcome this packet injustice.

Mundane Monday

2006-04-10T14:19:00.000+01:00

I read an article the other week about an author who, when he was an 'aspiring writer', went to a prostitute and paid for sex (not that you do anything else with prostitutes, I suppose). His explanation was that he was bored and wanted something to happen to him. He wanted some inspiration for his writing and some excitement in his life.

That's how I feel today. It's how I feel a lot of Mondays. Not like going to a prostitute, you understand. I just want something different to happen. I want some excitement in my life, something inspiring.

It's funny though because today hasn't been that bad, as days go. Two things of particular note have happened:

1. A pigeon flew into my head;
2. I saw a man who looked an awful lot like a monkey.

On any other day that might be enough for me - the day could end right there and I would be content. Not today, though. I want more. Much more.

Creative Distractions

2006-04-04T23:05:00.000+01:00

During the process of finalising the plot details for a big fiction project, as I currently am, I often get distracted by small bursts of inspiration which, while sometimes worth noting down and even developing, do not really help my mind focus on the larger task at hand.

So, unashamedly inspired by Mike Carter's new venture, I have created an outlet for these ideas. It is not intended to be informative, insighful or amusing but merely a place for me to empty my creative bladder. And you never know, it might sometimes be all three of those things.

It's here, by the way.

Debit Cards

2006-04-04T22:23:00.000+01:00

This weekend just gone I broke my own rule of using cash wherever possible. I went through a honeymoon period with my debit card some years ago, but those days of sponatneous spending and care-free money management are long gone. Or at least I thought they were.

The problem with using cards is that I lose track of what I'm spending and, more importantly, my Internet bank account doesn't accurately reflect the status of my finances. With so many other aspects of my life in perpetual uncertainty, I like to keep my finances in order - I like to know what's going on. In fact, I've noticed that I've begun keeping lots of menial aspects of my life in strict order, to near obsessive compulsive levels, but that's another story (or, possibly, another hate).

Anyway - if I use cash I know exactly what's going on. I can take £50 cash out of my account at lunch time and ten minutes later, back at work, my Internet bank account shows that withdrawal and the affect it has had on my overall balance. Nice, ordered finances. Debit card purchases, as I'm sure you're aware, may not show up for a few days. And when they do you get a day or so of teasing before the true horror of your frivolity is revealed. My account currently looks something like the following example, which I have simplified for the purposes of demonstrating my point:

Balance: £400

Available to spend: £150

That's £250 of, in my eyes, un-accounted-for cash. What the fuck have I been buying?

I know that in the next day or so all will be revealed, and I will suddenly remember that new exhaust on the car, but I hate this not knowing. I feel violated by my own money mis-management.

Not knowing the answer to this question...

2006-03-21T00:11:00.000Z

Ok, so this is a thinly disguised way of publicly airing my thoughts, but there you go - this is a Blog, it's what normal Bloggers do, so give me a break.

Anyway - the question that has been bothering me for the last week or so is:

What is the difference between a prostitute and a porn star?

Because, on the face of it, it's pretty simple, right? They both fuck for cash. It's as simple as that, isn't it? Or am I missing something? What is it that defines them?

Maybe it's that prostitutes are making themselves available to the public? You could argue the same is true of some porn stars - what about that Chinese woman who tried to shag as many blokes in a day as possible? She had hundreds of them lined up by public invitation. Or the American porn star who walks the streets looking for people to take home and do things to. Not that I watch these things, you understand. Someone once told me about them.

Consider this - phone rings, girl picks up phone. Man asks if she will come to a hotel room and have sex with two men. She agrees, goes to hotel room and has sex with the two men. She is paid cash.

What circumstance has to be in place that makes that girl one or the other?

Maybe porn stars pay tax?

Blind, Arrogant Car Drivers

2006-03-16T14:34:00.000Z

(*Guest Hate* This hate was submitted by Roger Emery - cyclist, father of two and general moaning bastard)

What gives you the right, in your ton and a half of fume-belching metal, to think you have right of way over all others? You're late? Oh excuse me - go ahead then, please, pull out in front of me without looking to see me on my push bike and try to kill me. After all, you are the most important person in the world and need to get to your stinking, shiney-suited, middle management job in such a hurry to keep up the payments on your dull grey volvo or fog coloured BMW. No, smart arse, it's not silver and neither are your unneccessary sunglasses on an overcast day.

And why are you so late you have to try to kill people to get to work? Is it because you are too lazy to walk or too selfish to take public transport? Or is your personality so vile it needs to be kept by itself in a wheeled box with room for five? Or is it because there are just sooo many other frivolous single occupant vehicles in your way - yes they are a bother aren't they!

