Socially Dysfunctional

With social media being a big thing and CCTV on every corner, your whole life is under the microscope. You are constantly under the glare which means everyone, in some form or other, has their 15 minutes of fame. That might be something as innocuous as starting a trend on Twitter, but you’re out there, in the cosmos, that imaginary cloud in the sky that is carrying data from one country to the next.

And with this ‘life surveillance’ come the prima donnas, the attention seekers, those that want you to either feel for them or envy them. Suddenly the world is not so big and a billion voices are clambering to be heard. I mean even Darth Vader is taking ‘selfies’ now in a galaxy far, far away.

I’m no different with my blog and my Facebook statuses, trying to get a rise out of the masses. The difference is I do not look for that attention on purpose. I just put things up to make people laugh if they stumble across it.

Who am I kidding?!?! I am one attention seeking mother fucker…

Those that use social media purely to garner attention, they really grate.

Facebook statuses that say “Am at the doctor’s again…” or “Yet another visit to the hospital…” and then for the next hour continuously update everyone about their surroundings, are merely after one thing - sympathy! The attention that comes with the replies like “Thinking about you chick…” or “I hope everything is ok…” feeding the ego that they are popular, thought about, cared for by people they probably haven’t seen for 5 years!

Before social media, doctor’s appointments for your genital warts or hospital visits for your prolapsed womb were kept private, something for the local fishwives to gossip about. Not anymore! Everyone airs their laundry on the world wide interweb!! 

I personally do not care enough about the person who I haven’t seen since school, telling the whole world about their illness, their cough and their “up all night with a headache” issues. Take a paracetamol and shut the fuck up… You are that close to death’s door apparently, but still have time to turn on the computer or go on your phone and let the world know you are on your death bed.

If you’re that close to death and feel that crap, don’t waste time on Facebook, spend it with family, tick off your bucket list or write your will…

Can you imagine wills in ten years time? All the acronyms and text talk?

‘I am ded LOL, YOLO, u hav bn left mi hse n car, cba wrtin more, TTFN’

Then there are those that want you to envy them, want to show off. Now I have to be honest I have done this on occasion and I know people are proud of their kids, but some go too far…

“How clever is Geoff, my 2 month old son, who has just passed his GCSE’s and got all A*s”

Really it should read: “I amounted to fuck all at school and god knows where my kid got his brains from, but he is clearly far cleverer than your child and I want you all to know that”.

At least in reality when your child grows up and fails miserably and can’t get a job this status will act as a historical reminder to all that Geoffrey crashed and burned just like you did… The apple never falls far from the tree does it???

The child thing I guess I understand to a certain extent, but the whole world doesn’t need to know, surely? As I have said before, if I was interested in your kids and had any time for them, I would visit, stay in touch, at least send a birthday card every year… but I don’t, so I don’t care, I’m not interested and neither are 99% of your Facebook friends.

Then there are the “look how fit I am, envy me” people. The ones that change their profile picture every other day. Or show their new hair colour or latest nail design.

“Oh look at me and how beautiful I am…” Knowing that the replies will come thick and fast from people telling them “how gawjus” they are and that they are a “right fitty”.

Their statuses are usually about how they got chatted up or messaged by some guy or gal who is clearly beneath them. However, they still want you to know. They want you to know they get attention and want more attention as a result.

In reality they have little or no self confidence or are single because they are superficial. It really does make my teeth hurt.

However the worst type of “envy me” attention seekers are those that put pictures of their flash TV, latest gadget they’ve spent a fortune on or their flash new car – the type that is clearly saying -  much like that famous Harry Enfield character – “I am considerably richer than yow!!!”

Well I am glad you have told me about your 150 inch plasma 3D TV that is loaded onto your gold BMW that sucks you off as you hit 32mph and I am even more glad you have conveniently tagged yourself at your 54 bedroomed mansion because when you tag yourself in The Seychelles I am going to fucking rob you!!

Oh, for legal reasons I just want to point out that burglary is a crime; it is not condoned, so be careful and don’t get caught…

The whole social media thing has opened up the world, which on some levels is a good thing, but on other levels it’s bad…

I mean do I want to see a picture of an Asian man getting a BJ from a hooker in an alleyway? Do I want to watch this week’s street fight between two guys arguing over some skanky woman? Funny videos used to be the staple diet of Sunday afternoon television on You’ve Been Framed… Now they are common place, each one as tedious as the next and getting worse and worse in the taste stakes.

As I said, in a world now so watched by cameras and video phones, there are no secrets.

Facebook was a place for a catch up, to share pictures with friends and families, but now it is a nuisance to some degree.

The one thing I get annoyed about is the charity companies that post plastic bags through your door and ask you to fill it with clothes. I get about 2 a day now… I do not have enough clothes to last me, let alone dress the 3^rd world too. And I know they are doing it for a good cause before you start, but surely they could save money by not posting several hundred branded plastic bags through my door each month! A roll of bin liners, the cheap ones are only a pound – they could save loads!

Well the Facebook example of this is the ‘Like’ if you want to cure… ads. These are the electronic equivalent of those bin liners, being pushed through my letter box and into the electronic world we now all seem to be living in.

Doctors for years have been working on cures for cancer, spending millions and millions of pounds trying to eradicate this terrible disease. Who knew that all they had to do was ‘Like’ it on Facebook and all our prayers would be answered!!!

I find it ironic that we use the term social media when the likes of Facebook and Twitter have cut dead face to face conversation. Being social now seems so removed from everyday life…

Anyway, rant over, for now. Although I am sure it will be revisited. I best post this and share it around the world for everyone to see how clever or how small minded I am; you decide…

Be sure to add me as a friend on Facebook and follow me on Twitter though please…. Hehe!

A Tarnished Childhood

My blog is now over a year old – happy birthday Domino Effect – so I thought I had better write something to acknowledge this.

But every time I turn the laptop on to start writing I seem to draw a blank, writer’s block! I have struggled to make fun of anything recently. Well that isn’t strictly true, but nothing that can cover a blog piece. I mean little things have tickled me, like if vegetarians care so much for animals why do they steal all their food? I also wonder why you either meet a nice old person or a mean old person. There seems to be no in-between.

I also would like to know why people can’t just be blunt. Why do they have to go round the houses instead of saying what they mean or feel?? Everyone seems to do it nowadays. Just call a spade a spade and have done with it. This is a no secret zone!!

Then I switch on the news and realise my whole childhood was one big lie…

I grew up in the 80s and like most kids in the 80s was hooked on Saturday television. So in the mornings it was Going Live with Phillip Schofield and Sarah Green, followed by the likes of Teenage Mutant Hero (they couldn’t use Ninja back then!) Turtles, Inspector Gadget and Heathcliff – that crazy cat terrorising the neighbourhood (Whoooo oooo whooooooo yeah!).

