Dinner bait

"Oi poomplex, just eat your fucking dinner."

Calippo

Sorry about my slackness regarding the blog, but I have been caught up in an uncharacteristically busy period at my work. This should end soon. Also, the lions share of my weekend was spent in the foetal position suckling Calippo lollies in my boxroom. Saturday morning started well, but I crashed and burned at about 4 pm and had to tearfully stumble home down the Old Kent Road (I may write to Hasbro to see if a miniature figurine of myself can be introduced to Monopoly in place of the Top hat. LOL.)


I spent my Monday working in Guildford, an experience which made my jaunt to Cockfosters look like a day at Alton Towers. I almost vomited Calippo in the train station car park when I arrived, but I manned up and managed to eat a coronation chicken sandwich instead. Unsurprisingly for a sandwich bought from a petrol station, my brunch contained scant chicken, and an overbearing proportion of the filling was made up of raisins. Disappointing.

I am looking to get back on form with the blog this week. So I'm doing a flickr image search for 'shit couples on double-dates' as I write this (MULTITASKING). The money shot is obviously someone eating an harvester egg-platter, while their better half watches on in despair.


FYI: According to my mother, the Brian mentioned in the Harvester related anecdote relayed in my previous post, was not actually called Brian. His name was in fact Terry. Sorry Mum.

Pet Peeve #5

The name Brian "Blessed cool off, you don't want to see me buss de tool off"

The source of this particular pet peeve can be found in the recesses of my childhood memories. For me, the name Brian will perennially be associated with a certain breed of grey and/or bald headed middle-aged man. This is a consequence of the aftermath of my parents separation, and the subsequent period of time my mother spent as a singleton. During this 'era' an uncanny amount of my mothers suitors went by the name of 'Brian'. So marked was this trend, I now refer to this part of my life as 'the Brian years'. While none of these Brian's were especially offensive (though randomly 2 were school janitors!?) the name itself inevitably picked up negative connotations.

As I have often said, you would have to be a pretty kooky 8-year old to embrace the idea of a paunchy stranger macking your mum.

I mentioned earlier that these chaps were all pretty harmless, but one episode has managed to leave emotional scar that I fear will never heal. Due to the incident in question, I now can't encounter a 'Brian' without recollecting a gruesome getting-to-know-you dinner that took place at the Dartford Harvester.

On arrival at our ill-placed Harvester, we were greeted by a gloomy food-pit staffed by an understandably disconsolate workforce. The disparity between the convivial, Shalamar sound tracked eatery portrayed on the adverts, and that which faced us in immediate reality set a torrid tone for the meal ahead. Unsurprisingly events took a turn for the farcical when the-Brian-of-the-day opted for the egg platter (6 eggs plus trimmings). I still remember the expression of resignation that overcame my mother as this order was placed. Needless to say that the act of watching a human being consume such a meal was pretty harrowing for both me and my mother.

Even without possessing my partially repressed childhood issues, it appears many people share my Brian-based antipathy. This would explain the welcome dearth of fresh Brian's currently being raised in the UK.

Sausage Fest

I have just been browsing for sausage related images (not cocks) on Flickr and I found this beauty:
In case you are wondering, it is a picture of a man who has reached his crisis point during a reindeer sausage eating competition. Here is another one where he appears to be playing his sausage like some kind of hideous piccolo:


Below you can see a couple of pork dweebs gorging themselves on sausage. I'm feeling the chap in the backround, he is looking extremely eager to feed these boys some more meat. KEEP 'EM COMING BIG GUY!:


Cake eating contests are for fassies:

Swingballs

I'm glad that the Sun is starting to make an appearance again. I am getting bored of having the complexion of an uncooked chicken fillet. If the good weather continues then I'm going to get a game of shirtless Swingball going on in my new back garden. I reckon this would be a great way of introducing myself to the neighbourhood.

I give it 15 minutes before someone leans out of their window to call me a battyboy.