Oh, sorry, you need to drop your fat, lazy, playstationed offspring off at their detention centre. So it's you that deems it safe to park half on the pavement outside of schools so people with toddlers and prams have to take to the roads to get around you, while you unobservantly open your doors into the path of anything that is trying to get past. Please do us all a favour - set your sat nav to Cuba and point your sensory deprevation chamber towards Lands End. And on your way, try not to knock me and my 2 year old son off of our push bike. Thank you.

Fat/Thin

2006-03-16T11:54:00.000Z

When I refuse a biscuit/some chocolate in the office, the normal response is along the lines of, "You should be able to eat what you like - you're skinny," or, "That's why he's so thin."

First off, this isn't news to me, ok? Believe it or not, I had noticed that I'm not particularly 'big boned'. It's partly due to my genetic make up and partly a choice I make. I eat well and exercise a lot. I was fat-ish once - thanks to my first year at university, a house with no oven (only frying pans) and lots of beer.

The main thing, however, is that people seem to think it's perfectly alright to comment on and discuss my weight, physique and general physical make-up. I'm not embarassed about it - like I said, I know I'm quite thin (although I weigh more than most people assume I do). But they wouldn't do it with the office fatty would they? "Another biscuit, Claire? No wonder you're such a fat bitch!" "More chocolate Rachel? Fuck me, you don't care about heart disease do you?!"

No, they wouldn't. Maybe I should?

Lazy People

2006-03-07T13:40:00.000Z

Witnessed last weekend on a beach in Somerset:

A couple had driven onto the beach with their two dogs. The dogs were let out and the boot left open. The couple proceeded to drive around in circles, encouraging the dogs, through the open boot, to run along behind. This, presumably, was their version of 'taking the dogs for a walk on the beach'. I saw both people walking around the car quite easily, so disability cannot be their reason. I can think of no other. Lazy bastards.

Morning Radio

2006-02-24T10:46:00.000Z

"Coming up next we've got Kelly Clarkson but first here's Coldplay with 'Fix You'." Well there's a fucking surprise, because, actually, that's exactly what you played at this time yesterday morning. And the day before that. And the day before that. And...you get the point.

But it's not only the repitition that gets me. I understand that the presenters are duty bound to play what the station tells them to (who are, in turn, bound to play what the record companies pay them to, or however it works) but they don't have to enjoy it quite so much. "Hard Fi," I heard one say the other morning, "are the best band in the World at the moment," after playing 'Cash Machine' at 8.14am for the fifth day in a row. Are they? Well thanks for telling me but coming from the same person who refers to James B**** as 'Blunty', I'm not totally inclined to believe you.

Do these people really enjoy having such limited and unimaginative music tastes? Or are they just paid to?

The problem is, where do I go? The radio station I'm referring to is the local 103.2. I changed to that because Chris Moyles is a desperately unfunny twat. I tried Wogan for a bit but just found his voice too dreary for that time of the morning.

Maybe I should give up on the radio and just get an alarm clock with a bell.

Getting out of bed

2006-02-21T10:22:00.000Z

Hmmm...I'm all warm and comfortable in my bed. I've just found the position I've been searching for all night - the one that is amazingly comfortable and also covers 99% of me with my duvet. And best of all - I don't need a piss! The 4am visit to the toilet sorted out that little problem. Sure, it wasn't nice getting up then, but fuck me is it worth it now. This is perfect sleep time.

One problem - it's 8.30am. I have to be in work for 9am. Oh bollocks. Yet another perfect sleep set-up passes me by. And you can bet that I won't be able to find that position on Saturday morning.

Organised Religion, Hypocrisy and Cartoons

2006-02-10T11:08:00.000Z

What a load of bollocks. I mean, really. It's like the World has become a big school playground and one of the kids who hangs around behind A Block has said something about one of the kids who hangs around behind the bikesheds mum. And then bike shed kid has burnt his house down and threatened to kill his family.

It's pathetic and it seems that, once again, organised religion is providing the mask behind which some people are fulfilling their violent tendancies. And again it's "'The West' attacking Islam." Well I am, apparently, part of 'The West' and I can say quite honestly that I don't give a fuck. I don't care. If you want to believe whatever it is Islam says you should believe then go for it. It makes no difference to me. Same with Christianity - same with all of them. I don't care. Believe what you like but leave me out of it.