But the one show I loved was Rolf’s Cartoon Club (did you know, you can join today!). And join I did!! I sent in drawings of cartoon characters I had created. I created all kinds of characters. I had a scrapbook of creations such as TV Tim. TV Tim was the hero of a comic I created with his trusty sidekick who was a telephone dog. The TV wasn’t plasma back in the 80s so Tim was based on the big brown, faux wood looking, family tube TV with actual buttons and dials! The telephone dog was a proper turn dial telephone (red in colour) and the bad guy of the piece was Rad Radio (original eh), who, you guessed it, was a radio complete with aerial and tuning nob! He was a DAB hand at being bad (Groan!).

Incidentally when older I created another comic strip called Super Sperm who lived in a big pink cock shaped mansion and when needed flew out of the “sky light” at the top of his mansion! His arch nemesis was Chlamydia!! I didn’t know how to represent that in cartoon form, so basically made it look feminine (after all it is women that pass on this kind of thing surely????).

Anyway, Rolf replied, although thinking back probably not in person, and I was a fully fledged member of Rolf’s Cartoon Club (you can join today! Honest).

Then Saturday evenings came and the whole family would watch Jim’ll Fix It…

One letter was only the start of, one letter and now you’re a part of it!! Jim’ll fix it, Jim’ll fix it for you and you and you and…

I loved that program although in hindsight it was shit. I mean, you can ask for anything in the world and stupid kids asked for crap things like meeting their local Mayor or opening a new supermarket!! Jim can fix it for you stupid!! Ask for something decent!!

Dear Jim,

I am James, I am 9 years old. Please can you fix it for me to visit Hugh Heffner at the Play Boy mansion…?

OR

Dear Jim,

My name is James and I am 10 years old. I am poorly in hospital at the moment and have no company due to only a small side room being available. Please can you fix it for me by coming to visit…?

Actually it’s that second part that is the problem… but more on that later…

After Jim had let some kids ride in a fire engine or the back of a police car (and looking at some of the kids on the show I’m sure it wasn’t going to be the last time they had that type of ride), we changed the channel (back then kids, we only had 4 to choose from!) looking for something to watch before stumbling across Jim Davidson’s Big Break!

Oh yes, Saturday evening prime time on the BBC at its best. People of the public paired up with a snooker star…

“And Geoff you have picked the green ball which means you have Jimmy White!!!

George, you have the pink ball and you will be partnered with Steve Davis…

Dave, you have the brown ball and have Joseph Bloggs…. “(Who the fuck is that???)

There was always that one person who got paired up with someone that no one had ever heard of…

Then Jim Davidson would crack a few jokes, say some one liners on the cusp of being a bit blue. The adults in the room would laugh at the innuendo and we kids just didn’t get it.

Unless you were a lad in my class at school called Stuart who knew what the word cunt meant from about 3 years old… Every time I said I “couldn’t do” something (but lazily said “I cunt” do something) he would grass me up to the teacher for swearing.  I didn’t have a clue what he meant!!

After the days TV the family would switch on the radio and we’d listen to the sounds of Dave Lee Travis, or DLT as he was known… (Ok, this bit is totally made up, we never listened to the radio as a family, but then this ending just wouldn’t work if I didn’t include it).

The children went to sleep happy after a wonderful day of watching their TV hero’s entertain them and make them laugh. Thinking happy thoughts, thinking about what to write to Jim about next time or what to draw Rolf in the hope he’d see your artwork and demand to meet you…

The innocence of my youth, the innocence of the 80s…

Fast forward to modern day and flicking on the news to see the Yew tree arrests (Yew tree being the code name for a sting operation involving paedophiles).

“Today it has emerged that Jimmy Saville of Jim’ll Fix it fame, who died last year, has been found out for his years of paedophile activity stretching across the 60’s, 70’s and 80’s…. Jimmy Saville would often prey on children at local hospitals… “

“As part of the Yew tree operation Rolf Harris has been arrested on suspicion of indecent assault….”

“Today Jim Davidson was questioned over allegations of child abuse at a London police station…”

“Dave Lee Travis, known to millions as DLT, was today arrested as part of the Yew tree investigation…”

And in the space of 12 months, 2012 – 2013, my entire childhood 20 odd years ago was destroyed! Everything I loved and talked about in the playground, tarnished. It seems they all were at it, and getting away with it because of their fame and fortune.

I remember when the news story first broke on Jimmy Saville. The reporter stood outside a hospital in Leeds “Jimmy Saville made his victims do things that, as a child, they didn’t understand…”

At first, before I knew the truth, I instantly thought “Sudoku? The evil bastard…”

My Dad would sit there at the time saying “I don’t trust that Saville… He looks like that bloke that sits out side the school gates…”

Suddenly it became evident that everyone thought it, everyone seemed to know it, but everyone turned a blind eye because they were famous, because they were popular, because they were rich.

Destroy a child’s innocence, sat vulnerable in a hospital, or keep the ratings up?? No brainer!

Everyone with a beard, who wore a tracksuit or who used an over abundance of sexual innuendo seemed to be a paedophile! Everyone seemed to think it. Everyone who matched that stereotype seemed guilty at the time and suddenly was guilty now (well, it’s all alleged let me point out… but where there’s smoke…).

My Dad would pipe up that they should have arrested the lot of them back then. But on what evidence if no one came forward? On the evidence that they look like paedophiles!!

So maybe we should introduce a new law where if you look like a paedophile, so have a beard, like sexual innuendo too much, have that creepy smile going on, wear brown slacks and a raincoat (even in summer) and carry a jotter and camera with you, then then you will be locked up (and we would have less train spotters standing on bridges too!).

You will be guilty even if you haven’t done anything because you will end up doing something!

You will destroy the innocence of youth, you will destroy someone’s life and you will tarnish the memories of a wonderful 80s to people like me.

Prevention is better than cure after all, so nip it in the bud before anything serious happens!!

We will have lynch mobs gathering in town centres ready to hang the likes of Arsene Wenger (raincoat wearing; creepy look), Mr Motivator (lycra and track suit), Brian Blessed (beard) and Keith Lemon (over use of sexual innuendo!).

Oh and in case you were wondering Jim did reply to my letter by the way. When I was very ill, lying in a hospital bed, he came to visit me… I was touched.

Offended? Well you can go fu** yourself!

Right, before I go any further I better just bring up the elephant in the room. The last blog about relationships was a hit for me and one of my most read posts. However, it certainly divided opinion. Some thought it was a brilliant, brash, tongue in cheek piece, whilst others thought it was an act of desperation and some even thought it pathetic enough to tell me so.

　

If when reading that last blog any of it sounded like I was talking about you, then all I can say is I probably was, you’re right, but tough shit! However, like all my blogs, you should remember I try having a laugh at things in life. I take the little bare element of truth, twist it, shake it, kick it around,　add plenty of embellishment and enough self deprecating humour to make it the furthest thing from serious.

　

And I will continue to do this with all blog posts I put on. So if any posts you read have a nod in your direction then it means you have either made me laugh or you’ve been a twat. Deal with it, brush yourself off and move on…

　

So, how can I follow the last post? As it got such a reaction it will be hard to top. I do have one in the locker about my sexploitations, but it maybe too soon for that one I reckon, but trust me it will be worth waiting for. The situations I have got myself into!!

