Like something out of a really dull episode of Hollyoaks...

Saint Valentine's day! The worst day of the year for my poor old postman. 

Oh no, not because his sack is overloaded with loving cards and trinkets from my scores of admirers, but because I verbally abuse him for having stolen all of it. Seriously, does he really think I believe his tale that nobody has sent me a single thing yet AGAIN? 

In reality, aside from the ones that I've sent to myself (and others that have been well disguised as bills and the Damart catalogue) I've only ever received one Valentine's card in my life.

This was when I was 15 and at school. It was from a girl called Kerry. She was very lovely and drew a picture on a folded Post It note of some cute creature (a cat I think) holding a heart. Inside it said something like "wishing you a happy Valentine's day", i.e. there was no actual declaration of undying love, just a wish for a happy day.

Despite this, it still warmed my heart. I carried it around in my jacket pocket and proudly showed it to anyone who would look. It was a bit like being a New York detective who would whip out his badge to prove his credentials. If anyone made out that I was in anyway undesirable, I'd produce my crumpled Post It note to prove them wrong. I then frisked them down and sent them away to be processed by the boys in the downtown precinct. 

In my own shambolic way, I then attempted to court Kerry for the last few months we were at school together. I'd casually loiter around the corridor where I knew she'd be having her last lesson of the day, just so I could say 'hi' to her as she filed past with her class mates. 

Just getting a glimpse and a word from her made the long walk home (having missed my bus by hanging around) much more bearable. The first half mile, I was walking on air. The rest of the journey, I was on my last legs (I've never had the gift of athleticism) but still glad I'd seen her nonetheless. 

Eventually, several months down the line - in the Easter holidays if I remember correctly - I summoned the courage to phone up and ask her out. This was long before the days of mobiles and texting. Back then, one had to actually talk to the person of their affection right from the outset. And worse still, there was always the possibility that you'd end up speaking to one of her parents if they were to answer the phone. 

Despite the risks involved, which felt like they may ACTUALLY kill me, I armed myself with a big glass of water to soothe my sandpaper-dry mouth and a little script of what I was going to say. I must have sounded like a telemarketer trying to sell someone double glazing. Except instead of new windows, the product was a dream date to watch 'Look Who's Talking Too' at the local Odeon.

Despite a very wobbly voice and several episodes of hyperventilation, somehow I managed to dupe her into thinking this would be a great idea and she agreed to accompany me. 

My initial euphoria soon turned to sheer terror as I realised that in just a couple of days time, I would be having to, you know, go on a date and stuff. What does one do on these things? Where would this lead? Should I propose before initiating any kind of physical contact? 

I felt both amazingly excited and extremely anxious about what lay before me. I couldn't sleep much, but I was weeing a lot. 

When the fateful day arrived, I got up early and had like three showers or something and washed my hair twice, trying to get it just right (it was 1990 and I had what I hoped were cool spikes, but they probably just looked a bad kind of messy, stuck fast with gel that went flaky before long).

About an hour before I was due to leave, I had a phone call. It was her! She was ever so sorry, but she couldn't make it after all. She had to babysit someone at short notice. 

Was this a genuine thing or had she had an epiphany about what she had agreed to? I guess I should have been upset, but in fact I was elated with relief. What to me was an almighty terrifying task, had just been removed. It was like receiving a stay of execution.

I can't really remember much of what happened after this. I left school to take my GCSEs and only saw her very occasionally. The last encounter I remember with her was at a bus stop a year or so later. I sensed she wasn't at all interested - she had blossomed and was really attractive and clever, so I suspect that she now had lots of fine chaps who could see in her what I always had. Without Twitter or Facebook or mobiles to keep in touch, that was that - we completely lost contact.

As it turns out, 'Look Who's Talking Too' was one of the worst films of all time, so at least I saved some money on that, not to mention the whole dying of embarrassment thing.

Anyway, in conclusion, I know that some people detest Valentine's day for its commercialism and also the pressure some single people feel it puts on them. But it can also be an opportunity to bring people together (even if everything eventually ends up going to rat shit).