But in the same way leaders insist that we don't paint all Muslims with the extremist brush, they are painting the whole of 'The West' with the anti-Islam brush. 'The Divide' is, apprently, bigger than ever now and growing fast. Well it's not from my point of view. As far as I'm concerned, your religion is insignificant to me - it's your actions as a human being that I judge you on. But if they keep on like this - extreme violent reactions, excused by religion - then I wouldn't be surprised if the 'gap' (which, some might say, is the product of their own labour) does widen. It's almost like they want it to.

Hating

2006-02-04T15:29:00.000Z

I have so much to hate this week that I daren't even think about it, let alone write about it. I've had my wisdom teeth out, you see. All four of them. And yes, it hurts. And it's uncomfortable and I can't eat. And the anti-biotics are horrible and doing horrible things to me. But, you know, that was kind of expected and it probably would have been a reasonable hate had it just been that.

Half way through the week my brother very kindly passed on his stomach-flu-virus on to me. Let me tell you, in case you were wondering, that projectile-vomitting with stitches and healing wounds in your mouth is not a pleasant experience. Neither is shitting every couple of hours for 36 hours (and counting).

So I can't do it this week, I'm afraid. If I were to sit here hating I would, quite possibly, die of hate. That and dehydration and infected mouth wounds.

Chuggers

2006-01-25T14:43:00.000Z

It seems to be quite fashionable to hate chuggers these days. Well, you know what? Sometimes ‘fashionable’ isn’t a bad thing.

But surely any work for charity can only be a good thing, right? Well, no, actually. Consider this: If I were to sign up for one of these ‘take £3 out of my account every month’ things that the so-called ‘chuggers’ are trying to con you into, it would be a whole year of my payments before the charity got any financial gain from it. Put another way, it takes a years worth of one person’s payments to pay for the smug, bib-wearing hippie type to stand on the street harassing people. And most people cancel their payments after six months anyway.

‘Have you got a minute to talk?’ one said to me once, as I walked past. ‘No’ I replied. ‘DON’T YOU CARE THAT CHILDREN ARE BEING ABUSED?!’ she made a rather loud point of saying. Err…excuse me? Don’t come at me with your false ‘holier than thou’ attitude and try to make out that just because I don’t stop and talk to you I must be some child-abusing tyrant. For all you know, I could devote every spare minute of my time to helping those less fortunate than myself. And what makes you so perfect? If you’re so bothered about it all why don’t you do this for free? Or stop bothering people on the street, get a job in Woolworths and donate a percentage of your earnings to the charity that you are, apparently, so passionate about?

Today, as I was walking down the street minding my own business, as I often do, a young bib-wearing lady said to me, ‘You look like you’d like to adopt a granny.’ That’s it – a simple, precise statement. I look like I want to adopt a granny, do I? I mean, really? What the fuck are you talking about? What granny-adopting qualities characterise my appearance that other, presumable granny-hating, people don’t possess? You see, if they weren’t so fucking mindless and patronising, I might be inclined to donate some money - direct to the charity, though, obviously.

Everything

2006-01-19T12:47:00.000Z

Whatever people mean by 'one of those weeks', I'm having one. There's nothing in particular, it just seems to be everything. Even normal things, like eating - I'm bored of dinner and the usual shit I cook. But I can't be bothered to do something else - that would require going to the shops and making decisions. I can't be fucked - I wish I could just take a pill that fills me up.

Every phone call at work, and home, for that matter, has me muttering 'oh fuck off' under my breath. Every caller's voice annoys me. I'm even getting pissed off with my own excessive internet usage at work and my lack of motivation for what I should be doing. And anyway - why can't I have a job I actually like? Why can't someone pay me to do things I actually enjoy?

Cycling - how can the roads be in such a fucking state? I feel like billing the council for a new set of wheels. It's not like we don't give them any money to maintain them is it? Bastards.

Excessive Politeness

2006-01-13T09:47:00.000Z

There's a Big Issue seller on the high street who makes a point of catching your eye and asking, very loudly, 'Can I interest you in a Big Issue, Sir/Madam?'. This I don't mind. It's good, in fact, because I'm sure it scares people into buying it, and who am I to deny him a sale? It also allows me to say, with equal volume and lack of subtlety, 'No thanks mate', instead of feeling bad for seemingly ignoring him whilst muttering 'no thanks' under my breath, which is what I normally do. The problem is that he then says, rather too enthusiastically, 'Thank you anyway, have a lovely afternoon.' Why do I hate that? You might ask. He's only being nice. Well, first of all, he says it to everyone. And seeing as there are about four people per second walking past him, it means he's saying it all the time. 'Have a lovely afternoon, have a lovely afternoon, have a lovely afternoon...etc.etc.' Kind of dilutes the gesture a bit doesn't it?