　

I could do a work one maybe? But then again plenty of people from　work end up reading this and it isn’t the right time to be hunted down by a lynch mob, although I guess it doesn’t have to be that offensive… does it?

　

I could introduce you all to the 3^rd member of the three amigos. Obviously I have introduced you to Jew Boy – who I will make famous one day – but I've only mentioned　Phillipe in passing. Someone who has been my best bud for 29 years and only because I’m far too lazy to go out and find new friends.

　

The theme here is clearly my mouth though. I have been told that I have no filter, which is evident in this blog. Something pops into my head and I don’t think of the consequences, I just roll with it. Some may see that as refreshingly blunt, a change from our very over PC world. Some amongst us just get offended.

What these people need to realise though, is that it is a joke… body parts will not fall off if they are offended. You do not suddenly contract leprosy. If you don’t like something I say, don’t listen. Same goes for TV or films. If you are likely to be offended don’t go see it, don’t watch it.

　

Why do people who are easily offended watch certain things? It’s all a bit car crash effect to me…

　

I went to a stand up gig once, Tom　Stade in case you wanted to know (you must go see him!) and someone got up and walked out. They obviously didn’t know enough about him to know that he swears and can say offending things. However, the person that walked out missed the point of the joke. He was being ironic to make his point, but the person was just too thick to realise.

　

Speaking of swearing, I have to be honest, the inner child in me likes to swear, still finds it funny and I like to see what I can get away with.

Back to my mouth though, it can be quite vicious and I very rarely engage brain before tongue. It is only afterwards that I realise what I’ve said and how it may be misconstrued. In temper especially I say stuff to get a reaction. It’s like poking a hornet’s nest… all seems fun until you get stung.

And I have been stung a few times…

　

Once, whilst playing football, the opposition had a man mountain of a bloke on their team who decided it was fun to smash our smallest guy. Well I don’t like that and took it upon myself to gain retribution. I lined him up perfectly and flew in completely missing the ball, but hitting the target (him!) and he went down!

The problem, for me, was that he got back up and made a bee line straight for me! He was　effing and jeffing, telling me he would crush my bones to make his bread (or is that a children’s story?). I promptly turned my back and figured if he was going to lamp me let him do it cowardly and in the back of my head. He saw this and calmed down a little, said something along the lines of "Yeah, that’s right pussy, jog on to your Mum…" My brain said "thank fuck for that as he would have killed you…" but my mouth said "You silly fat stupid cu**!"

　

I was drinking through a straw for the next few days…

　

I'm also not very PC. I can’t stand all that modern crap, worrying whether you are going to offend someone or not. People are brainwashed into thinking that they should be offended if someone says a certain thing. It also depends on who is saying it too!

　

A black man, for instance, can call a fellow black man the ‘N’ word. Not a word I would use, but equally when my black friends say it I don’t bat an eye lid. However, if I was to call any of my black friends that in the same way, friendly mates banter, they tell me it isn’t the done thing. So they are ok using it, but I’m not, and I question this. I get told it’s because they’re black so its fine, I’m white so it’s not, even though we are all mates!

　

This is why I call my white mates arseholes, because I am an arsehole and so are they. However, if a non arsehole calls me an arsehole, they better watch their back!! Not that I am a violent person. That was just for the joke purpose of the conversation.

　

People from Pakistan, when called a shortened version of their country name, get upset and offended, does that mean if someone calls me a Brit I should be upset now? And before you start I know the first term is usually used in a derogatory way, but if you don’t let it offend you then it wouldn’t be used negatively.

People around me know of my lack of self editing though and they accept it. I like to think of it as some form of Tourette’s. I see it in my head and it comes out of my mouth before I can process and filter it.

　

There is a lass on my team – she’ll know who she is by the description – who is Indian. And yet I call her a Jew, for the laugh, and it’s stuck and she even joins in and we have built this whole faith up for her so much that people question if she is or isn’t actually Jewish.

　

I don’t follow a faith and am not racist; I’m merely just having a bit of banter. Some won’t find it funny, some won’t see the point, but in my little space it works and is accepted.

　

So I wonder why everyone can’t be like that. I have religious mates, female mates, ethnic minority (another PC term!) mates and gay mates and because they are mates I can get away with saying certain things. I once said to a gay mate that I have nothing against gay men, but they are all fucking arseholes. I thought it was a good line, he thought it was funny also. No one was offended and no one died…

　

If someone calls me a thick Northern monkey then I am fine with that. If someone calls me white trash then touché. If they call me a son of a bitch I occasionally agree and wonder if they have met me Mam. They are just words. Words that normally just make me laugh or deserve a clever retort. I guess I try to push the boundaries because I have no card to play and so I have nothing to be offended about…

　

I am not black or Asian… so can’t play the racist card.

I am not a woman… so can’t play the sexist card.

I am not religious… so can’t play the God card.

I am not gay… so can’t play the homophobe card.

I am not old… so can’t play the ageist card.

I am not even ginger… so can’t play the copper top card!

　

I am a 32 year old straight white man.

　

So yes, it might be different if I had a card to play but why get offended, angry or upset at words? Decades ago I guess things were different, new, so people spoke about the different in a derogatory way, singled them out, but nowadays the entire above are as common as each other. We should all break free of the political correctness bollocks that has driven the world mental.

　

Can I say mental nowadays?

　

If someone said to me that I am no longer to be accepting the term ‘white man’ I would tell them to piss off. If they told me the correct term from now on to describe white folk is Spanish Pink (this is an actual shade of pink apparently!) or Rosa I would tell them to stick it up their arse…

　

I mean I still get confused when I have to tick Cocky Asian on any forms that come my way!

　

The thing is, and this is what you have got to remember, is that you should take anything I write, say or do with a massive pinch of salt (use a shovel in fact!) and just try see the funny side of it. If you have read 24 out of the 25 blog posts here and laughed or smiled at them all but then got offended at post number 25 then just stop, shake your head, and move on. Don’t read any further posts if that’s the case, but just know that it isn’t meant to offend. I am not that type of bloke.

　

I don’t discriminate!

　

Doesn’t matter if you are black, white, gay, straight, male, female or from Mars, if you’re a twat then you’re a twat. And I will take the piss regardless.

All filler; no killer!

It’s been a while since I wrote a post, as I like to write about something funny or mildly thought provoking (yeah right, if I can get a nob gag in there I will!). Nothing has come to me for the last few months though. Well that’s a lie, the one thing that I constantly want to or think I should write about is my taboo subject. People that know me or those that read this blog will know I make light of the many failures I’ve had in my life. Whether that be sporting failures, professional failures or just carrying a TV to the car failures. However, there is one thing that I spectacularly fail at. My taboo subject... the relationship!

I often have a sly dig at women on this blog, but trust me; it’s purely for entertainment purposes. The truth is, I’m very fond of women... If they shut up and make my tea! Again, I jest. We all strive for that perfect relationship though and many of us find that perfect relationship in fact. I’m surrounded by people, mates, work colleagues who have those perfect relationships – well from the outside looking in they seem perfect.

