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.

Karaoke

Regrettably, I'm attending a Karaoke-based work do this evening. I am far from enthusiastic at this prospect, as I have a keen dislike for both Karaoke and everything it represents (JAPAN). My aversion to the this particular mode of partying is probably due my innate crapness at it. I have a chronic phobia of public singing as well as crap eyes. This means I have to lean, squinting into the screen in order to distinguish the lyrics, which I then feebly whimper into the microphone. When performing karaoke I both look, and sound like a cunt. If I packed a hamper of full of shit-filled baguettes to hand out during my performance, I could offer possibly the worst sensory experience of a lifetime.

Work social events in themselves can be fun, the drink serving the purpose of bringing everyone's simmering hatred for their professional lives to the surface. In my experience, these occasions descend into bitter session of collective abuse. Everyone taking turns to air their spiteful grievances about their colleagues. It's a hoot.

In my old job at a LTSB call-centre (SHABBA) I endured a supremely unpleasant Christmas work party. By about 8.30 it had descended into farce, and I entered the boys toilets to find a call-centre team leader (high on 2 drink tokens) shouting "FAGGOT!" as he booted a toilet cubicle. There was no one inside. The event was eventually put out of it's misery after a mass brawl erupted outside. A total of 2 police vans were necessary to subdue the violence, and a man called Barney lost his job. The ABBA tribute band didn't know what the fuck was happening.

Lads night out!

Shit pal, it's been ages since I've had a good old-fashioned LADS NIGHT OUT. If you have read this blog before then should know how I roll. There are 5 simple rules that you need to adhere to on a LADS NIGHT OUT:

Lots of beer

Lots of gurning

Lots of shouting

Lots of horseplay

Strictly NO pumpum.

These breadbins have got their shit on point:

Back 2 Business

Sorry for the lack of recent blog action, but I have just returned from week of 'catching rays' in Portugal.

I haven't got any pictures from my jaunt, but you will just have to believe me when I say: "It was a hoot".

I fucked up the booking for my flights home, so ended I ended up returning to New Cross at about 2.30 am. After taking a couple hours to fall asleep I awoke within the hour with a bulbous, seeping eye. Again, I failed to document the incident. You will just have to believe me when I say: "I had a shitty eye."

Feeling fatigued this morning, I was getting ready for a chillaxing data entry session at work to get me ready for a wholesome early night. Yet my mildly depressing short-term goals were immediately scuppered when my boss informed of my duties for the day. Instead of the database action I had planned, I was assigned the role of dweeb escort; and was ordered to chaperone two computing lecturers to an Internet security fair in Earls Court.

I'm a firm believer in judging a book by it's cover, so when I was greeted by a middle aged man sporting a necklace that consisted of a 20GB Memory Stick on a string, I was less than thrilled. I hope he had pornography on there, but in all likelihood it was probably just an antidote to a computer virus or something similarly lame. Due to their lack of upper-body strength I spent the morning ferrying an array of stands around Earls Court, while they struggled to engage in the basic social interactions that were necessary for them to obtain a visitor's pass. MY JOB IS DA LICK.

Sandwich

The image above is a pretty accurate representation of how I used to feel about sandwiches. Sadly, 5 years of continuous full-time employment have resulted in sandwich overload. I no longer feel the unbridled enthusiasm that used to accompany the purchase of a prepackaged sandwich.

Today, when surveying the Greggs refrigeration unit (fridge), I was distinctly underwhelmed by the edibles that confronted me. Chicken and Bacon? "Been there..." Oval Bite? "Done that..." Chicken New Orleans... "GOT THE FUCKING T-SHIRT MATE." After backhanding a Sausage and Bean melt from an innocent bystander's hand, I tearfully fled the premises and collapsed into the foetal position outside the Goodge Street Tescos. How did it come to this?

Day after day of hastily eaten sandwiches has taken its toll, I spend my lunchtimes listlessly perusing eateries in search of a sandwich that I can muster some passion about. My search has so far proven fruitless. Sandwich after sandwich, each indistinuishable from the last. Lunchtime has become a form of purgatory.

I imagine my situation is akin to that which confronts your typical 35 year-old Lothario. After commiting himself to the pursuit of pumpum for nearly two decades, one day he is afflicted by an overdue moment of clarity. As he scans his local Oceana for sexual prey, our friend's denim-bound erection begins to subside and a sudden realisation dawns upon him:
"What am I doing in this hellhole"
This immediate concern is then usurped by the catastrophic existential realisation that:
"I no longer know how to love. I will die alone."

The Lothario's penchant for continued physical gratification has rendered him incapable of participating in a relationship that is both sexually and emotionally rewarding. Sure, he will make the occasional ham fisted attempt at love, but the sentimental guff he attempts to pass off as genuine expressions of love are flimsy and transparent... Like Sainsbury's Basics wine glasses, they will crumble under any serious scrutiny.

The similarities between the Lothario's plight and my own sandwich antipathy are clear, his suffering is just on a larger emotional scale. Below are a couple of fellas that have also reached their sandwich crisis point.

Pet Peeve #6

People who can't use phones.


The kind of behaviour I'm referring to includes:

> People who ring YOU up, and then assume the tone of someone who is being inconvenienced by the conversation that they initiated. I have numerous friends who do this.

> People who think that your automated message is actually talking to them (this is a staple mishap for the elderly).

> People who ring me up between 9am and 5pm Monday to Friday and ask me 'What a gwan', despite knowing full well that I am in full-time employment.

> People who utilise their ringtone as a backing track over which to perform turgid raps.