Secondly, I actually don't think he's being nice at all. More than anyone I say 'no thanks' (or similar) to on the street, he strikes me as being the one who thinks, with the most venom, 'Thanks for nothing then, you cunt.' I don't trust him because his over-the-top politeness is just that little bit too much.

The second example is a lady at work who sends me emails occassionally, for mundane, everyday, part-of-my-job type requests. She's the sort of lady who seems very fragile - easily offended. Not in a bad way, necessarily, you just get the impression she's never had more than one and a half glasses of wine, has never sworn or had an angry thought. Not the sort you would expect to catch getting fucked in the stationary cupboard with a snooker ball in her mouth, let's just say.

Anyway - she always signs her emails off with "very many thanks and warmest regards" - no matter how small or mundane the request/topic. I'd hate to see what she says if I did something major for her like, I don't know...no, actually, I don't know. But fucking 'warmest regards'? That's the sort of shit I'm saving for if I ever have to thank someone for saving my child from a burning wreck of a plane, or something.

It's the same thing as with the Big Issue guy. In being excessively-polite she has in fact made me think she is covering something up and has actually succeeded in being slightly patronising and bloody annoying.

Having my hair cut

2006-01-04T12:39:00.000Z

Six months after a grade four all over and it has come to the point where it's long enough to annoy me, but the weather isn't warm enough to make me think that shaving it all off is a good idea yet. So I make my annual pilgrimage to a haridressers. Barber shops don't really work for me because I don't want a grade two short back and sides and that is (I speak from experience) all they're really capabable of.

So I try and find a hardressers who are willing to cut 'long' hair, but aren't poncy enough to leave me with a trendy cut that requires 'products' to be used and leaves me looking like (more of) a cock. This is the first bit I hate - finding one. Once I've made the decision to go, I just want to go somewhere, have it cut, then go home. There is a half decent one in town that is a good balance of not quite barber shop, not quite haridressers, but it's not open. So I go to the next one down the road that is slightly poncy, but empty. 'You need an appointment' says the bored looking receptionist, who looks at me (as they all do) with those 'you're not quite trendy enough to be coming here anyway' eyes. Bitch.

So onwards and I eventually pluck up enough courage to go into a not-so-poncy looking one and am told I have to come back in an hour. Fine. One hour later I go back and have to wait 20 minutes before I am asked to take a seat. The next bit I really hate - looking in the mirror, telling them what I want done with it while they comb it and generally analyze its structure, thickness, colour etc. etc. I just don't like talking about how I 'want to look'. I don't 'want to look' like anything really - can't you just make it not look quite so stupid?

And, to be fair, he does. But not without the obligotary, strained conversation. 'You're quiet' he says, after 5 minutes of peaceful silence. Regular readers will know of my general dislike of 'People' and appreciate my desire to not have forced, aimless conversation. But he's asked me a direct question, so what do I say? 'Yes, I am quiet. It's because I don't really want to know if you had a good Christmas, what you did for New Year or how shit it is to be back at work. Can't you just cut my hair, take my money and let me fuck off?'

Work

2005-12-22T11:18:00.000Z

It was perhaps inevitable that 'work' would feature here at some point. I won't go into the many and varied reasons why I hate work. This week I hate it because of the time it takes away from me. I've got stuff to do, you know? A bit of Christmas shopping, a nice couple of guitar fixing projects that I'd like to be getting on with, some of my other, more enjoyable, 'work' that has built up and needs attending to. But I haven't got much time to do all this because I have to be at work for more hours in a day than I spend out of work (apart from sleeping).

So what to do? Cut down my sleeping hours? Errr...no. Cut down work hours? Now there's a thought. But then I wouldn't earn enough to support what I do in my non-work hours. The roundabout of life, I guess. It's Christmas though, so I don't have much hate this week. I'll save it for the New Year.

Christmas Cards

2005-12-14T11:46:00.000Z

It's not the ones from old friends who send them in the post. Not that I get any of them, but my parents do. I think that's nice in a way. And it's not the ones from current and close friends. Although possibly unnecessary, it's still a nice gesture and it is, after all, Christmas. I don't hate Christmas, it may be interesting to note. I quite like it in fact, but for relatively simple reasons. I like having time off work and I like the fact that we devote that time mainly to getting drunk and eating a lot with friends and family. That's what I do anyway, and it's good.

It's Christmas cards from other people I don't really like. Work is the main offender for this, somewhat predictably. This morning, for example, there was one on my desk from the woman who sits round the corner. She barely says a word to me all year and will avoid my eye if I pass her in the street but she gives me a Christmas card covered in 'Best Wishes' and 'Good Will to All Men' slogans. Why bother with such an obviously forced gesture? I'd prefer it if she spread her 'good will' out over the course of the year and was actually polite to me when she passed me in the street. She probably wouldn't, though. She'd rather leave a card on my desk for me to pick up when I get in to work. That way she doesn't even have to speak to me. She shouldn't have bothered.

