Loose Women

It’s Monday afternoon and I’m reclining on a slightly shabby, yet highly comfortable Chaise longue. I’m wallowing in mild self-loathing because rather than taking advantage of a Monday booked off work to go outside and enjoy the sterling weather, I am instead watching a group of middle-aged women have a contrived conversation about fuck all.

Today’s guest is Coronation Street actress Dearbhla Molloy (shrugs shoulders), and she is relaying a predictably dull Coronation Street related anecdote. The stories that are told on Loose Women tend to be either grossly exaggerated yarns, or more frequently, outright lies. Coleen Nolan is the most prolific offender, and she specialises in far-fetched tales of domestic woe. From what I gather, her home-life consists in her braving a never-ending cycle of psychological abuse at the hands of her evil spouse ‘Ray’. If I was Ray, I would have serious words. Imagine going into work and having to be greeted by a gallery of unwarranted scowls from all of your female colleagues:

Ray: “Hi Doreen, you Okay?”

Doreen: “Piss off Ray; I heard what you said to Coleen when you went to Thorpe Park the other week.”

Ray: “Eh?”

Doreen: “You told her she wouldn’t be allowed on the log flume because she exceeded the weight limit. You then slapped a packet of Doritos out of her hand and called her ‘fat slag’.”

Presumably, Ray must then leave the staff room, and have to suffer the indignity of eating his Greggs Steak Bake huddled in a toilet cubicle like some kind of famished cottager. On one occasion, Coleen relayed a festive anecdote which detailed how during their first Christmas together, Ray took offence to the lumpy gravy she had served him with his roast dinner. Ray threw his toys out of the pram big time, and ended up forcing Coleen into eating her lacklustre supper off the carpet. Coleen had only gone and passed off a harrowing Eastenders Christmas special as her own personal experience! Yet rather than following Little Mo’s lead in bludgeoning her spouse with an iron, Coleen opted to share her woes with the Loose Women panel.

Coleen was mercifully absent from Monday's instalment of Loose Women (maybe Ray had locked her in the shed again) and I was being treated to a dull, but probably truthful anecdote courtesy of Dearbhla Molloy (fuck knows). If you have a life and missed this televisual gem, I have broken down the anecdote into three parts:

PART 1: Coronation Street airs 4 times a week, so it has a very quick turnover of episodes. This means that the actors do not have long to learn their lines.

PART 2: To save time Dearbhla would only read the pages from the script that contained her dialogue. She even went as far as ripping these particular pages from the script, and throwing the rest of script away. This sounds a bit extreme, but whatever.

PART 3: The consequence of this erratic behaviour was that she would tune into an episode of Corrie in which she starred, only to be taken surprise by what she saw on screen.

Now this anecdote is in itself harmless, it's very boring, but harmless. The streak of evil that runs through ITV's Loose Women only becomes manifest in the reaction of the regular panellists to such an innocuous anecdote. First to stick her oar in is today's host Jackie Brambles, who bellows: “You should have given Jane a call!" To understand this seemingly random interjection, you need to know that fellow panellist and former cruise ship warbler Jane McDonald is a big fan of Coronation Street. Brambles is giving the rest of the panel the green light to kick off; because when one of this lot goes, they all do. It's like being in the bottom set for GCSE Maths at a Lewisham comprehensive.

After Brambles battle cry of “You should have given Jane a call!” Jane herself decides to get involved. She simply shouts "SPEED DIAL".

Dearbhla Molloy's anecdote has managed to provoke a flurry of banter amongst the panellists which has become both increasingly abstract and louder with each contribution. Dearbhla became perplexed to point of physical distress at what the banshees from Loose Women had done to her original story. While it may have been boring, at least it was delivered at an appropriate volume and had a coherent narrative.

Frisbee

I hate frisbee, and everything that it stands for:

Frisbee and skiing at the same time? Come on mate, you can have one or the other, not both. Time to man up and choose a preferred cuntish hobby.

This guy probably reckons that he is some sort of frisbee hardman. The Chopper Read of the frisbee world if you will. Obviously no one has had the heart to tell him that there is no such thing as a 'frisbee hardman'.