I hate these people by the way. They make me sick. Putting shit on Facebook about their amazing wife/husband and the romantic crap that they get up to, posting pictures looking all happy and smiley and doe eyed! They even go as far as wishing them happy birthday even though they’re sat in the same fucking room!!

But what makes the perfect relationship though? What makes a couple work? Some say its chemistry. Some say it’s having things in common. Some say it’s the fact that they have different interests. Some say it boils down to attraction or just plain old sexual compatibility.

In my experience all of the above is total bollocks! As at some point or another, in any relationship I’ve been in, all of the above or a mix and match have been evident and yet it still fails. I just end up being a comfort blanket to them instead!

   

The one common denominator, therefore, must be me! It must be something I do wrong, even though I get under ‘the other halves’ skin, so much so they use words like ‘forever’, ‘ideal man’, ‘best friend’ etc... They fall for a charm, my cheekiness, the flirtation, but then once in a relationship the same things they fall for end up being the things that do their head in.

So the phrase nice guy finishes last is very true in my case. I am a nice guy and I will give people the time of day. I wear my heart on my sleeve and I try making them feel special, but then it all goes pear shaped.

Now I know I’m not a David Beckham, an Olly Murs or a Robbie Williams – actually that last one haunts me as people always say I have a bit of Robbie about me. It’s my mannerisms I’m told and a wild look in my eye (the left one I think). Personally I don’t agree as I ain’t a big fan of Robbie. However, what I’m trying to say is that people generally don’t fall for me on looks, they fall for the personality, which means I have to work damned hard for it and it’s a long process.

This all started in middle school. Well, it was the first time I noticed it. I had a girlfriend for 2 years. TWO YEARS!! However, I only spoke to her about 5 times. It was a case of standing at the opposite side of the playground, pointing and waving, telling mates it was going well. Then every 3 months I would talk to “my girlfriend” and ask if we were still going out.

The realisation continued when I fancied this lass in the final year of middle school and was that shy I couldn’t tell her. Then when we left school (as in for good, not just for the day) I found out that she had liked me too but by this time had a boyfriend. So I decided there and then that I would just be upfront in the future. If I liked someone, then I would tell them. No point pining for months to find out they weren’t interested anyway. So I decided just ripping the plaster off would be the best way to go about it.   

But this doesn’t work either because if the other person states they “don’t know” if they like you or isn’t a communicator then it becomes very lop sided. And boy have I had some lop sided relationships.

I could recount some of the horror stories for you if you want, but you would no doubt be sat there thinking this guy was naive and deserved what he got. I mean one girlfriend cheated with a work colleague the same week I got with her, yet I still persisted. Another gal decided to go back to her ex (he was ginger!). One person decided they wanted to fill their boots on holiday so ended things prematurely and another put a deposit on a house behind my back and planned to secretly move out!

If I was a boxer they would say I should retire due to being punch drunk!

And yet these women still want to be friends afterwards, maybe realising that the grass isn’t always greener (wishful thinking!). They seem to remember me with some level of fondness. Granted sometimes the grass is greener, the next field is like one big fucking orgy and the grass is caviar rather than cud! I just wonder why I’m good enough to be a friend afterwards, but nothing more. Maybe they need help picking out their next fella?!?! Or maybe I’m like a real life comparison website… this is what you could have ended up with, but this one is far better for you… I am clearly all filler and no killer.

Oh and just in case your wondering, this isn’t me feeling sorry for myself. This is months of wanting to write about these things, so people laugh at the situations I manage to get myself into. Or I just felt like a rant, which is probably closer to the truth. 

Dating doesn’t get easier either, as you get older. The blokes you are competing with for affection seem younger, healthier, fitter, stronger, better dressed and don’t have the baggage. My expanding waistline, man tits, grey hair, wrinkles and the fact that due to colour blindness cannot mix and match in the clothes department means I am up against it – and I am still only 32!!

And because I’m not one of these skinny jean wearing twats (I couldn’t actually get a pair over my calves!) and I don’t go to the gym, tanning salon, fancy hairdressers or use facial creams or pluck parts of my body that shouldn’t be plucked, then I just look like someone’s Dad sidling up to any potential victim… Now that last sentence makes me sound like a serial killer, but it made me smile so I’m keeping it in!

Reading the above list, I couldn’t actually afford to be a David Beckham wannabe. Imagine how much money it costs a bloke to wear the latest fashion, buy the latest skin products and tan for that all year round glow, as well as pay for a gym membership on top! You could save your money and just use those high class escort services!! The advantage being, you don’t have the additional nagging to go with it. Bonus!

That isn’t me admitting to high class escorts either; I couldn’t even afford a low class one! Not that I would. Moving swiftly on...

Sometimes those around me, those in their perfect relationships, like to dispense their advice. How many times have I heard “it’s their loss” or “there’s plenty more fish in the sea”?

And if I had a penny for every time someone said “it’s not you, it’s me”... Actually I would be skint still as it’s more “It is you, it’s your fault, deal with it!”

The other piece of advice I get is to use dating websites. This just doesn’t sit well with me though. They just seem like online cattle markets. Now I know some people swear by them and they are big business, but I just don’t get it. At least in a bar you have the potential to be successful as the opposite sex is hopefully well on their way to being pissed and so their eye sight isn’t all its cracked up to be and you could be their ten to two-er! (The last option of the night basically).

Shit, I think I’m doing myself a dis-service again!

I got shown by a work colleague the delights of online dating and basically it just looked like I was viewing crime fit photos!! Nah, not my cup of tea methinks...

Recently I was told two things by two different people. The first was that I have a queue of admirers... but they couldn’t actually name one! The second was that I’m eye candy, but it was a gay bloke that told me that. Now that definitely isn’t my cup of tea, but I may have to re-evaluate that in a few years time if I’ve had no luck!  

What I think the most logical thing to do is invent that machine from Total Recall. The one where you get to create/change your partner – less attitude, more endearment, maybe bigger breasts... I will even use the formula the scientists came up with: You take the mass of the ass, multiply the angle of the dangle to find the measure of pleasure. Easy!

I can’t fail… Well, I could actually!

This isn’t a begging letter either, I don’t want all you single ladies inundating me with requests, thinking you can sort me out. Well, unless Kate Beckinsale is reading this. She can apply; just send it to the usual address at Lonely Hearts Corner…

Hell I don’t mind if Kate wants to stand at the other end of the playground pointing at me. Works for me… Then I don’t mind being a comfort blanket!

“Hey bud, you see her over there, yes the Hollywood star, she’s my girlfriend...”

Only in my dreams eh!

Food Glorious Food?

Someone said to me recently that they had good news and bad news…

The good news?

Well that the new Häagen Dazs advert featured Bradley Cooper! Phwoar right? He doesn’t float my boat, but the person that told me this was female AND she only eats light coloured foods. In fact she is a self confessed beigatarian!

The bad news?

Well the bad news was that he kept his clothes on apparently! Sexist! We, men, are not pieces of meat for you women to drool over! The thought that women undress me with their eyes is disgusting… Actually in my case it is more dressing me with their eyes. I do like to strip off, especially when drunk!! In fact, I think it must be in the genes as my brother is exactly the same! I blame the parents.