I do wonder what St Valentine would make of everything that is now done in his name. I had a quick look on Wikipedia to see what he was like and was struck by the following quote:

"Nothing is reliably known of St. Valentine except his name and the fact that he died on February 14 on Via Flaminia in the north of Rome".

So it turns out that Valentine's Day IS actually nothing but bullshit after all!

  

Pope Application (as in applying for the job, not as in a little preachy widget for your iPhone)

So I’ve decided to apply to be Pope (or is it just ‘pope’ with a little p? Actually, probably quite a lot of p, as he is quite old now - those white robes are very unforgiving). Here is my letter of application:

“Dear Vatican Overlords,

I notice that a vacancy has arisen for the role of pope. I imagine there’s a grander, more formal title attached to the position than just ‘pope’, but let’s not get bogged down in any detail right now. Oh okay then, let’s compromise and settle on ‘Mr Pope’ so as to not to appear disrespectful.

Anyway, I would like to apply for said vacancy. I feel I have many skills to bring to this role and believe I’m exactly what you’re looking for.

Firstly though, let’s clear up one important point up right away; I’m not a Roman Catholic or even a Christian. But does that really matter? Does the Chief Executive of Pedigree Chum eat dog food? Well, given the recent horse meat scandal he possibly does, but that’s only coincidental. A bit like when I bless someone after they have sneezed.

I feel what’s more important is that I have a good heart. Most of my friends will agree with this (references available). Although not all of them perhaps, but then, who would they have to forgive if I wasn’t mean to them? I’m actually giving them an opportunity to be nice and kind, like Jesus was.

Unlike the present incumbent, I’ve never been a Nazi. But I have played as them in some of the older Call of Duty online games, so I have a broad understanding of their values and practices. 

Although I’ve never swung any incense around, I have experimented with joss sticks in my time (but I swear I didn’t inhale). 

If I were to be successful in the role, I would have to stipulate just a few conditions before accepting:

1. I usually enjoy a nice lie in on a Sunday morning. Sunday is a day of rest, so all services will now be carried out on a Wednesday (I need Monday and Tuesday to get over the weekend)

2. I’m not a fan of wine in any way, so Holy Communion will now have the option of Guinness being served instead. The little wafer things aren’t that tasty either, so they will be replaced with Hob-Nobs.

3. The pointy hat looks a bit stupid, so I will continue to wear one ONLY if a law is passed that EVERYONE else also has to wear one. All the time. Same goes for the dress.

4. The whole kissing of the ring thing is a bit weird, so that will be replaced with just a handshake.

5. Oh and no more interfering with kids. And we must become an Equal Opportunities employer. And promote contraception to halt the spread of AIDS and stuff. Basically let’s get with the game, and clean up all the shit in our own house before preaching to others. 

If after considering my application, you feel that I am the right man for the job, please bear in mind that I have to give one month’s notice to my current employer and would prefer to work from home when possible.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Yours sincerely,

Tobias King

PS

I know you get to choose a new official name when you become Mr Pope - I would like to be “Honor Rope”. 

Thanking you in advance,

Pope Honor Rope I”

My kind of town...(or 'city' technically)

Having lived here all my life (due to a variety of unfortunate circumstances and bail conditions), I thought I'd share with you some of the highlights of my hometown - Salisbury. Please note, this is Salisbury, Wiltshire, United Kingdom - not one of around one million towns in the US by the same name, or the old name for Harare, capital of Zimbabwe. 

You see, for a bit of a backward place, Salisbury has quite a few extraordinary claims to fame and famous children. I promise you that all the details in this post are actual true facts (except for the bit where I mention my forthcoming wedding to Sarah Harding in Salisbury Cathedral). 

(Just for the record, we're actually having a small registry office ceremony)

Firstly, Salisbury is the birthplace of two of the most famous Franks the world has ever seen: Frank 'ooh Betty' Spencer (aka Phantom Of The Opera, Michael Crawford) and really quite bizarrely in my opinion, England and Chelsea stalwart Frank Lampard. Neither have been true to their Wiltshire accents.