Oops, my bad. I forgot about this fella. Wouldn't want to run into this guy in a dark alley! (Or anywhere else).

"Hey Clive, fancy coming to the park with me to spend the afternoon trying to throw a frisbee into my bum."

"Shit Jonni, you read my mind."

Two hands? Go and sit down on the big blanket with all the other girls.

WHAT? Why is that woman so fucking small? I can't believe what I'm see... Oh bullocks. A frisbee has been employed in order to cleverly manipulate perspective. You've made me look like a complete cunt.

Frisbee 1 - 0 Jack

On road with Derek Acorah part 2

UK Living agreed to replace Derek's Toyota minivan with a top of the range tour bus. Unfortunately, I have been prohibited from riding with Derek after I declined to take advantage of Acorah's offer of 'sloppy seconds' with a recently widowed thirtysomething. She had been cherry picked from the audience at his show at the Yeovil Octagon.

A Derek Acorah Self-portrait. Derek was especially proud of his rendition of the 'Ghost Town' font. When I asked him where the 's' was, he called me an 'ungrateful little queer.' As you have probably gathered our relationship is becoming increasingly strained.

Lovely moment when Derek clocks the 'Pool is Unsupervised' sign at this Haven Holiday Park in Hopton. He was concerned that some campsite jobsworth would stop him going for a refreshing nude swim in the family pool. Derek generally prefers to cover up, but 2 days previously I was ordered to incinerate his swimming trunks after an unsavoury incident at a leisure centre on the outskirts of Walsall.

Taken in the Men's room at 40 Degreez, Aldershot. Here Derek is looking well and truly peeved due to the persistent goading from a group of off-duty servicemen. After having his amorous ambitions thwarted for the umpteenth time that evening, Derek slammed a clenched fist into the defective contraceptive machine and croaked: "If that cunt shouts 'BOO' one more time I will cut his fucking ears off."

Derek filming some dodgy celeb reality show, he claims he only does these gigs for the money, yet he seems to revel in the company of minor television personalities. Derek seemed genuinely starstruck by June Sarpong, and I even overheard him gushing over the 'halcyon days of T4'. Being the Silver-tongued fox that he is, Derek managed to talk Nancy Dell'olio into spending the night on the Ghost Towns passion wagon. In a move uncharacteristic of Delboy, he also granted her request to ride with us for the remaining dates on his UK Tour. Inevitably, his infamously short attention span claimed yet another heart, and Derek's once intense cravings for Nancy quickly waned. I sensed Derek was up to something when he told our driver (Ken) to park up outside a service station on the edge of Cleethorpes. He asked Nancy to fetch him "20 Pall Mall and a bag of Murray Mints" and gave her a friendly tap on the bum. Nancy obliged and scampered enthusiastically into the Shell garage. Once she was inside Derek barked at Ken to "Put the metal to peddle" following up this order with the exclamation that "This bitch is deadwood." Nancy never did make it to Grimsby.

Clearly it didn't take Derek long to get over Nancy. Here he is intoxicated by lust, getting some serious groping in before the end of his tour.

Liar, liar my pants are on fire!

Recently, I have been making a concerted effort to reduce the amount of lies that I tell on a day to day basis. About a year ago I had a minor epiphany while contemplating the harrowing dissolution of a long-term relationship. I came to conclusion (was told) that I am a bit of a deceitful turd. After realising that the claim being made was pretty legitimate, I decided to stop being a gargantuan pussy, and adopted a policy of embracing confrontation when appropriate. Obviously I still avoid conflict when it embodies potential physical risk. My name's Jack Scragg not Jackie Chan! (My name's not Jack Scragg either).

I have so far been relatively successful in this endeavour, and am generally no longer telling pointless lies to friends or ladyfolk. For example, if a pal calls me up and asks if I 'fancy heading to the Heath to play some Frisbee', rather than making up some bullshit excuse like: "Sorry Josh, I can't, I'm visiting my Senile Aunt." I will just tell the truth: "Sorry Josh, I'm not up for that, as I HATE Frisbee." Simple. This innovative approach to social relations has totally enhanced my quality life. Being continually entangled in an ever expanding, self-created web of lies is both exhausting, and a constant source of anxiety. My name's Jack Scragg (lie) not the Itsy Bitsy Spider.