People (who don't think)

2005-12-09T12:37:00.000Z

Example One:

I'm playing squash. Squash can be a dangerous game - it's fast and the ball has the potential to fit perfectly in your eye socket and blind you. I also have to look out for my opponent who is likely to either run into me, get in my way, meaning I will run into him, or hit me with his racquet. The other thing about squash is that it is played in a sealed room. Not completely sealed - we wouldn't be able to breathe - but the door is shut so the wall around the court is continuous. Squash etiquette (and common sense) dictates that when it is your turn to play and the people on court’s time is up, you knock loudly on the door and wait for them to vacate the court. This avoids the potential situation of a player, focussed on the game and running full pelt for the ball at the back of the court, removing his head from his body with the aid of the open door. This thought does not seem to have entered the head of a particular fuckwit at my local leisure centre. Casual as you like, whilst we’re mid-game, he flings the door open and steps into the court. A brief exchange of looks – mine horrified, his completely blank – sees him leave the court and shut the door. We finish five minutes later and he’s waiting outside, to come in and play. ‘You know,’ I say, rather politely I might add, seeing as he just tried to kill me, ‘you should knock before you enter a squash court. I could have done myself an injury on that door.’ Now, instead of graciously apologising and thanking me for educating him on the error of his ways, he says something back. ‘Well, I didn’t know there was anyone in there,’ he says. Ok, so let’s just think about this a second. The door to the squash court is shut. There’s a fifty-fifty chance there’s someone playing. There’s a fucking spy hole on the door so you can see if anyone is playing. So what do you do?

Example Two:

Cycling home. I’m going up the bus/bike lane and can see, about 200 yards in front of me, a car waiting to come out of the side road on my left, looking to join the line of traffic on my right. As I get closer I can see the driver look at me. As she does so, she also starts to ease the car out into the bus/cycle lane in an attempt to squeeze into the traffic. Predictably, she can’t and stops, her car now completely blocking my way. I stop, with my wheel virtually touching her door and look straight at her. She actually looks surprised to see me and, more amazingly, annoyed that I should be blocking her view of the traffic. Silly bitch.

People (walking)

2005-12-01T12:04:00.000Z

I feel like I am the centre of some kind of Truman Show experiment this week. Has everyone in the world been told to make it as difficult as possible for me to walk around? It bloody feels like it.

Everywhere - the supermarket, at work, the high street, in shops - I am encountering numerous people who seem to have no concept of how to walk either in a straight line or with any sense of normality.

There's the classic opposing-directions scenario - we're both thinking of going the same way to get round each other, so we both change to the other side, then we're facing each other again and a collision is imminent, so we both come to a virtual stop and do that juddering this-way-that-way thing and nearly head butt each other. Yes, ok, it's no ones fault. But it's still annoying.

The other ones that seem to be targeting me this week are people who go out of their way to get in my way. I'm walking through the shopping centre in a straight line, towards the exit. Someone comes up from behind me, passes me, cuts infront of me and slows down. What are you doing? Get out of the fucking way!

I've said it before and will no doubt say it again - there are too many people in this country. The only noticeable effect of cutting the population in half is that there would be less fucking morons about.

Over-Friendly Shop Assistants

2005-11-23T14:03:00.000Z

I'm all for a polite, well mannered shop assistant - in fact, I'd be the first to complain if that wasn't the case - but sometimes they go too far. It's a fine line, but it's a very definite, well-drawn line. I shall demonstrate:

Assistant: Hello
Me: Hello.
(assistant scans items and tells me how much it is)

That's good - polite, efficient, to the point. The following sometimes-favoured exchange is getting close to being over the top:

Assistant: Hello, how are you?

Now, I know it's only a slight variation, but this question requires an answer and the polite response from me is to ask the same question back:

Me: I'm fine. How are you?

Canny assistants will cut the conversation off with a 'fine thanks' and proceed to scan and tell me how much it costs. Which is fine, but it's all a bit unnecessary. I doubt very much if they really care how I am, for example. I certainly don't really care how they are. So we both lie : 'I'm fine'. Really, I could say, 'Well, I came out for some guitar strings and a tube of smarties but the wife has insisted that we go to every other shop in town to look for things she can't afford and doesn't need anyway. So, seeing as you're asking, I'm pissed off. And I don't have any smarties.' But I don't, because I can't be bothered and I don't want to tell them how I really am. It's none of their business.