The pictures above are taken from an album on Flickr called 'Swing ball Friday', which basically documents the fassiest game of Swingball ever played. The picture below (also from Flickr) was simply captioned: "Womad preparations..."


The fact that I'm searching through Flickr for Swingball related images should tell you something about my working day.

Pet Peeve # 4

Mitch Winehouse
I have managed to develop a disproportionate sense of animosity towards this man. Not for the first time, Mitch Winehouse managed to get all up in my morning grill as I read today's Metro. He was on sterling form, shedding fuck all light on the antics fruity daughter, but managing yet again to get his chunky bonce in the news. In the picture above you can see him doing a fun impression of shielding himself from the camera.

Such reticence in front of the paps seems slightly bizarre. His penchant for greeting the tabloid press on his doorstep with emotional soundbites tends to undermine his apparent coyness. He obviously revels in the attention that his daughter's erratic public performances have brought him. (His behaviour is the equivalent of me blushing at a workmate passing wind, while simultaneously smearing shit onto the monitor of my Dell). When other celebrities go 'off the rails' you generally don't hear a great deal from their parents. This is probably because they value their children's welfare slightly more than any warped sense of self-satisfaction gained from seeing their bollocks quoted in 'The Sun'. Here is one of a million pointless quotes I could choose:

"I would just ask everyone who has sent me their good wishes to pray for her, as I do. I go to my father's grave and I pray."

I could probably find an even more irritating quote than this, but googling Mitch Winehouse makes me want to kick my Dell in the face (monitor). I imagine he has jacked in his job as black cab driver, and is working on a way of fully utilising the power of reflected glory. I'm sure that his fat, silver head could be modified to create a more dislikeable version of solar panels.

On the topic of bad parents, my friend Briony at http://www.notinmytype.blogspot.com/ brought my attention to this mad bint. I really hope that Fearne Cotton gets involved in this worthwhile project:

http://news.sky.com/skynews/Home/UK-News/Otto-And-Lucy-Baxter-In-Downs-Syndrome-Sex-Story-Mother-Appeals-For-Girlfriend-For-Adopted-Son/Article/200903315242926?lpos=UK_News_Carousel_Region_1&lid=ARTICLE_15242926_Otto_And_Lucy_Baxter_In_Downs_Syndrome_Sex_Story%3A_Mother_Appeals_For_Girlfriend_For_Adopted_Son

This kid's hairdresser wants shooting. What is with those snazzy sideburns?

New yard

I finally moved house on Sunday. After a year living with mother I had reached my threshold. While I love the woman, there is only so many times you can explain to someone how to use a USB stick before something dies inside. Another good reason for leaving is the re-emergence of the bus spotter who previously accosted me outside my house. It appears that he is back on the scene (though thankfully NOT like a sex machine). http://givingitbigballs.blogspot.com/2009/03/bus-spotting.html

The move is only partial so far, as my room is furnished with nothing but a mattress, a change of clothes and a wash bag. I imagine that you would find a similar setup within a room occupied by someone who has been recently trafficked for sex.

Whenever I have lived out of the family home, my personal space always seems to develop a sordid, unsavoury quality, despite my perfectly reasonable standards of hygiene. Before I moved back to Catford, I occupied a bedsit in Brighton. The room suffered from a distinct lack of natural light, and the sink in the corner would evoke images of gross misconduct in the mind's eye of any visitor. After returning home from a day's work at a LTSB call-centre, I would often sense that in my absence, someone had been encroaching on to my personal space. The seedy ambiance that seemed to permeate the room suggested that my room actually had been used for bought sex. I became fearful that my elderly landlord was lurking in the rear garden, waiting for me to depart for work. He would then shuffle a confused, destitute woman into my room, demonstrating casual disregard for the terms and conditions of our tenancy agreement. Needless to say I was in a dark place at the time.

Further compounding my misery was the fact that the bloke who occupied the bedsit next to me regularly did employ the services of prostitutes. Through the paper-thin walls I could clearly discern his bizarre sexual routine, whereby he attempted to mimic genuine courtship rituals. He would adhere to the same formula on every occasion:

Stage 1: Offer the lady some apple schnapps.