Inevitably there have been some rocky moments on the this path of truth. I have been punched in the face by one girl, had a Nokia launched into my eyeball (same girl, different incident) and have provoked numerous quizzical eyebrows. Of course, when abandoning a habit of a lifetime there will be the occasional lapse, and my true nature will emerge. Here's just three examples of cowardly and/or deceitful behaviour that have been exhibited by myself in the last month alone:

1. Me and the girl that sits next to me at work have recently taken to using a secret jar of nice coffee to do our hot drink round with. This is because the communal coffee we used to endure is some fair trade shit that tastes like canned fish. To avoid having our costly, but far tastier coffee being depleted too quickly, we keep 'the special stuff' in my neighbour's draw. When it's time to do a tea round we have smuggle the jar in and out of the staff kitchen like Alan Partridge and his giant plate.

Humiliatingly, I was caught out on Tuesday whilst making a batch of hot drinks with our special jar of cafe noir, and when confronted about it I betrayed my colleague without hesitation: "Yeah, this is Elizabeth's special coffee, she doesn't seem to like the fair trade stuff." I shook my head and then gave a resigned 'What's she like?' roll of the eyes as I trotted off with my tray of beverages. Sorry Liz.

2. One Saturday afternoon I was recovering in my local watching a nondescript football match, I had managed to work myself into a pretty pleasant state of hungover reverie which was then ruined by an irritatingly jaunty phone call from my Father. His attempts to arrange a rendezvous for the next day held no appeal, so rather than telling him that I wouldn't be up to the job of entertaining him that Sunday morning, I instead cited an invented wedding in Guildford. The following weekend I met my dad and had to fabricate an entire wedding ceremony plus garden party. I even told him that I pulled a bird with a big hat. This was a textbook example of the multilayered lie; the three-tiered wedding cake of the lie world. Sorry Dad.

3. I told a girl that I once threatened to headbutt the hat-wearing guitarist from 'The Kooks'. Must have been in a bad place when I came out with this one. I think this dubious boast was meant to convey an image of myself as a 'hardman with indie credentials'. Needless to say I went home alone on this occasion. Sorry semi-attractive girl and hat-wearing guitarist from 'The Kooks'.

Sports Day

Yes everybody, my Interdepartmental Sports Day is upon us. The second most important social event on the corporate calendar is taking place this Wednesday, and quite frankly, I am BRIMMING with excitement. Last week the rigorous team selection process took place, a process which consists in allocating any willing woman, homosexual or man over 40 a place onto one of the massive, amorphous departmental rounders teams. Non-obese men between the age of 18 and 40 (plus the occasional lesbian) are then drafted into the 6-a-side teams. It's a bit like World War 2, but marginally less fun.

There is also a tennis tournament involving a selection 'high flyers' from the organisation, as well as a token nutter who claims to be an ex-pro. His woeful performance last year indicates that his claims to sporting excellence are false; yet he has once again put his name forward for this year's event. Hopefully he has recovered from the 'ligament damage' that impeded his progress in last year's competition (this is unlikely, as 'ligament damage' is no more than a euphemism for being 'a pathological liar who is also shit at tennis.')

This year the build up to sports day has been given some extra spice, as all staff attending the event have been subject to a characteristically passive-aggressive series of emails courtesy of HR. Their inappropriate use of capital letters presumably serves to let everyone know that while sports Day is a meant to be 'a bit of a laugh', any behaviour that impinges upon the smooth operation of the event WILL NOT BE TOLERATED:

"The pick up time is 12noon so make sure you are on time for a prompt departure. Note that seats have been allocated ONLY to those that have REGISTERED."

It's worth baring in mind the sports ground is a 15 minute tube journey away. This isn't the Millenium stadium that we're talking about.

"All those who are participating in the sporting activities please do NOT leave any valuables (wallet, car keys, mobile phones) in the changing rooms whilst you are playing."