Some of the biggest ever movie franchises have a strong Salisbury representation. Firstly, C3PO was born and lives here. To be fair, he's seen better days and you can often find him staggering out of Robert Dyas with a six pack of WD40 to take home and enjoy whilst reading the Screwfix catalogue. 

Ralph Fiennes was educated at Salisbury's grammar school for boys. You heard me right people, Voldemort learnt all his evil ways right here. Rumour has it that that his nose fell off during a particularly physical game of rugby and on the night of each full moon, it can still be heard sneezing (on rainy nights, you can even feel the droplets on your face). Thankfully, Voldemort has now become a goody, having taken up the role of James Bond's boss 'M'. 

Another star of the screen to first slither into existence in my city was John Rhys-Davies. He was the arab guy with the little hat and beard called Sallah in the Indiana Jones films and also Gimli in Lord of the Rings. In real life, he's not actually a dwarf (or a wearer of a funny hat).

Lord of the Rings, kind of leads me onto Lord of the Flies (which it turns out is about some kids going all tribal on an island and not about some guy with the best zip in his trousers ever). The Nobel Prize winning author of LOTF, William Golding, taught in the very same school that Voldemort went to.

Incidentally, this school is just a stones throw from where Handel composed some of his music back when he was like the Jay Z of his day. The drum n bass remix of his Water Music is well dope.

And slightly (but only slightly) more modern music also has a Salisbury connection. Mick Fleetwood of Mickfood Mac, no, I mean Fleetwood Mick, no Macwood Flick - oh you know the one - was brought up here. As was Dave Dee from Dave Dee, Dozy, Sleepy and Grumpy or whatever they were called.

Sting has a house in Salisbury! Well, it's just outside Salisbury in a little place just up the road from where I live called Wilsford Cum Lake. Yep, that is honestly what it's called. And given all that tantric sex he does, it's probably quite apt.

I'm not sure if he sings or not (I reckon he probably does when in pantomime and the shower), but Christopher Biggins grew up here. His brother still does and rents a room off a friend of a friend. 

The oldest part of Salisbury (called Old Sarum) has a lot of history associated with it - far more than I can list here. Or that I can remember if I'm honest. But one thing that does stick in my mind is that William the Conqueror used to hang out in the castle that was once there (it's now just some old bits of stone with English Heritage posters on the wall). 

With all the archaeology knocking around these parts, it's lucky that Salisbury is also home to Phil Harding from Time Team. He's the one with a hat and who gets really excited by old flint and stained mud. He can often be seen wandering around and always wears the same hat. Whilst he's obviously incredibly passionate and clever, I can't help thinking that he probably smells. Especially on a hot day after lots of trowel scraping and an exciting find.

You're probably thinking after reading this post that it's not possible for anyone humorous or funny to come from Salisbury. Well my friend, you'd be wrong, assuming that is, you find David Mitchell funny. I think he's funny. I like him in Peep Show and that thing on Channel 4 with Charlie Brooker, Jimmy Carr and that Geordie lass. He was actually born just one day before me. And has a beard. And that's where the similarities end really.

After mentioning some famous births, it seems fitting to end this post with a couple of notable deaths this city has seen. 

Thin Lizzy's Phil Lynott died in the city's old hospital. It has since been converted into apartments and old people's flats. Someone now eats dinner or sleeps or washes in the space where Phil moved on to the big concert in the sky. And also in the same space I once had a rectal examination. Wonder if they'll ever put up a blue plaque to commemorate this when I'm famous?

Former PM (as in prime minister, not afternoon) Edward Heath lived out his final years in a big house in the cathedral close. You wouldn't really have know he lived there if it wasn't for the constant presence of armed police and the massive neon light-up sign he used to switch on at night that said, "I used to be leader of this bloody country you know".

So there we are folks, Salisbury in a nutshell. I didn't even have room for Britain's tallest cathedral spire, an original copy of the magna carter and the oldest working clock in existence. To be fair, the clock doesn't have a face, so crikey knows how you're supposed to tell the time. Let's relabel that one as the "world's oldest collection of rusty cogs and pulleys".