Anyway, the advert got me thinking about how advertisers promote food as sexy! Let’s be honest, ice cream can be sexy, I guess. A bit of raspberry ripple spread on the body, topped off with a flake and hundreds and thousands, must be sexy right??

The thing is, I’ve seen people eating ice cream, I’ve eaten it myself, and I tell you now there ain’t anything sexy about it. You end up with it down your chin like an ice cream goatee beard, dripped down the front of your clothes and all over your fingers. In fact the sight of someone trying to catch the ice cream that is running down the cone, lashing at it with their out stretched tongue like a dog licking it’s own nuts really doesn’t do anything for me at all. Although I’m sure there’s a market out there for it!

Food is a funny thing though. As stated in a previous post, you get those food snob types, no doubt that eat Häagen Dazs – in comparison, I am Mr Whippy and proud!

Kebabs, I find, is the food that divides most people. Those that screw their face up and state that all sorts are put in kebabs (see also hot dogs!) and those people like me who have it as a staple part of their diet, always after a few beers of course – I don’t think I’ve ever eaten a kebab when sober. However, the next morning I have a mouth like the inside of Ghandi’s flip flop and no matter how much I brush my teeth the god awful taste lingers for the next few hours. At that point I wish I was a dog as I swear my nuts would taste better.

The kebab is the taste equivalent of an optical illusion. It looks tempting when pissed, tastes like a Michelin starred main course and, with added salad, you convince yourself that it’s good for you and one of your five a day. However, the next morning you realise that your tiny, drink fuelled mind was playing tricks on you all along and what you ate the previous night now has more ‘taste’ than it did when you first consumed it!

There should be a cooking show for the pissed provided by the government or something. A kind of… . ‘how to cook beans without burning down the house; gourmet meals for the drunk programme. It should feature warnings about not picking up the phone and ordering a load of fried crap for the sake of it, which you then wake up to the next morning when the last thing you want to face is leftover kebab meat and dry chicken pakoras scattered around the kitchen top, and bits of dried chilli sauce hanging from the work top like stalagmites… or stalactites, whichever one hangs down!

Obviously one of your five a day can include fruit. Now I don’t mind fruit, it can be quite refreshing, but I don’t think many people rate fruit – it’s usually just women in my experience. I mean fruit isn’t big business surely? Otherwise why put it out front, unguarded, at greengrocers? It isn’t locked away like the beer and cigs and monitored by CCTV is it? No one does a ram raid for fruit supplies! You don’t hear on the news that an armed gang raided Fred the Grocers early Saturday morning and stole in excess of 1 million pounds worth of apples and pears! Therefore, in my reckoning, it means it’s worthless. If it ain’t worth nicking then it ain’t worth owt!

Usual readers will know how I feel already about certain food types like houmous, lentils and couscous. These food types didn’t exist when I was younger or if they did only hippies and gypsies knew about it, which can only mean it’s bad for you surely?

This is my blog and my logic, ok?!?!

I do like the fact that Subway use athletes now to advertise their butties! I’m not sure how healthy these sarnies are, but again they do taste good, especially as you get to pick and choose what you want, so you can’t go wrong can you? I always have Southwest sauce on mine. I have no idea what this sauce is mind; you don’t find it in the supermarket next to salad cream that’s for sure. I have no idea why I originally chose that sauce. I mean where in the South West does it come from??

However my favourite bit of Subway is the turkey… in small print next to the word ‘turkey’ is the word ‘reformed’. As I stand in the queue waiting to be served by some acne ridden, dirty teenager ("please can you put your gloves on… please… now!") I often imagine this turkey growing up, making the wrong decisions in life, going down the wrong path, getting in with the wrong crowd (those damned dirty mallards!) and turning to a life of crime.

Maybe the turkey once held up a greengrocers for a punnet of strawberries, killing Fred in the process, and was on the run from the police for weeks, finally cornered at Heathrow trying to board a plane to the Costa Del Sol where he was planning on living a care free life, opening a night club and ending his days living the dream, throwing drink fuelled orgies with various women and celebrities… Instead the turkey would suddenly find himself in the pen, in Norfolk, spending his time on D wing – otherwise known as the Bernard Matthews wing – when suddenly he has an epiphany from above. The turkey turns to god and begins bible studies, learning the rights from the wrongs, asking for forgiveness and preaching to others God’s word before finally embarking on his final journey down death row… He lived a life of crime but on his deathbed was finally forgiven… The turkey had reformed and would now become part of a Subway club instead of a turkey drumstick covered in bread crumbs…

By the time I have finished this thought I am holding up the queue and all I can hear is "Onions sir? Onions? Cucumber? Sir??"

However, as I pay ("No, I don’t want an oversized cookie as part of a meal deal!"), I am still thinking about that turkey. I think the reason he was caught is that he didn’t wear a disguise… Maybe he should have worn his shell-suit???

I can hear the collective groan…

Look, I’ve told you, my blog, my logic, my crap humour… deal with it!

Tell me a fable...

I like to write and put my thoughts down on paper. I like to entertain, so I hope my musings make you smile, laugh, chuckle, agree or disagree. If not, then you obviously prefer to read The Guardian or something, so close your browser and go do that instead of reading on…

I have always had a creative side to me whether it be drawing, joke telling, pranks or the written word. As a result I have created many a rhyme or silly speech or daft poem …

…speaking of poems, I probably get that from my Mum as she likes to write poems. She once had some poetry published in a book and I remember reading it. I was shocked!! For anyone who knows my Mum you’d know she is a shy, retiring type (very similar to me, honest!), but the poetry she wrote was utter filth… one poem was about making love (I was sick in my mouth!) and another about domestic violence. I like to think neither goes on in my parent’s house!! But if I had to choose one…

Anyway, I have also written speeches when people have left work, or their birthdays and a couple of Best Man speeches… I’ve never been a best man; I just gate crash other people’s speeches if they’re shit!

A word of warning to anyone that ever asks me to be best man or do a speech for them – DO NOT have any secrets like you smoke (and your Grandparents didn’t know) or that you were sleeping with two women at the same time (not actually AT the same time, but you know what I mean) who had the same name to make it easier to not get confused and scream out the wrong name… It will come out! The information I mean…

As you can imagine my humour and tell all nature (meant in a good way, not nasty) leads people to dislike me sometimes, or not get my humour. Or at least not appreciate it!

Work is a good example of that.

The company I worked for launched an internal site that profiled who you were and what you did along with a picture. My picture in itself was offensive as I was extremely hung-over the day I had it taken. I probably shouldn’t admit that! I was also pounds heavier and look like I had eaten my body weight in kebabs, but hey-ho, worse things have happened at sea! Like Mega-Shark vs. Giant Octopus! WTF!!

The thing that put people’s nose out of joint was my profile description. Everyone else had written: "I went to University and studied X, Y and Z. In my spare time I like to read philosophy, help the elderly and serve my community to the best of my ability… bollocks! Blah! Bum hole! Whatever!"

So I wrote the following:

"I am Evans... James Evans.