For someone who owns neither a car or a wallet, this attempt at clarifying the definition of 'valuables' is borderline insulting.

FUN GAME ALERT: See if you can spot me in the photo at top of this post, it was taken at last year's sports day! I'll give you a clue, I am neither a pre-pubescent blonde boy nor a member of an ethnic minority. Good luck!

Crotch based post

Have been very lazy with the blog recently, there's no particular reason for this, it's just 'where I'm at'. Hopefully I will start writing semi-coherent posts again, but for now you will just have to put up with this kind of nonsense. Despite the lack of activity on the blog I have still been checking my Google Analytics profile on a daily basis. The results have been predictably depressing, as it is STILL the case that a significant proportion of the visitors to this blog get here because they are Google searching 'Men with Big Balls' or even more disturbingly 'Big balls man'. Who is big balls man? I would love to find out, maybe I could post an interview with him on the blog (due to my distinct lack of ideas at the moment, I imagine that I will fabricate an interview with this fictional man in the near future). Bafflingly, 'Nick Moran Wanker' is also still drawing in a lot of punters to the blog. He is obviously some kind of Internet hate figure, a reverse Rick Astley if you will.

I have reluctantly decided to make some concessions for all you guys (and gals) out there who are clearly hankering for men with outsized testicles, or as I call 'em, "scrotum busters". So today givingitbigballs is bringing you the first, and last, CROTCHFEST. I know that I am letting myself in for a deluge of emails calling me a 'sellout' and a 'closet homosexual', but you guys can go and lick my big, salty balls. LET CROTCHFEST COMMENCE.

Also, before we start crotchfest I want to give a massive shout out to 'picman1108' and his groin-heavy photostream on Flickr. Without you this could never have happened brother. Peace and crotches.





Yup, you guessed it, I've only gone and left the best till last. Feast your fucking eyes on this swinging stud:


If this post is as popular as I predict it will be, then I will push on with my plans to produce a range of givingitbigballs erotic calendars. I haven't committed to a theme yet, but 'jam factory antics' is a strong favorite at the moment.

On road with Derek Acorah

This week I have just commenced a spell of work experience with Derek Acorah. After taking a serious look at where my life was going (nowhere) I decided to quit my boring old administration job, and have started pursuing my dream of becoming a medium (sorry mum). Derek has kindly decided to let me join him on the road, on the condition that I help facilitate his extensive sexual needs. First stop STOCKPORT.

Derek having a laugh while signing a giant picture of himself. The laughter soon stopped when an unkempt member of the audience deliberately popped his scrotum out of the fly of a soiled pair ASDA George jeans. Luckily security intercepted him before he could reach Derek. While he is a dab hand when it comes to shape shifters, Derek goes to bits when confronted by your common or garden cretinous pervert.

Somehow this 'character' got backstage after the Stockport show. This picture doesn't adequately convey how terribly awkward this whole scenario was. When Geller managed to warp Derek's special fromage frais spoon beyond all repair, the atmosphere was irreparably spoiled for the evening. Security really dropped the ball this time.

Seeing how much gash Derek gets on tour has been a real eye-opener. Apparently the bird in the pastel blue sports jacket is "a nasty piece of work in the sack."

Then again, Derek said the exact same thing about this guy. I think he says that about everyone.

Here's Derek enjoying a rare quiet moment in Little Chef. Apparently nothing helps keep 'the other side' at bay like scampi and chips.

This is the scene that greeted us as we pulled up outside the Bury Community College main hall. Before exiting our Toyota minivan Derek mopped the perspiration from his brow with the cuff of his jacket, smiled to himself, and muttered "playtime is over ladies, playtime is over."