> People who hold their phones at unorthodox angles when talking into them.

> People that employ any kind of headgear as part of their personal phone experience.

> People that have a phone that requires you to jab at it with a tiny stick.

> People that pretend that their phone is a pint of Carling.

NEW HAIR

(DISCLAIMER: The bloke above is not me, although we do share a pretty shit haircut.)

WORD TO YA MUM I CAME TO DROP BOMBS!

This week I got a real-life haircut from a real-life hairdresser for the first time in over 4 years. Inevitably I have been given a short-back and sides type do, but with a Covent Garden style edge (the extra tenner was totally worth it).

Being that I was getting a £10+ haircut, a wash was included as part of the deal. The extreme indulgence of having someone else wash my hair made me have a slight freak-out, and for the duration of the wash I suppressed a mild panic attack as I tried to stop my face from doing anything too mental (which in turn made me look mental). Once it was time to be getting snipping, I had to endure some hairdresser beef. As I had been cutting my own hair for several years, as well as never brushing or conditioning, my barnet had developed a birds-nest type quality. As she got to work, my barber started murmuring sounds of disapproval, which unfortunately provoked a quite pathetic urge within myself to placate her. I am ashamed to say that I told the following lie:

Me: "Sorry it's in such a state, but my ex-girlfriend used to cut it."

She then took up the banter baton:

Barber: "Is that why you broke up then. Ha!"

Me "Ha! Something like that!"

LOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOL!

This exact same exchange took place 4 years ago during my last haircut, and it was as much of a fabrication then. At times I must look like someone doing a rather meager impression of an adult man.

As I don't have a digital camera, I can't share my fab new haircut with you guys, but then again I'm sure I will see everyone who reads this blog in person within the next few weeks. So whatever...

Luckily for me, a host of jokers have documented their glorious cuts on Flickr:

2 Good, 2 Bad

Inspired by Adrian Chiles's "Offside, what's that all about?" approach to the beautiful game (football), I'm offering my own version of his consistently hilarious take on the weekend's Premiership action. Watch out though, I'm giving everyone's favourite MOTD2 segment a slight twist (the twist is that I don't talk about football).

2 GOOD

We now have Sky+ in the new flat, and it is everything I imagined it to be and more. First on the list to series-linked was Total Wipeout, a British game show that has brazenly ripped off Takeshi's Castle. The show's producers have opted for contestant-friendly padded obstacles and have replaced crack/pornography fiend Craig Charles with Richard Hammond, the personification of a flaccid, impotent penis. While these adjustments have rendered the British show slightly tamer than the Japanese original, Saturday's episode still contained a broken nose and a man with dreadlocks being humiliated while 30 feet up in the air. First class.

While watching Total Wipeout I came up with an idea for a Richard Hammond vehicle that wouldn't make me want to put my foot through the television screen. It would be called The Hammond Chronicles, and each week Hammond would re-enact traumatic experiences from his childhood. Pamela Stevenson would be on hand to help retrieve any repressed memories, and his fellow Top Gear presenters would guest star in Crimewatch style reconstructions of Hammond's personal turmoils. The first episode will consist of Richard Hammond having his head repeatedly flushed down a dormitory toilet by Jeremy Clarkson, while both are subject to the hideous gaze of a lurking, dead-eyed James May. May will spend the entirety of the 30 minute episode malevolently unfurling his belt.

2 BAD

Easter egg hunts for the unemployed. Having experienced the incompetence of jobcentre staff first hand, this harebrained scheme comes as no surprise. The potent combination of Dorothy Perkins vouchers and free chocolate will surely result in unadulterated chaos. Destitute former Lehman Brothers employees will be clambering all about the heavily stained furnishings of the Southwark Jobcentre+, screaming BLOODY MURDER. A stabbing incident is inevitable.

I hope that the egg hunt isn't a compulsory exercise, as the last thing you want to do when you are in genuine need of a job is to have to break open a chocolate egg with your bare hands, while a balding homosexual called Daryl bellows his condescending words of encouragement, all while attired in an ill-fitting Easter Bunny costume. Once inside the egg you discover a job that you are not even qualified to perform. You have been literally brought to your knees (Daryl hid the egg under his desk), and your chocolate-covered hands grant you the appearance of a man who has been scooping shit out of his own underpants.

I would rather use the touchscreen jobconsole in a completely non-Easter themed manner.

Bhuna

"See Clive, I told you I would finish my Korma."

For some reason my Facebook homepage keeps on suggesting that I join the fan clubs of celebrity Asians Dev Patel and A.R.Rahman. Why is this happening? There is nothing about my profile that suggests I'm particularly into this sort of thing (Indians). Slumdog Millionaire isn't listed as one of my favourite films, and I'm not sure if I even have any friends of South Asian origin on my Facebook. I mean, while I enjoy the occasional Bhuna, and appreciate the pacifist antics of Mahatma Gandhi, I'm hardly what you would call a Bollywood Bill!

Now, I'm no racist, but why am I not being invited to join the fan clubs for any Anglo-Saxon celebs? Come on Facebook, WHERE'S MY JOHN TERRY APPRECIATION INVITE!!!! If this politically correct arse-banditry continues then I will be forced to boycott Facebook (again). It's about time someone claimed back the Internet for the white man (and I know for a FACT that Bill Gates is with me on this).

On the topic of fighting for what you believe in, isn't it just the perfect day for a demonstration? I'm feeling to get my butt down to Trafalgar square and turn this G20 shite into some kind of sexy protest.


"Andrea Merkle? Wet her up leave her pumpum Merkled."

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.