A former CIA agent now working undercover at *place of work* (Cover now blown!).
I have sired 14 kids; all named Earl to make it easier, which means I have to work part time as a head chef in a top London restaurant (McDonald's).
I play football at the weekends for Bolton Wanderers FC (although I support Chelsea) and have represented my country at the 2006 World Cup. Manchester City is currently interested in buying me.
I have also starred in 23 major Hollywood blockbusters alongside the likes of DeNiro, Pitt, Hoffman, Nicholson and Cruise. I have twice won an Oscar for Best Supporting Actor. The first of which was for Witches of Eastwick where my screen time was only 3 seconds long.
I am also very good friends with Bono and Bob Geldof and do a lot of charity work. I personally have raised over £56 Billion.
I was also the first Brit to fly solo to the moon and back in my dinner hour and cross the Atlantic using only a rubber ring and a thermos flask!
However I am most known for my invention of oxygen which I was awarded a Noble Prize for and a Knighthood.
I am also a renowned liar..."

Apparently this profile was not professional and could offend people! As a result I was ordered to take it down with immediate effect by a well known raging alcoholic (can I say that in a public forum?). I think people would just see I have a sense of humour and not a massive pole (the wooden variety, not the Eastern European variety) shoved up my arse, acting all rigid and well to do!

Maybe this is why after 8 years I am still on the bottom rung! I really should tow the corporate line more often!

I like to think I have moments of clarity and genius and so as well as the blog, the speeches and the profiles, I also write fables for children to learn from. I was set this challenge by a work colleague and so my creative juices whirred into action and I think you’ll agree the following is as good as anything Aesop or Rudyard Kipling came up with.

It’s a story of friendship and greed but also has a strong moral core to the story. So I will leave you now with my fable. Hopefully it will be passed from generation to generation and it is something you will share with your kids, a life lesson, preparing them for the big, bad world…

The story is called ‘The Gerbil & The Panda’

… enjoy!

This story begins at the end, goes to the beginning and then ends in the middle, but nearer the end. It is a confusing story with an unhappy ending. However, don’t let that put you off.

The Gerbil laid there lifeless, still, the last remains of his breath forced out of his little body. The Panda stood up and walked away from the scene.

How has this happened you may ask? And I will tell you.

The gerbil and the panda were friends, walking through the meadows, making daisy chains and singing songs. They fished by the river with the panda using the gerbil as bait. The gerbil didn’t mind though as he knew, even after close scrapes, the panda was there for him, to scoop him out of the water when danger approached. There was a trust between them.

In in their younger days they met at a local watering hole. The gerbil was very popular, had masses of friends and the adoration of many a lady. The panda was an unhappy soul in the beginning though. Close to the edge and nerves very fraught, but was the nicest living thing ever, kind hearted and generous. He wondered if he could just pluck up the courage to befriend the gerbil so that he too would become popular.

And so began a most fantastical friendship. The gerbil invited the panda to parties and social gatherings. The gerbil shared his friends and his bitches and the panda began to love life.

After years of living life on the edge and partying to all hours, their hectic lifestyle began to play on the mind of the gerbil. He was fed up of the drugs, the beer, and the un-protected sex. He no longer hungered for the buzz, the adoration of his peers or the cheap hookers.

He confronted the panda and told him he wanted out. The panda was not happy. To the panda the gerbil was his confidence feather – without the gerbil the panda feared his lifestyle would change and he didn’t want that. He still craved for the endless nights, the highs and the adulation he got. Without the gerbil he feared no one would want him again.

So the panda met the gerbil down by the river where they used to fish in the good old lazy hazy days of yesteryear. He told the gerbil how he felt, but the gerbil said he could no longer carry on and was sorry the panda felt like that. The gerbil tried to tell the panda that the panda was more confident now, that he had built his own circle of friends and no longer needed the gerbil in order to be loved by others.

So the panda sat on the little bugger…

The moral of the story is that even those who seem so nice, sweet and innocent have a little bit of bastard in them!

There you go, my attempt at a fable… take from it what you will. Meaningful or complete bollocks, you decide!

Say what you see!

As previously stated in an earlier blog I have had my fair share of pets. One such pet was a Russian Dwarf hamster. The thing with Russian Dwarf hamsters is that they are easy on the eye, cute little blighters, but hard to please and look after.

I would poke my finger into the cage and feed it bits of food. However, the first time I did that the little git bit my finger. I remember the excruciating pain and the tears that followed. I left it alone for a few days before attempting the same thing again. It looked at me with its big eyes in anticipation of a treat, but sure enough it bit my finger again. It was out of the blue, but I should have learnt.

I attempted a third time, a few weeks later, after all me and the hamster had been getting on! Sure enough, as expected, the little predator bit my finger. This time though it didn’t hurt as much as I was getting used to the pain.

Once bitten, twice shy, the third time you are just being a plain idiot and deserve to be bitten. When will I ever learn?!?!

I like that phrase though, once bitten twice shy. My experience with the animal allows me to understand it much better than I do other phrases.

"Bless her little cotton socks" for example. Grandparents normally exclaim this when watching their granddaughter dance around at a young age. However, why do they bless their cotton socks?? They are probably made out of nylon anyway! I do not understand this turn of phrase. And why is it only women say it? Why have my socks never been blessed?

Other phrases like "mind your Ps and Qs" I get. I believe it is something to do with ye old pub tavern’s. If trouble kicked off the landlord would shout "mind your pints and quartz’s!" as a warning to his regulars so as not to spill their tipple of choice.

And apparently the term golf comes from Gentleman Only Ladies Forbidden… Yes, a bit of sexism never goes a miss! I am sure if I have any of these wrong I will be corrected!

As a Yorkshire man, and I am sure it is the same for other areas around Britain, we have turns of phrase that everyone understands but no one knows why, what or where they came from, they just accept it!

"Well go to foot of our stairs…"

many a Yorkshire man will exclaim in shock and disbelief. Every Yorkshire man understands this phrase. Basically for non-Yorkshire folk it merely means shock.

"Did you hear Betty has left John and moved in with Derek over the road…?"

"Well go to the foot of our stairs!!"

I don’t know where it comes from and I am sure many areas have their own take on such things.

One I use that many folk don’t seem to is ‘Head up arse’. It just means moody twat. If I tell you that you have your head up your arse it means you better snap out of whatever stupid mood you’re in. I often have my head up my arse. I am far too grumpy for a 30-something year old!

I am also a fan of nicknames and will often make nicknames up for people around me when having banter with mates.

I call my mate Phillipe, his name is Phil, so not too imaginative granted, but it comes from the joke "What do you call a Frenchman in sandals?" The answer is of course "Phillipe Fallop". I find that joke most amusing and ever since then I have called him that (amongst other things of course). He ain’t French and he doesn’t wear sandals but it just seems to have stuck!

Then there’s my mate Jew Boy… Totally stereotyping but his curly locks a few years ago earned him the nickname and now it has stuck ever since. And even when he loses all his hair he will still be known as Jew Boy.

I also call him Egg Head because of the shape of his head and tell him he shouldn’t have a bath for longer than 3 minutes otherwise he will hard boil!