Sports shorts

Sawwwy Guyyz, I have been pretty slack on the blog this week, went to Glastonbury last Wednesday, and didn't get round to posting any 'funnies' whilst there. I got back on Monday, but I was in far too dark a place to update givingitbigballs (I'm a sensitive soul). On Monday evening I tried to lift my spirits by revisiting a neglected favourite in Coronation Street, unfortunately a lot had changed since I last visited my Mancunian working class chums. Monday's double bill was dominated by a sex crazed Kevin Webster rampaging through Wetherfield, sporting a pair of micro shorts and an extremely cheap looking vest top (come on Kev, you can buy a nice Diadora one from Sports World for £4). His whole training outfit resembled the pyjama set of an over sized, football mad 8 year-old boy. For both half hour episodes I was both perturbed by, and grimly drawn to the prospect of Kevin's Molly Dobbs fuelled boner rupturing the flimsy fabric of his ludicrous blue shorts. To make matters worse, fucking John Thompson from the Fast Show would occasionally pop his bulbous head into the proceedings. It may have been my state of mind at the time, but the whole thing was both disorientating and slightly unsavoury. Not too dissimilar from Glastonbury then! LOLZASAURRRRR!

Glastonbury was pretty good. My housemate Jon got sniffed out at Paddington by a Cocker Spaniel with cataracts (he was called Wilf). There was much less poi and juggling than I expected. Blur were good until a stoned Damon Albarn cried like a bitch. My lift home had a kip at the wheel and almost crashed into a ditch. NUFF JOKES.

Pet Peeve #9

Strangers who deem it appropriate to make unprovoked, insulting remarks.


Whilst walking through Deptford on Monday I was given some sound, yet slightly upsetting advice by a local 'character' who managed to loudly slur: "lose the glasses mate, they make you look like a twat." This unprovoked taunting was all the more hurtful because it was delivered by an inebriated man wearing a salmon pink polo shirt. As he sauntered into the distance chuckling to himself, I clocked that his shirt had 'Peewee No 1' emblazoned on the back of it. Way to celebrate a notorious celebrity nonce pal. To add insult, the random cockend was wearing glasses as he delivered his remark, a fact that he seemed oblivious to. Talk about throwing stones from glass houses.

After being subjected to repeated instances of random street abuse and drive-by heckling, I have been rendered paranoid and hypersensitive. Just a minute ago a female colleague said that I looked "very rock'n'roll today". I have absolutely no idea whether she was being sarcastic (to be fair I am wearing jeans today, despite working in an office that adheres to a strict no denim policy. KERRANG!)

On the topic of upsetting incidents, I have been informed that later today I am going to have to sport a long-sleeved t-shirt that bares the slogan 'i can help' [sic] on its front. This unnecessary, but severely demeaning garment will be worn as I reprise my role as dweeb chaperone at an IT event. Previous dealings with computer orientated individuals have proved less than enjoyable. To get through the event I am going to refer to everyone as 'chip', and will greet all visitors with a strong handshake and an overzealous back slap. The kind of chronic nerd that I will be dealing with loathes human contact.

It's not all doom and gloom though, as I have some compulsory work drinks to attend this evening which have been organised to mark the departure of a beloved member of staff. If anyone fancies getting in on the 2-for-1 cocktail shenanigans, I'll be the slightly irate rockstar propping up the bar at 'Potions'.

Sexy on Fire

Had the misfortune of being on the Jubilee line at just after 11pm yesterday. The O2 arena was playing host to guitar donning Chippendales, Kings of Leon. Subsequently, a plethora of doughy thirtysomething men in plaid shirts converged on to the train at North Greenwich. They had obviously made prompt exits after realising that a plaid shirt 'doth not make ye a hunk', and that any babes present at the show were not in the mood for copulating with recruitment consultants from Penge.

Maybe the single laydeez that these would be sex pests were looking to 'bone' had popped into one of O2's numerous bar and grills for a cheeky cocktail. Certain laydeez would be nurturing the implausible belief that the dreamboat KOL bassist had singled them out for meaningful eye contact during Sex on fire. Maybe, just maybe, young Jared would pop into Las Iguanas for a chilled bottle of Desperado and a blowjob. STRANGER THINGS HAVE HAPPENED.

On my sweaty carriage, which at North Greenwich had become tangibly saturated with sex hormones, there was also a smattering of bland, gloomy couples wordlessly resenting the evening they had just spent together. They could have been at the show, or they could have been tucking into an American Hot plus dough balls at Pizza Express. It makes no difference. The O2 is teeming with examples of this breed of couple, each pair linked by a limp, loveless handhold. Look in the window of the Haha Bar and grill, and you soon realise that whoever named the eatery was exercising a keen sense of irony.