Anyway, you should all come and visit here sometime. Just ignore the young couples who look like they're actually siblings and the screams of whoever's turn it is to be sacrificed to keep the gods from sending us a plague of flaming locusts (which you may mock, but we've never had one yet, so screw you science).

My big day out! (part 3 of 3 unless I do a Director's Cut) - The Main Event

Welcome to the next thrilling instalment of my adventures in London with my glamourous sidekick, Keira Husky. You may like to familiarise yourselves with our railway journey (where we nearly got gassed to death on the tube) and our expedition across tower bridge (where we nearly got drowned to death my sea monsters). In summary, against all the odds, we had somehow made our way to the Design Museum in one piece...


We were directed up toward the '1.5 gallery', where the photography exhibition was taking place. I'm not sure if that's pronounced the 'one point five gallery', the 'one and a half gallery', the 'three divided by two gallery' or what. But it's obviously very cool and sophisticated. 

After being greeted by several ladies with clipboards who checked off our names in triplicate, we were offered a choice of drinks. Alas they had no Guinness or beer, so it was champagne for Keira and fruit juice for myself.

I was then taken over to where my picture was displayed and had my photograph taken with it by the official event photographer. For the first time in his career, he had encountered someone who blinked every single time he used his flash.

After the seventh failed attempt, we agreed that a higher ISO setting might have to be used instead of the flash. I was hoping that the extra grain this might bring to the image, may help hide the sweat and raindrops that were still nestling on my ample forehead. The dress code for the event was 'smart / casual', but at that point I was more 'clammy pile of shit'.

We were then asked to go around and vote for our favourite picture in each of the categories. Although this seemed straightforward enough, my admin assistant Keira Husky, found it more challenging than I had hoped. There was quite a bit of crossing out in order for our chosen photograph titles to actually end up in the right section of the voting slip. I now see why champagne is not available in office drinks machines.

One of the highlights of the night for me was that a string of attractive young waitresses (and one Korean dude) would come around with platefuls of unidentified, but very tasty, posh nosh. Suddenly, the whole concept of pretentious ponciness which once repulsed me, seemed bloody fantastic! Looking at nice pictures with a limitless supply of drink and tasty food, all whilst overlooking a beautiful part of London, was a wonderful way to spend one's time.

After doing some mingling, eating, sitting, drinking and more eating, I suddenly heard a very familiar voice. Had someone switched the radio on? No! Reggie Yates was actually in the room! He was looking very cool and dapper. Well almost. There was one exception to his attire that just didn't seem to fit in with the rest of his look - he was wearing slippers.

Now, as regular readers of my twitter feed will know, I recently bought a new pair of slippers myself and have really fallen in love with just how comfortable they are (non twitter folk, if hearing that you're missing out on that kind of insight into my life doesn't make you want to join up and follow me, I don't know what will). But really? Slippers? Smart / casual? This event wasn't like popping over the road for a paper and some milk.

What really completed this look was the fact that they had a skull and crossbones on. I would have loved some of these...when I was six! *bitch face*

So, despite that fact that he was wearing little boy slippers which, to my mind didn't really go with the rest of his look (bear in mind that I'm an avid viewer of Britain and Ireland's Next Top Model, so I think I know a little bit about style), the first thing I said to him when I had the chance was, "Hi Reggie, great to meet you. I LOVE your shoes!". Honestly, I can be so two faced.

Slippers aside, Reggie was an absolutely lovely guy. No doubt he was being paid to be there and mingle with us all, but he couldn't have been more friendly or patient. Keira and I had a really good chat with him and he seemed a genuinely decent chap. I would like to be his mate and hang out with him (especially when he goes shoe shopping - I could have helped him out there).

The other guest of honour in attendance, was Girls Aloud singer Sarah Harding. She was completely different to Reggie. She spent the whole night following me around, telling me how good my photograph was and touching my knee whilst whispering things things like, "I've got a feeling Tower Bridge won't be the only thing going up tonight".

I felt bad that the other guests weren't having much of a chance to speak with her and eventually, when she had got in between me and the tasty food once too often, she was asked to leave. It was horrible to see her cry like that, but it was for the best - if we were together, it would only have been a matter of time before she introduced me to the other members of Girls Aloud and, unless she was willing to share me, her heart would have gone through even more pain.