The problems really start when the assistant tries to take the exchange beyond this. Supermarkets are the worst places for two reasons: 1. You normally buy a variety of things, all containing possibilities for conversation hungry assistants. 2. The people they employ.

I shall demonstrate once more:

Assistant: (enthusiastically) Hi! How are you this afternoon?
Me: I'm fine thanks.
Assistant: Would you like me to help you with your packing?
Me: No it's alright. I think I can manage (all four items).
Assistant: (picking up bottle of white wine and inspecting the label) Oooh. Italian white. Very nice. I've not had a chance to try this particular one. Is it nice?
Me: I don't know - I haven't drunk it yet.
Assistant: (still holding the wine) We're selling a lot of New Zealand wines at the moment. I tried one the other day - very nice! You should try them out if you get a chance.
Me: Maybe if you get a fucking move on I'll get a chance to drink that bottle before we all die of old age/boredom.

Wisdom Teeth

2005-11-09T11:50:00.000Z

My jaw feels like it's on the wrong person. I can't eat properly. I can't sleep properly. My 'normal teeth' feel like they're being bullied out of my mouth.

Thankfully, I'm having all four of the bastards out in January.

Ambition

2005-11-08T12:31:00.000Z

4pm Thursday afternoon, sitting in a pub, four pints down. I've taken the day off for two reasons - firstly, so I can have some beers at a gig on Wednesday night and not have to go to work with a hangover and secondly so I can deal with the hangover by sitting in the pub all afternoon with my mate. As usual, talk turns to what we'd really like to be doing with our lives if we didn't have to do 'normal work'.

We have plans. We've always had plans - some more realistic than others, but still plans. Mine are finally becoming more certain and, as it's the week of my 28th birthday, I am more aware than ever that time is actually becoming a factor in my life. It's no longer 'what you want to do when you grow up'. This is when I'm grown up and I'm 'doing it'. Except I'm not, but that's why we have plans, isn't it?

Anyway - what's this got to do with ambition? Well - I have ambitions which are, funnily enough, related to my plans. There are things I want to do with my life that I am working toward achieving. But they take time. And success isn't necessarily guarenteed. The problem with this is that it means I have an uncertain future. It is highly possible that, even if my ambitions are partially achieved, I will never have a large house, lots of money and children. I would like a large house, lots of money and, yes, even children. But if I follow my dreams that may never happen. I may never earn a decent wage by doing what I want to do and I may end up too old to have children before I even get round to thinking about it.

But I could not live with myself if I didn't try to fullfil my ambitions. Give up on them and stay in a shit job like this forging a 'career in higher education administration' for the rest of my life? Are you fucking kidding me? I seriously would rather kill myself. Would I rather do what I want to do and not have lots of money, than hate what I'm doing and have money? Too right I would!

This week, though, it seems that my life would be much easier without ambition. I'd love to be happy to sit back and have an easy life, work in a shit boring job earning enough to live nicely and 'work my way up the property ladder'. It ain't going to happen though.

Click to Enter

2005-10-27T22:36:00.000+01:00

I spend a fair amount of time looking at websites. There are a number of reasons behind this but, more recently, it's to look at bands websites. And they seem to be the worst offenders.

The following is something I am seeing all to often:

"(Band Name) Click to Enter"

Normally over an image.

Click to enter? Why the fuck do you think I've bothered to come here in the first place? To sit and look at your shitty logo? To decide if, having entered your URL and pressed enter, I might want a second chance to think if I want to go to your website after all? Just fucking get on with it and let me look at whatever shit it is you've decided to share with the world.

Half Term

2005-10-26T14:17:00.000+01:00

My 45 minutes of freedom (or lunchtime, if you prefer. I don't take an hour because I come in 'late'. In fact, I should only take half an hour. And I normally come in at about 9.15am, instead of 9, so strictly speaking I should only take 15 minutes. But who's counting? I'm certainly not. Maybe they are? But fuck 'em. What are they gonna do? Sack me?) are rarely very jovial - they are, after all, sandwiched between 'Morning' and 'Afternoon', during which times I have to work. They are even less of a pleasure this week for one main reason - Half Term. And, more specifically, parents and children.

First of all - mothers with pushchairs. Just because you are pushing one of these things doesn't automatically mean you have the right of way, or the right to make your way, however you see fit. Fine - I'll open a door for you and make room if it's reasonable. But don't expect me to stop dead, move to the side and, in the end, take a completely different route to the one I was going to take just because you decided to pro-create and push your little pro-creation anywhere you like. You probably have all day to be pushing it around, I've got 45 minutes, so why don't you wait a fucking minute and realise there are other people in the world.