Family club

This will be the one and only time I discuss this on the blog, but I am a Charlton Athletic fan. For months now I have avoided all mention of 'the anoraks' due to the consistently inept displays produced by the team. Over the past couple of years, supporting Charlton has been no more than a process of gradual resignation to the fact that we are once again a crap club. I have been going to games regularly for 15 years and the season just gone has been the worst one I that have ever experienced. I should have known that it would be a terrible year when I clocked the pair of oddballs occupying the seats immediately in front of me. It was a mother/son duo (at the football? Come on mate), each individually wrapped in their own tartan blanket. You need to take into account that it was a mild September afternoon, and a light jacket was all that was required. Throughout the course of the game it became clear that the son (who appeared to be in his early forties) was not suffering from any kind of mental handicap. He was just an enormous nerd.

You can tell a lot about a club by its fans, and for that very reason Charlton will always be a shit team. This list of 'celebrity' Charlton Athletic fans says it all:

Glenn Tilbrook - Front man from Squeeze. Nothing wrong with that.
Dave Berry - Odious tosser who is married to the Aryan Sugababe.
Gary Bushell - Bigoted berk who writes for The Sun.
Jim Davidson - Bigoted comedian who loves a good racial/homophobic slur.
Steve Davis - Snooker player. As far as I'm aware, he's not a bigot.
Michael Grade - Chief Executive of ITV. Looks like Jerry Springer.
Charlie Connelly - Travel writer and broadcaster. Don't really know who this cunt is.
Karl Howman - Actor (Not really an actor, just the boob from the Daz adverts).
Steve Rider - Bland ITV Sport presenter, widespread suspicion that 'he' has neither male or female genitalia. Just a smooth fleshy area.
Alan White - Drummer, formerly of Oasis.
Steve White - Drummer for Paul Weller (brother of the bloke above).
Lee Ryan - Rat-faced singer from boy band Blue
Shaun Williamson - Actor with misspelled first name, famous for his portrayal of Barry Evans on Eastenders.

During my time as a Charlton fan three of the above names have been paraded on the Valley pitch; where they had to endure an underwhelming bout of lukewarm applause from the home fans, which is then promptly drowned out by the sustained verbal abuse emanating from the away stand. First person to guess the three pitch invaders correctly wins a Mitre match ball signed by Carl Leaburn.

Training day

Yesterday was spent residing in the hell of professional/personal development. My department was forced into spending an entire day working together on how to achieve our personal and professional goals. At 9.30 am we entered room C2.15 and were greeted by 2 giant thermos flasks, a tray of individually packed oat-based biscuits and 2 slightly unhinged professional consultants. It transpired that we were to be lead on our journey to success by a rock climbing hippy, and a portly woman in an Aer Lingus hostess jacket. Clearly no expense had been spared.

I spent the next 8 hours alternating between both lying and talking out of my arse (they are different disciplines), and it was fucking exhausting. After being bombarded by unnecessary acronyms and a stream of meaningless sentences consisting of nonsensical terms such as "horizon scanning", I was a broken man. At the end of the session I had been reduced to reassuring my colleagues that I would be taking "personal ownership of both my team and my personal goals." I then went home, crawled into the shower and wept for half an hour.

To make up for yesterday's lapse, I have been spending significant periods of time on Ebay looking for a pair of shorts. I have not made a single bid.

FILMS

After being inspired by my flatmate's recent screenwriting exploits, I have started developing a few film projects of my own. I hope to secure funding for at least one of these bad boys over the next couple of months:


Uganda Panda: Slapstick Biopic based on the adventures of zany Ugandan dictator Idi Amin, with a blacked up Adrian Chiles succeeding Forest Whitaker in the title role. This casting decision was made due to the numerous similarities between the pair. Idi Amin developed a buffoonish, deceptively light hearted persona which partially obscured his inherently despicable nature. Adrian Chiles has managed to build a healthy television career by using similar tactics. One key scene will consist in Amin sharing a tube of Pringles with Colonel Gadaffi (played by "Macho Man" Randy Savage) while they bond over their shared anti-Semitic leanings.


