Pet Peeve #8

People that don't know how to use, or behave appropriately within, a lift.


This peeve has been inspired by an incident that occurred just a moment ago. After getting into my workplace lift and descending a single floor, the doors opened and well-presented man in his forties leant his body into the elevator. He proceeded to peer around the lift with a cheerful "What's all this about then?" kind of expression. By positioning himself between the doors, he was preventing the lift from continuing its rightful progress to the ground floor. As he continued to gleefully soak in his new surroundings, I was reminded of my distaste for grown men who seem embrace the mundane routines that accompany working life with childlike enthusiasm. To make things worse this prick was delaying the purchase of a Kit Kat chunky (peanut). Instead of screaming "GET IN THE LIFT FUCKWIT", I silently endured the grossly inappropriate jauntiness that this lift had provoked. His performance had aroused disproportionate sense of rage within me, and this was compounded when my lift-buddy began to engage me directly.

Man: Ha, this building doesn't appear to have a ground floor!

Me: It's number 0 (I then jabbed the 0 button)

Man: What happens on these floors (Pointing to floors -1 and -2)

Me: Umm... I think..

Man: (Interrupting, his question had obviously been rhetorical) "FIRE AND BRIMSTONE I IMAGINE!"

I then exited the lift without responding to this last remark. There is no fire and brimstone on the 2 lower floors, only surly house staff.

Jon's birthday treat

I'm using the bank holiday as an excuse for the lack of action on the blog this week. I currently lack Internet access at home, as one of my flatmates has managed to break my laptop charger as a result of a emotionally charged 24 hour pornography binge (apparently he 'fell in love' with BellaDonna). Soon after my charger got bruck, my other housemate fucked off to Morocco so he could gad about in a Fez. He has deemed it appropriate to password-lock his laptop while he is out of the country. Such drastic actions were probably taken in order to prevent a repeat of the 'porn overload' incident that Jon perpetrated on my laptop.

While I did have Internet access at work yesterday, I was so tired I could barely stop myself from passing out at my desk, let alone muster the energy to provide any hilarious musings for the blog. I'm still feeling a bit rinsed so I have decided to keep the hilarity to a minimum in this post.

To tide you over, above is a picture of the motor we will be renting for Jon's birthday this weekend. I am sure you will agree that it will serve as quite the babe magnet. We emailed Cadburys to see if they wanted to assist us in implementing a boisterous publicity stunt that would complement the weekend's celebrations. Jon wanted to procure a sack of cream eggs and hollow out their creamy centre. In place of the sugar rich yolk, we would fill the eggs with contraceptive pills. The publicity stunt would consist of us driving through the streets of Deptford in our eggmobile, lobbing our estrogen laden treats at unsuspecting 'hot chicks' and/or destitute alcoholics. BANG! See you on page 3 of Monday's Metro.

Jäger Bombaclarts

Today, my housemate Jon has been complaining about some kind of Jägerbomb induced heart palpitations that he has recently been afflicted by. My man has always had a penchant for the German digestif, but in the last year or so things have gotten out of hand. A particularly unsavory incident occured at the Lewisham Fox and Firkin recently, when my good friend demanded that someone serve him a 'JägerJon'. Bemused staff eventually cobbled together the gruesome cocktail, in which the energy drink that would usually be employed in a Jägerbomb is replaced by milk. Watching Jon down this hideous concoction was one of the darkest points in our relationship to date. The picture above captures a scene that I have become very familiar with (Jon is the hatless character with blonde hair and a winning smile.)

Before you make the mistake that I did and cry 'Pussyclart!', try not to underestimate the power of this potent beverage. Jon is just one of many gullible punters who have crashed and burned after being beckoned on to the rocks by this sickly siren. For the next week I'm going to convert our flat into a makeshift rehab centre. Jon's two defining passions, Jägerbombs and Cadbury's cream eggs are off the menu, and in their place I will be introducing the Janice Battersby endorsed detox regime. You will be back to your high-kicking best in no time Jonny!