Secondly - the children. I know I know - they're only kids. And yeah, they're cute sometimes. But they're also fucking annoying. There I am vaguely looking over some shelves of discounted books when a 6 or 7 year old boy decides to test the fragility of my ear drums:

"MMMMUUUUUUMMMM. THEY'VE GOT FACE PAINTS OVER HERE!!!!!!!"

No response from the mother would lead you or I to believe that she is otherwise engaged with one of the other four children with her or, more surprisingly, the cashier, as she is actually buying something. But I watched the child quite specifically and at no point did he turn round to see if 'Mum' was actually listening. So for all he knew, she had heard and was coming over to look with him. That didn't matter:

"MMMMUUUUUUMMMM. THEY'VE GOT FACE PAINTS OVER HERE!!!!!!!"

Were I of slightly less stable mind, Mum would have been as sick of hearing about face paints as I was, sitting in hospital waiting for them to be removed from little junior's throat.

Thankfully (for him) I just left the shop - and had to jump out the way of a pushchair.

Call Centres

2005-10-18T18:48:00.000+01:00

I've always hated call centres, but this week has been particularly busy chez moi. There's so much about them that I hate I really don't know where to start. There's the scripted lines, the 'exclusive offers', the smug 'so you don't want to save money then?' response when I turn them down. So I've been fighting back and I think I'm getting better.

Let me just say, first of all, that I am not overly agressive to the call centre 'operative'. It's not their fault that they do what they do. In fact, I feel quite sorry for them and try my best to cheer them up. It's hard though - especially with a stinking hangover when they've just got me out of bed.

Some of them leave themselves wide open, though, and I try to take advantage. This evening's call was one such example:

Him: Is this Mr Herbert?
Me: Yes.
Him: Mr Herb...I am call...offer you a once...mobile phone. It will...just two pounds ninety nine a month.
Me: I'm sorry - you have a terrible connection. Are you really trying to sell me a telecommunications product? Because you're not really inspiring confidence in me.
Him: Errr...yes we are but...from Phillipines.
Me: You're calling me from the Phillipines?
Him: Yes
Me: Cool. What's the weather like there?

He sort of caught on after that that I wasn't going to buy a phone from him. At least he was fairly honest, though. It's the other lot, who try and reel you into a deal by claiming to be giving something away, that I really hate. I mean, I know I'm never going to buy anything from any of these bastards, but I like to listen to 'what I could have won' sometimes. Picture the scene - 10am Saturday morning. The previous evening saw my first excursion to a certain nightclub in about a year. I'm in bed - I can't sleep because the room won't stop spinning. The phone rings - I think it might be my friend who I am supposed to be meeting in 3 hours:

Me: Ughh
Him (thick Indian accent - which isn't necessarily important, but adds a certain something to the conversation if you adopt it whilst reading this): May I speak with Mr Herbert please?
Me: Ughh.
Him: Mr Herbert. I have a free Sony Ericsson mobile phone here for you. You are one of only 200 people selected to receive this special offer of a FREE mobile phone. It is a Sony Ericsson K750i (or something) with a 1.9 pixel digital camera, video messaging, colour screen, blue tooth, gold plated, diamond encrusted, makes the tea, puts you to bed, pulls you women and it will cost you absolutely nothing.
Me: OK. And it's free yeah?
Him: Yes Mr Herbert - absolutely free for you.
Me: Cool. Do you have my address there?
Him: Yes, it's blah blah blah blah blah.
Me: That's it. Nice one mate - stick it in the post. I'll see you later.
Him: No, Mr Herbert. Please wait one second. You have to pay £15.99 a month line rental.
Me: £15.99 a month?
Him: Yes Mr Herbert.
Me: Well it's not fucking free then, is it?
Him: The phone is free, but you must pay £15.99 a month line rental.
Me: Ok, I don't want line rental. I just want the phone.
Him: You have to have line rental to have a phone Mr Herbert.
Me: Not if I don't want to make calls I don't. I just want to use the camera.

The converstation degenerated from there into small talk about the weather in New Delhi at this time of year and, in the end, he promised to take my name and number off their list.

The Lottery

2005-10-10T12:37:00.000+01:00

When the lottery first started I thought it was only running for one week. My mum asked me if I was going to play and, when I found out it was going to happen every week, I said something like 'Yeah I might do. There's plenty of time though. Someone else can win this first one.'

Because it seems so easy, doesn't it? I mean, six numbers out of 49. Easy!! It can't be that hard - it won't be long till I win. Right? These days I even double my chances of winning by buying two lines. TWO! That's twelve numbers! I can't lose! Except I can. And always do.