Conkers: Heart warming tale of a mousy, working class lad from Hull who has a dead mum. The boy will be called George and will be played by some drippy kid from the local area, his emotionally distant father will be played by Dean Windass (making his acting debut, go Dean!) Due to his inhibited social skills and lack of sporting ability, George struggles to make friends at school. However his fortunes take a positive turn when he spots Pete Postlethwaite (playing himself) crouched beneath a chestnut tree in his local park. Pete takes George under his wing and teaches him the art of conkers. George goes on to win the annual national conkers competition that's taking place in the 'Big Smoke'. George's victory is temporarily soured due the sudden death of Pete Postlethwaite (who has a heart attack when he sees the price of a pint in London! Lol!). Luckily, George quickly regains his spirits when he realises that he is no longer a boy. He is a man.


Dangerous Blind Man:
This will be a remake of the Nollywood orginal, which movingly depicted one man's quest to find out why his wife hates him so much. I am trying to succeed where Gus Van Sant failed with 'Psycho', as each scene will be a meticulous word for word copy of the original, the only difference being the addition of a few recognisable names. The cuckolded protagonist will be played by Richard Gere. His promiscuous wife, by Sandra Bullock. Pierce Brosnan will reprise his role from Mrs Doubtfire to play the new sleazeball on the scene. I have great hopes for this film, and imagine it becoming a cult classic like Withnail and I. I've already thought of a fun drinking game that annoying people can play while watching the film. Every time Richard Gere says 'Yes boi', the audience needs to have a drink. This game will capture the imagination of students, and will take campuses across the country by storm. Controversy will soon follow when an overzealous chemistry undergraduate from Warwick falls into an alcohol induced coma after playing the game.

Man dem shower

An England fan has already been shot in the build up to Kazakhstan/England game this Saturday. Thanks Sacha Baron Cohen, this is what happens when you make a funny film portraying a nation as a hotbed of simple, incestuous rapists. Also, while we're on the topic, thanks for provoking the introduction of 'mankini' into the lexicon of contemporary popular culture. I can't think of a more intrinsically annoying word, it has the same effect on me as when people say 'chav'. It's the sort of word that makes Adrian Chiles lips curl into a shit eating, 'down with the kids' grin when he manages to self-consciously fit it into some smarmy utterance.

Apparently, the England fan in question was shot in the leg after refusing to stop singing, despite being asked to stop by a local punter. Was that 4th consecutive rendition of 'Is this the way to Amarillo' really worth it mate?

'Sha la la la la la BANG!'

I hope it was one of those bellends in the brass band who got taken out. Anyone who brings a Tuba to a football game is a cunt. That's just physics. Maybe he was wearing a lime, green mankini while he got shot. I bet he felt like a right tool in A+E, which in Kazakhstan probably consists of a toothless cretin holding a bucket of TCP. And a rusty saw.

Glasto

My housemate Jon's dad won 2 tickets to Glastonbury last week, and Jon has kindly offered me the spare ticket. But with Jon being Jon he has attached several conditions to this offer:

1. No more mentions of his love for cream eggs on the blog.
2. Removal of the artificial dating profile I created for him on Guardian Soulmates.
3. I must never refer to Glastonbury as 'Glastonbury', but only use the abbreviated form 'Glasto'.
4. I must prepare his favourite meal for him every weekday until the festival commences on the 25th of June. (His favourite meal is Young's fish supper, followed by a Cadbury's cream egg for pudding).
5. I must star as a highly strung, yet humorous drug addict in a play that he is writing about urban living. The play is called 'The sound of the street' (TBH it shits on any of Noel Clarke's output).
6. At the festival I must let him sit on my shoulders as he shouts 'Bonkers' for the duration of Dizzee Rascal's set.
7. Even if the weather isn't inclement, I must join him in getting caked head to toe in mud/human excrement in order to pose for a memorable photo. When I asked him where we would obtain the mud, he chuckled to himself and said "When there's a will, there's a way" and left the room.

I have agreed to all of these criteria.

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).