I have several nicknames too, like Fruitbat (because I am bat shit crazy!) and Fatboy Slim. It wouldn’t matter how much weight I shed or how thin (if I could ever be of course!) I get, Phillipe has always said that’s what he’ll call me… usually just Slim for short. I kinda like Slim as a nickname to be honest.

People give nicknames to everyday items too.

The cashpoint is one of my favourites, or for non-English, the ATM machine. We warmly call it the hole in the wall. Everyone gets it and it is easy to understand where it comes from.

It’s Saturday night, time to go out so you ring your taxi, it turns up, and the taxi driver asks where you want to go and you say "Train station, but first I need to go to the hole in the wall…" And he understands and off he goes.

The TV remote I find is the most diverse and people within your own family will call it different things. I call the remote ‘the box’. It’s plain and simple. Some call it ‘buttons’ and most bizarrely I have heard people call it the ‘doofer’. What is that about???

The beauty thing about all this is that you can travel a few miles down the road, be in the same county, but still hear things that do not make sense as they have their own tongue.

This ranges from tea cakes to current tea cakes to alley ways and snickets…

An alley way, or alley, is a small walk way between buildings, but I call them snickets and down the road in the next town they are called ginnels… It can all get very confusing if asking for directions!

But going further afield and the one that amuses me the most, is the difference between English English (or proper English as I like to call it) and American English.

The fanny…

The fanny to me is the reproductive region of a lady that a bloke would like to get up close and personal with (dependant on hygiene of course). Whereas to an American the fanny is the arse (not the ass, that is a donkey!). So when my American colleagues talk about sitting on their fanny’s or getting a kick up the fanny I just think it sounds painful and I wince at the thought.

And don’t get me started on fanny packs!!! Especially when they tell me how much they can get in them!! Sounds incredibly slack!

If truth be told I could go on for hours about language, dialect and accents, but I can’t be arsed… or assed… and I also have to go visit church anyway… I am having my socks blessed by a proper minister, not my just by my Grandma!!

Holy watered socks, batman!!

It's Paramount you read this...

It’s been a while since I last wrote a blog. The truth is I haven’t been arsed and haven’t had anything to write about. However, the weekend just gone, I was watching a few films and even though some of the films were good, they still annoyed me and I felt compelled to vent my frustration here and share my views on how Hollywood spoon feeds us, the stupid public…

People from all walks of life like all kinds of films, which is great. It would be boring if we all liked the same thing. I have very eclectic tastes. I like big blockbusters, true life as well as foreign films, especially Far East films.

However, if one more person tells me how good The Notebook is I will shove my foot up their arse. It isn’t good and apparently because I didn’t cry when I watched it I am heartless. Stick a woman in front of something where love conquers all, where a dog dies or an old couple laid holding hands by the end of the film and they are sold. Throw in a dishy bloke too and you have a sure fire winner on your hands. Kleenex makes a fortune in handy tissue packs from over sensitive women with highly strung emotional issues!

My tastes do not include romance or chick flicks if you haven’t guessed, actresses like Rachel McAdams irritate and Ryan Gosling can go fuck himself… Oh and anything with Lindsay Lohan in can talk a long walk off a short pier too!

Why do you want to watch people just going about their every day lives?? Falling in love, losing their loved ones, falling apart with grief and dying for no apparent reason other than they’re old!! It’s like Monopoly, the board game, I can’t stand it… Why do you want to, for entertainment, deal with loans, mortgages and debt when in real life it sucks and is one of the biggest causes of stress?!?!?

I did once get emotional before I had my tear ducts surgically removed (crying shows weakness). I remember being reduced to tears at the climax of a film. It was James Cameron’s Titanic… I cried at the end as I could not believe I wasted nearly three hours of my life watching that dross… A lesson learned and hours I will never get back again.

For how much of a dislike I have for romance, it is quite the opposite for another genre. I have a massive soft spot for horror and all walks of horror, from the sublime like The Silence of the Lambs right through to the utter trash that is Pig Hunt or Feast. To be honest, the cheesier the horror film the better, but they do highlight the fact that film makers think the audience is dumb.

The rules of horror are simple…

Do not go in that big fuck off, run down scary house in the woods… there is a reason it is no longer inhabited!


Do not ever say "wait here, I will be back…" because you won’t be, your script has come to an abrupt end my friend!


Do not start running through the woods as your dumb-ass will only end up tripping (in slo-mo) over the biggest boulder or branch available!


Do not hide in the cupboard/wardrobe! There is no escape route and those doors wouldn’t hold a 5 year old having a tantrum, let alone a 7 ft. serial killer with an axe!!


Stab the killer twice, three times, blow him up, chop off his head and set fire to him… if you don’t do this he will begetting back up and he will be coming after you again!


Save energy! It could be Usain Bolt who is being hunted, it doesn’t matter, the killer’s hobbling walking pace will STILL catch up to you!


Never try to escape in a car because you know, even though you have planned your journey to the camp there and back, you still will not have put enough fuel in and so it will not start!


Never open a storage room door slowly… The killer won’t be in there anyway… he’ll be waiting behind the door as soon as you close it again even though he wasn’t there a moment ago.


Do not have sex! Especially do not have sex outdoors in woods, by a lake, up against a tree, in long grass, in a car, on the top bunk or in a shower… You will not be getting to orgasm stage!


And if your boyfriend goes to the fridge after sex and comes back disguised as something else, making no noise at all and is suddenly built like a brick shithouse, run!! That ain’t your boyfriend ignoring you or playing hard to get, that just ain’t your boyfriend!!


Don’t bother even trying to be quiet. Your meek frame will still make the floorboards creek, but the giant 20 stone killing machine will silently move around the house jumping out at every possible turn!


If you are the victim in an old horror movie – pre-digital – then don’t bother trying the phone, the lines have been cut… If you are a victim in the post digital world, don’t bother trying your mobile, you will be out of range or your battery will have died…


As a viewer of horror remember that the first build up of eerie music will only lead to a cat jumping out, a box falling down or a phone ringing…


And finally if you ever find yourself in a real life horror situation with a group of friends, make sure you are the geeky, but cute, looking virgin (usually with a back story like the death of your parents). If you are the slut, the jock or the cocky cock sure one… you are dead!

Of course these are the clichéd rules of horror and proper horror done well doesn’t have to rely on the gimmicks. But proper trashy, cheesy horror really does need some or all of these ingredients. The best horror films tick all these boxes… in fact play ‘trashy horror bingo’ and tick them off as you watch along! As a starting point, try Halloween…

My one pet peeve with any film though, be it horror or not, is how the film maker makes a point of something during the film, usually early on. This point will then be part of the climax – it is very much like painting with numbers.

The main character makes a point that when they were 9 years old they could knit and did it every weekend with their Gran. The little story or point has no relevancy to the actual conversation taking place, but then later in the film, when the only thing that can save Earth is a double loop stitch then the hero will pick up his or her knitting needles and save the day!!