As the evening went on and the champagne flowed, the occasion grew louder and louder. Keira was kindly drinking my share of the fizz (and also that of the twelve guests who hadn't been able to make it). There was a really nice atmosphere and it was a great experience to be able to chat to the other entrants who were refreshingly normal.



My previous experience that people from the north of England and most of Wales are the friendliest in the country, was proved once again, although Keira and I did our bit as ambassadors for the south. In fact, one of the Welsh guys there was especially friendly towards Keira and would have been that extra special kind of friendly given half a chance. Luckily having spent too much time hanging around with me, she's fairly used to batting away unwanted male attention and managed to escape unscathed.

The only downside of the night (aside from them not serving Guinness) was that we were desperately missing the third member of our Terrific Trio, Jessington Cupcake. Despite my best efforts at wangling a plus two, she gracefully stepped aside to let Keira enjoy the day. We both resolved that we would visit London again soon, but this time with Jess firmly in tow. Plus, Ms Cupcake also gets the consolation prize of an all expenses paid lunch (up to the value of £15, terms and conditions apply, no cash equivalent shall be given) with me.

At twenty minutes past the time that the event should have closed, they started to turn the lights out and a few minutes after that, actually booted us back down the stairs. It had been an amazing evening and the four and a bit hours we'd been there had flown by.

One question now remained; what shall we do with the drunken Keira? Actually, she was probably 'really quite tipsy' rather than 'blind drunk' but the journey back towards the tube station was very entertaining. Our mood was jolly and buoyant, and this made Keira decide to try and make fiends with as many random strangers as possible.

Thankfully, London is full of weirdos on a Friday night who responded to this quite well and took her in as one of their own.

On one occasion I had to restrain her from approaching a gang of feral looking youths with caps on at jaunty angles, which thankfully she thought better of. The only other restraint I urged her to show was when we were passing a fresh faced young policeman. Although that encounter passed off peacefully, she did manage to blurt out, "What are you, 12?" as we passed by.

Whilst we waited for Tower Bridge to return to its flaccid state after having been raised, I noticed that there were round floodlights set into the pavement which were shining brightly. But then I wondered, whether these may actually be teleport pads to get us across to the other side whilst the bridge wasn't available. I stood on one to try it out and even made teleport noises, but unfortunately, it appears that it was just a spotlight after all (unless it was faulty I suppose). I don't even have champagne to blame for this incident, although I guess I had been passively drinking Keira's all night.

One of my long standing memories of this night will be Keira stood by the automatic barriers at Waterloo underground station, waving her crumpled ticket in the air, saying "I need assistance!". It would seem that she wasn't the only one affected by the fizz and her ticket was too far over the limit to be of use any longer.

Thankfully the train back to Salisbury was far quieter than the one we had arrived on. The only incident of note was when a young couple started canoodling. The woman was being cradled in this guy’s arms like a baby. Then they started kissing. But wait, what’s going on? That’s not kissing. He’s actually sucking on her nose. Her nose! I nearly called the guard to stop such peculiarity, but they soon got off (the train, not the other way, at least so far as I could tell).

For the remainder of the journey home, we reminisced and laughed together about the evening we had just experienced, both unable to put into words quite how much we had enjoyed it. Despite having been on my best behaviour for most of the day, my mischievous (or 'dickish' side) did rear its cheeky head as I found myself hiding Keira's purse whilst she slept. I still don’t think she’s noticed the £20 that’s missing.
  

Problems be gone; it's Uncle Toby time!

Some heroes slip off into phone boxes to change into a bedazzling costume before helping to save the world. Not me though. Once again I'm donning my comfy knitwear with a vile pattern. I may not be able to fly, look through walls or dress myself without help, but that's not to say I'm no less capable of saving YOUR life.

That's right folks, tonight sees the return of Uncle Toby, ready to listen to YOUR problems and giving YOU sound and sensible advice to see YOU out of your hellish predicament. 