Stage 2: Play an ENTIRE SET of turgid acoustic songs.

Stage 3: Have furious sex with said lady.

Out of all of three stages of the process, I still can't decide which was the most distressing.

Cockfosters

I had go to work in Cockfosters today, and as a result Enfield is now my least favourite London borough. I don't know if Enfield the place is on a downward trajectory to crapsville like its namesake Harry Enfield, or whether it has just always been a shithouse.

In my hungover state I stumbled through the desolate suburbs of Cockfosters and Oakwood, privately lambasting TFL for the lack of underground services in South-East London. Surely we are more deserving than the cunt cakes of Enfield? An uncharacteristic feeling of local pride grew within me as I surveyed the empty carriages. The whole situation stank (not unlike Harry Enfield's recent output LOL).

FYI: According to Google analytics, a significant proportion of the visitors on this website are people who have googled Party Girls TV. As you may know this channel was once the subject of a post:
http://givingitbigballs.blogspot.com/2009/02/smile-tv-shoddiest-channel-on-freeview.html
After this fine piece of work, I have high hopes that the hit count for this page will go through the roof as a result of some wayward 'Cock' traffic.

Riley

I saw a woman who looked A LOT like Lisa Riley driving a white Transit van through Catford yesterday. Hopefully it was actually her, and she's moving to the ends. If so, then I'm all over the removal service she seems to be operating. I'm leaving mother behind and my single mattress and 750W Microwave ain't going to move themselves ;-)
FYI, during a recent lunchbreak I spotted Nick Moran from Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels looking very glum while drinking a coffee. His pastry remained untouched :-(.

Roofie

Those crazy guys down at the Indian Ministry of Finance have instigated a competition, and are asking Joe Public to submit designs for a new Rupee:

http://tinyurl.com/b6buau

I'm no fan of false modesty so I'm going to go out and say it. My design is the bollocks.

BANGERS

If I ever get my act together and start the bra company that I'm always talking about, then I'm calling it Bangers. This is a far superior name to 'La Senza', and it shits all over 'Bravissimo', which is basically the word 'bra' with some Italian gubbins added on to the end (the Italian word for bra is actually 'regipetto').

I may take my business model (see above) to Dragon's Den and see what those cunts make of it. Theo Paphitis will literally shit himself.

Bus Spotting

I got locked out of my house Saturday afternoon and was unfortunate enough to be accosted by a real-life bus spotter. Before this weekend I had been oblivious to the existence of this particular hobby, but apparently this actually happens:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1028665/Bus-spotter-forced-40-year-hobby-labelled-terrorist-paedophile.html

As my man approached, the nutter alarm bells were beginning to ring, and there were several 'tells' that indicated that this guy was fruit flavoured:

1. He was carrying an oversized clipboard (Definitely the biggest clipboard I've ever seen).
2. He was wearing shorts on a windy February afternoon.
3. His face was extremely flushed, suggesting sexual arousal (it is now clear that this was caused by a bus and/or buses).

The small talk that I was subsequently subjected to by this oddball was so excruciating, that I had to walk away from my own house and take shelter in my local Ladbrokes. Here is a snippet of the most awkward conversation in the world:

Bus spotter: So, are you locked out of your house?

Me: Yeah, I lost my keys last night.

Bus spotter: Are you going to have to wait for someone to let you in?

Me: Uh yeah, hopefully my mum or sister will be home soon.

Bus spotter: Well I'm sure they'll be along soon.

Me: Yeah... So are you waiting for a bus.

Bus Stopper: No, I'm bus spotting.

Me: Oh right...

Bus spotter: These houses are nice, my friend lives at 193.

Me: Really (feigning interest), what is their...

Bus stopper (Interrupting): The top bedroom is very big isn't it? My friend has her bathroom downstairs though. Where is your bathroom?

At this point I pretended to answer the phone and promptly walked away from the situation.