Below are just a few examples of the damage being done by the bastard brew that has been the bane of Jon's recent existence:

Blackwood

Had the honour of queuing behind Richard Blackwood at the Tottenham Court road KFC the other day. After admiring the manner in which he rocked both a bluetooth headset and a boneless banquet box meal, I can confirm that Blackwood has retained all of the star quality that made him the hottest property on the planet in 2000. Post-KFC, I returned to work in order to catch my breath and indulge in a bit of snooping.

According to Wikipedia, these days our man Blackwood is working at Choice FM and suffers from depression(!) Personally, I think that it's a bit out of order that Wikipedia chose depression as one of the two salient characteristics which are to define present day Richard Blackwood. Surely there is more to Blackwood's existence than mournfully playing Beyonce records as he quietly weeps in the Choice FM studio (which by the way, can be the loneliest place on earth.)

Considering the gusto with which Blackwood consumed his sizable KFC meal, he hardly struck me as someone who is suffering the suppressed appetite and diminished libido symptomatic of clinical depression. No this was the virile, potent Blackwood who released the much loved 'Mama who da man'.

On an unrelated note, one of yesterday's visitors to the blog got here by googling "Nick Moran wanker". I thought this was an odd thing to google. Was someone hoping to stumble across a message board laden with anti Nick Moran sentiments? Or maybe it was Nick Moran himself, checking to see if the web still acknowledged his existence (if you're reading Nick, we're still thinking about you mate). The other unusual keyword search of the day was "my friend has big balls but no hair". I thought it was charming that someone was still felt it necessary to employ the "my friend has a problem..." routine, even whilst enjoying the relative anonymity of googling their embarassing ailment.

MONDAY SUX

Feeling very limp today, and have been profusely sweating out my weekend for a good 12 hours. To complement what is an already uninviting look, on Friday I sustained a fat lip, which during the healing process has slowly began to resemble herpes. It's not herpes, I was just punched in the face by an erratic character over the course of the weekend. As the perpetrator was both a female and a friend, the incident was received in relatively good humour at the time.

The humour has definitely been lost now that certain colleagues are eyeing my facial injuries as if they are the manifest symptoms of a sexually transmitted viral infection. Add to this my excessive perspiration, and I think I may have fucked my chances when it comes to May's employee of the month competition.

I was contemplating performing a conciliatory goodwill gesture in order to get my colleagues back on side. Ordinarily, this could be easily achieved by investing in communal box of doughnuts or something. However, my current physical appearance is suggestive of someone with scant regard for both rudimentary personal hygiene and the safeguarding of his own sexual health. Hardly the kind of character that you want offering you Krispy Kremes.

Living with big balls

From analysing the data on my Google Analytics profile, I discovered that one of yesterday's 16 visitors to the blog found the site by typing "+ living with big balls" into google. Due to my lack of experience in this area, my blog is distinctly lacking in practical tips that would help him cope with his ailment (I presume it was a he! LOL!) Anyway, if anyone else with a pair of salty satsumas stumbles across this page, I thought it would be a nice gesture to offer them the following 5 point action plan:

1. Invest in a roomy pair of tracksuit bottoms.
2. Avoid zinc rich foods such as oysters or fortified breakfast cereals.
3. Join a support group in your local area.
4. Avoid overzealous horseplay with younger relatives.
5. Masturbate regularly.

Remember guys, life is what you make it. It's not you that has to live with big balls, it's the big balls that have to live with YOU. Get me.

If you have any handy big ball advice then post your tips below. The best suggestion wins a humorous prize (the prize being a charcoal sketch of my own testicles).

Pork party

Haven't got Swine Flu yet, and am a bit disappointed in the progress of the pandemic so far. From what I gather, some public school youts in Dulwich had the sniffles and didn't die. It's hardly the pandemonium I hoped for.

I was looking forward to catching it and having a week off work. I would get the long-awaited opportunity to indulge in some back to back lie-ins, catch up on some reading and feast on Internet pornography. Ideally my flatmates would remain untouched by the virus, so I could have the flat all to myself during the working day. My flatmate Nick would come home to find me wrapped in his Telly blanket, watching one of his favourite flicks on DVD. I imagine the following scene would unfold:

Me: Good day at work Nick?