That's my main problem with the lottery. It's too bloody hard to win it. I know - that's not exactly news.

The other problem I have with the lottery is the sharing of the prize fund. Ok, so I might not win the jackpot. But 5 numbers, for example. That's a bit more realistic, especially with my two lines (that's 12 numbers!). And five numbers is still alot of numbers, isn't it? It's only one less than six. So what do you win with five numbers? This week : £1,754. That's it! Not even two fucking grand! The winner - £5 million! Five million pounds! One number less - one thousand seven hundred! I'm not saying five numbers should also get millions, but seriously - spread it out a bit more, yeah?

Not that it matters anyway - I rarely get one number, which, considering I buy 12, is surely against the rules of probability, or something. Maybe not. I don't like to go into the details of the maths behind it really. I'd prefer to be ignorant and have the feeling that I *might* win rather than the reality that I probably won't.

Mind you - I wouldn't be surprised if I had won it and not realised, what with all the different draws they do now. It used to be simple - one draw, Saturday night, six numbers, match them up. Job done. The inclusion of the bonus ball was stretching it a bit, in my opinion, let alone Euromillions, Daily Play, Thunderball and whatever other shit they're doing now. But maybe that's what they want. Not only are they making more money by introducing new games and making people feel guilty about not giving themselves the chance to win them, they're also keeping more money by making it more difficult to work out whether you've actually won anything or not.

Thankfully I don't have a regular six numbers that I use, otherwise I would run the risk of 'winning' when I hadn't bought a ticket. I only use three numbers the same each time which means I only miss out on £10 if I don't do it. But I don't check the numbers if I don't buy a ticket so it's of no conscequence really anyway. Which reminds me - lucky dips. They're a fucking joke aswell. Randomly selected numbers? Randomly selected my ass. Not a week goes by without my 'lucky dip' containing at least two numbers the same as my own 'hand picked' numbers. And the other four in the lucky dip are useless aswell - they never win.

Celebrities

2005-10-03T15:16:00.000+01:00

I had the unfortunate experience of watching Britney Spears on the TV at the weekend - that programme where she films herself with a camcorder. As you might expect, it's awful. Truly the most self indulgent half hour of TV tripe I have ever seen. The part of it that really annoyed me, however, was when Ms Spears filmed herself asking her 'support staff' probing, personal questions. I'm fairly sure most of the people hadn't actually met her before, spending their time 'behind the scenes' taking green M+Ms out of packets, or whatever it is they do. Anyway, Britney took it upon herself to find out what everyones favourite 'sexual position' was, regardless of whether they wanted to tell her or not. What ensued was amateur-quality video footage of her 'staff' being hounded into answering 'the question', most of whom clearly didn't want to but were too polite and, presumably, too in need of keeping their jobs to tell her where to stick her question. Now, if Britney, no - if anyone were to stick a camcorder in my face and demand to know what my favourite sexual position was, I would imagine, or at least hope, that the conversation would go something like this:

Britney: Hey, what's your favourite sexual position?
Me: None of your business.
Britney (pushing camera closer): Come on - how do you like to do it?
Me (staring into camera): Fuck off you talentless bitch.

I also read an article in the Guardian about Charlotte Church. It was advertising, believe it or not, a reality TV show about her. The writer spent most of the article congratulating Ms Church on how 'down to earth' she is, unlike other 'celebrities'. The parting shot of the article was an exchange between (a pissed) Charlotte and a (posh) fellow party goer:

Charlotte: Where's the bog, I need a wee.
Posh party-goer: (looks shocked)

Now, if they're so interested in normality I would gladly introduce them to some of my friends who have much less respect for posh people and far looser tongues. I don't imagine that's what they're after though.

The problem I have with this is not that Charlotte Church is 'normal'. It's the fact that it's celebrated and written about, which surely then makes her 'not normal'. If we're admiring the fact that she's not like other celebrities, surely not putting her in the papers for picking her nose (or asking where the bogs are) would be a much better way of doing it.

I think the real problem here is not the celebrities themselves but the people surrounding them and 'commenting' on them. Particularly with that Spears bitch. Come on Britney workers - instead of muttering 'missionary' under your breath or looking away embarassed, tell her to fuck off.

Freshers

2005-09-29T12:53:00.000+01:00

Working in a University has its good points but, unfortunately, Freshers Week isn't one of them.

What is it with them, eh? Clogging up the corridors and acting all carefree, like they have a world of opportunity ahead of them. They're all so young and healthy looking. And enthusiastic and free and good looking and...and...and I wish I was one.