It is very similar to the main characters talking to themselves in order to flesh out the points to the audience. I mean we all sit there and read out loud something horrific to ourselves, or something that enlightens us, don’t we??? Or we talk whilst we are laid on the sofa about some plot point that will come to fruition later in the film?? Surely??

Our hero is watching TV and musing over a scroll he found in the basement:

"Man, I am sat here on the sofa and if the planets suddenly aligned and the sun moved to the axis of X and Y then the entire planet could be blown up, but that hasn’t even come close to happening for 999 years, 11 months and 28 days… I wonder who is on Jeremy Kyle???"

The hero turns the channel to The Jeremy Kyle Show:

"Welcome to the Jeremy Kyle show where we are discussing the end of the world according to Mayans who predict that exactly every 1000 years the planets align…. But first we have Jeff from Norfolk who is sleeping with his tortoise!"

I could go on for a while on clichés in films, but do you know what, I often don’t care… Many times I don’t want to think about a film, I just want to enjoy it. So if the film thinks for me, then all the better for it!

I mean who cares how Bruce Wayne got out of that prison pit and travelled back to the USA with no money or passport OR how he got back to Gotham when all the bridges had been blown up… As long as he kicks ass and wins then that’s all that matters… In fact that irritates me more, people who rip a film to parts instead of just enjoying it!

Holy plot gaps Batman!!!

Mood Poisoning

I went shopping at the weekend, after seeing Wreck It Ralph with the kids – I enjoyed it, typical Disney, saccharine sweet (my teeth hurt afterwards), but well worth the watch – but the shopping experience ruined my weekend a little.

Asda was the choice of store, as it’s the one I know my way around the best. Strange that you get to know where things are after a while. So much so, that when they change the aisle products it throws me completely! That wasn’t my gripe though. I wanted something quick and easy for the boys, so we chose hotdogs.

What I want to know and I don’t know if it’s just Asda, but why do they sell hotdogs in tins or jars of 8, but the finger rolls (ideal for hotdogs!) in packs of 6??? It is pure madness and something that really dumbfounded me and angered me a little. You either have to buy 3 tins and 4 packs of rolls or just have 2 hotdogs left over! Why sell finger rolls in 6 anyway? I mean the average family is 4 so packs of 8 or even 4 would make more sense, financially as well as for peace of mind (no food wastage!).

People have since said to me that I should have bought two packs of rolls and stuck the 4 extra in the freezer – but why should I? You know that when I need them again I will forget to get them out or forget them completely and they will be in the freezer forever. Eventually I will have dozens of bread rolls as I have frozen all the spare ones!

I once had a tiny banana (save your lewd comments!) and so I froze it as I thought it was cute. Months later I found this tiny back iced blob in the freezer… I was hoping to preserve it for the future but had to chuck it out!

There are plenty of things I don’t get and I wonder what people must think! Why didn’t the chief of Asda sell 8 rolls instead of 6? Why do people wear Crocs? Don’t give me that "they’re comfy" crap! I am sure dead ducks are comfy, but you wouldn’t wear them on your feet?!?!

Crocs seem to have replaced a certain look for Brits abroad – the sandals and white socks look. When I was younger all the folks had them on as they strolled along the Costa del Sol. My Dad was guilty of this, my Grandad still is. I remember a time when on holiday with the parents and we went in this bar, which was karaoke too, and the compere (you know the type, a waiter that reckons he has never sung before but will give it a go to start things off, sings Pretty Woman, more like "Priddy Woomuuun", every night!) he states that sandals and socks is a big no no in Spain…. We all looked at my Dad who was secretly kicking his sandals off and putting his socks in his pocket!

What goes through the minds of these people???

When the guy at a biscuit factory or a chocolate factory is given the job of designing the tin/box what goes through his mind? Why does he put the descriptions of the chocolates or the biscuits on the bottom of the tin? I come to get a biscuit and naturally lift the lid off, have a look at the delights waiting for me, pondering what that certain biscuit/chocolate is, only to realise that the description is on the bottom of the packaging! So I do that movement where you angle the tin enough to read what it says without angling it too far and tipping out the contents! It all seems too much like hard work for the sake of a small treat!

Speaking of tins and boxes and packets – what goes through the minds of people, usually kids or teenagers, when they finish the contents and put the empty pack back in the cupboard!! I mean why would they do that? What is wrong with placing it in the bin? I wouldn’t mind if they left it on the side in fact, instead of back in the cupboard. There is no worse feeling (well, I guess there might be, but for this purpose there isn’t) then seeing a multi pack of crisps and thinking I right fancy a pack and going into the cupboard and realising there is bugger all inside!! Some lazy get has just left it in there!! You wouldn’t do that with a tin of soup, so why with a bag of crisps?!?!

And what is it with people who just walk across your path, no matter what the situation, or those that stand in a supermarket in front of the area you want to look at or pick something from. They stand there gazing at their list or reading the contents on the pack. No matter how much coughing I do they don’t take the hint. What are they thinking? I reckon they do it on purpose, but why would you want to spend more time than necessary in the place? The whole world is out to get me sometimes, I swear!

My kids can’t actually walk a straight line. They don’t have rickets or a calcium deficiency; they just do it on purpose, to see how far they can push the button. They walk from side to side, guaranteeing that they will walk across someone’s path, usually mine. Now when they do that I swing a leg and trip them up – sounds cruel, but they don’t do it again, well not until the next time at least.

Sometimes when people do something to annoy you, you know exactly what they’re thinking though. My brother is a prime example of this. I will text him; I will ask him something that requires an answer. It might be when is his daughter’s birthday and what does she want? It might be the fact we’re going out for a few beers and does he want to come?

He sees the message is from me. He reads the message from me. And he thinks… ‘It’s only my brother’ and so ignores me. For days! Eventually I may get a ‘yes’ or ‘no’, sometimes I even get ‘I’ll ask the Mrs’, but usually I am met with an electronic silence as I know he can’t be arsed replying to me, thinks its only his brother, and then forgets about me.

I know he does this as he’s told me he’s done this when he’s had no choice but to talk to me. I have to corner him most times in order to get anything out of him! I was the last to know he was having another child in fact!

The other thing I notice when you send an email or text is when the person that receives it seems to only pay attention to one line. Why do they do that? Surely, as I would, they would digest the entire body of said message and answer completely. Instead you have to send another message and repeat the bits they missed out. Sometimes it isn’t that they’ve only read the first line, it may be something in the middle that they answer, but completely ignore the opening and the end.

Me:

Just been to Asda and it was packed. Was it packed when you went earlier? I couldn’t park anywhere! Oh, I got hotdogs for tea, ok? And why do they not sell bread rolls in packs of 8?!? I’ve had to buy two packs – I guess I can put some in the freezer. Do we have enough room in the freezer? I know you’re going out so will make them straight away, what time is your mate coming again?

The recipient:

Hotdogs are fine.

Why don’t they appreciate that bread rolls should come in packs of 4 or 8 – that is the important bit there!! These people almost make me have an aneurism!!! Aaargh! Need to calm down…

I am sorry, I think I have mood poisoning… Must be something I hate.

Hotdogs maybe?