Nick: Not really, why are you home? Why are you in my blanket?

Me: Aaargh, enough with the questions, I'm really ill mate. Swine flu.

Nick: What? Can you get out of my blanket then? And shouldn't you be in your room?

Me: Well I haven't got a DVD player in there have I? Or a television.

Nick: What you watching?

Me: 'The Science of Sleep'. It's dog shit.

Nick: Can you take off my blanket?

Me: OK (I then let off an almighty guff, and remove the blanket)

As well as irritating my flatmates, I would finally be able to set up a medieval banquet of porn in the living room. Operating both mine and my flatmates laptops simultaneously, I could create a festival of graphic sexual images. I could be sponsored by Tamiflu and distribute wristbands to fellow flu sufferers as well as a selection of the local destitute alcoholics. Unfortunately, it appears that my dreams are not to be realised (thanks for nothing God!).

Alleyn's is only a hop, skip and a jump from me, so I was considering popping round to say "hi". In order to enhance my prospects for contamination (and for a laugh) I could run around the playground shirtless, kissing the frightened children's heads. I may even bellow "PLAYTIME IS OVER!" as I cavort with the privileged offspring of GMTV's Andrew Castle.

Work perve

The girl I sit next to at work is currently scouring the Internet for images of Ryan Reynolds. While I acknowledge that the Van Wilder hunk has quite the torso, I'm sure my colleague could be using her time more productively. I also fear that her willingness to be so bold in her lecherousness is indicative of some broader gender inequality within the workplace. If I was to employ Google image search in order to find 'saucy snaps' of Scarlett Johansson, HR would throw the book at me. After enduring the protracted machinations of a sexual harassment case, I would probably end up on the sex offenders register. Or something of that ilk.

Yesterday celebrated sex addict David Duchovny was her stud du jour, and I think you will agree that the picture she unearthed during her 'sexy surfing' is a genuine treat.

Pet Peeve #7

People who are proud of not owning a television.


I don't have any particular grievance with people who choose not to own a TV yet manage to keep quite about it. My displeasure is reserved for those who claim or imply that a domestic deprivation should in fact be regarded as something that positively distinguishes them on a social/intellectual level. You know the type:

"I don't have a television, because I love BOOKS. If I was an inanimate object, I would be a BOOK, because BOOKS are deep and clever, like me. In fact I want to marry and fuck BOOKS all day and everyday."

I'm not suggesting that there is anything wrong with books, FAR FROM IT. I'm as dismissive of the anti-book brigade as I am of the pillocks who publicly disregard television. It's just that (just as in television) the majority of books are shit, and are written as a result of cynical, commercial considerations. It is bullocks to suggest that they hold an intrinsic cultural superiority over TV.

Often, those boasting about the absence of television from their lives choose an online social networking service as their platform. You know the type:

Favourite TV Shows: "I don't have a television, I'm too busy reading books and living life to the max."

Anyone who opts to utilise their Facebook/Myspace profile to advertise winning character traits such as "not watching TV", is treading on thin ice. There is no way that the Internet is a more intellectually valid medium than television when these twerps are at the keyboard's helm. These goons aren't using their broadband connection to download the works of Chekhov. They are spending 90% of their time cagily scouting the web for pornography, and the other 10% uploading tedious photo albums onto Facebook. ( The kind of albums I'm talking about contain snaps of bland urban landscapes and occasional picture of a dead fox.) Watching TV always trumps any experience of 'nature' within English suburbs.


I would much rather spend a damp Tuesday evening watching a vintage episode of Crystal Maze than take a walk through Catford's Mountsfield Park. No one's going to try and show me their cock on the Crystal Maze (unless you can get hold of footage from the infamous secret episode; which apparently includes O'Brien absolutely KILLING the Aztec zone). No, I'm afraid examples of nature found in a municipal setting can jog on. I have Sky+, and I'm not afraid to use it.