If your haven't experienced Uncle Toby before, you're probably either stupid or on the list of people I'm not allowed to be within 50m of. Check out some of his previous wisdom here..

Without further ado, here are today's problemees:

Nick from London writes:

Dear Uncle Toby,

Two and a half years ago, everything was going so well for me. I had enjoyed a meteoric rise in popularity, not long after having achieved the highest rank in my organisation. But almost overnight this came to an abrupt end.

I entered into a relationship with a guy named David because I thought it would help my career. Despite our very different backgrounds and some reservations, I thought that somehow it was the right thing to do. He promised me earth and said he was committed to being my partner for at least the next five years.

Despite bending over backwards to accommodate his needs (quite literally - he'd obviously learned a thing or two from his time at Eton), he soon changed from the man I thought I'd hooked up with.

Despite appearing as charming to the outside world, behind the doors of our London town house, he was a violent bully and would make me do things I had PLEDGED never to do.

I have lost all self respect and my popularity has never been so low. Please tell me what to do!

Thanks for getting in touch Nick.

Obviously you are in quite a predicament. It's not easy to know how to tell you this, but it's only fair that I be completely honest with you: you only have yourself to blame.

You danced with the devil and he rogered you violently from behind with his dirty great trident. That is a well known risk of dancing with a lord of darkness.

You've obviously hurt a lot of people and let your friends and supporters down badly. Will you ever recover from this? Possibly not. But you do have a chance to do the decent thing and apologise before walking away with your head held high (assuming you CAN still walk after all that time on your knees).

Just one final tip - issue the apology in the form of a letter. If you upload it as a video to YouTube, it could be edited into a song and then no one will be able to take it seriously.

Okay, here's the next troubled soul, Justin from Bristol:

Alright? So I was with this woman right. And to begin with everything was all a-maze-in and good times, but then she started flippin out cos I wanted her to write down every luvver she'd ever had in a note book. When she never did, I pushed her in front of a car, AS A JOKE, but she takes it all serious like and gets the police involved. Now I'm in court and being charged with assault and that. What should I do?

Thanks Justin. Hmm, well, as this is in the hands of the court, I have to be very careful what I say.

It sounds to me like you may be suffering with VSMS or 'very strange man syndrome' as it is properly known. Symptoms include excessive hair growth (on both the head and face) and the continued use of a very strong regional accent, even though you've not lived in your place of birth for many years. Some scientists have suggested that the condition is exacerbated by spending too much time with bespectacled gay men, but these studies have yet to be substantiated.

There is no known cure at this time, but symptoms can be reduced by getting a smart hair cut, talking properly and not pushing your loved ones into traffic.

If that fails, then the only other way out is a late night walk along Clifton suspension bridge at high tide.

Good luck!

And finally tonight, here's one from K in Inverness:

Dear Uncle Toby,

I find myself getting angry and aggressive towards people for no real reason. I always regret doing it, but can't seem to control myself much of the time. Everything starts off fine but soon I lose my patience and JUST FUCKING ANSWER ME ALREADY WILL YOU?

Hi K, thanks for your email.

Okay, I sense there is tension and anger deep inside you. You need to try to get to the bottom of what has caused this. Be kind to yourself and let it bubble to the surface in a gentle and non judgmental way. Oh and a rollicking great orgasm would help too, but you're probably frigid.


And that's it for this evening folks. Remember, you can always email me your problems, no matter how big or small. As you can see, I will handle them delicacy and care.

Dear Uncle Toby...

Hi guys,

I’d like you to take a minute to picture the scene.

I’m sat in an armchair next to a log fire (obviously in a room in a house and everything, not just randomly outside).

I’m wearing a knitted sweater with a lovely (or ‘ghastly’ as the non visually impaired among you might say) pattern on it and corduroy trousers. In my hand I have a notebook and on my face is a caring and empathetic expression that says I’m ready to listen to you [points at you].

Oh look, opposite me is a really comfortable sofa. Between us is small table with tea (or coffee or hot chocolate or warmed Vimto or whatever your favourite comforting beverage is) and biscuits on.

The person you're visualising right now is me, Agony Uncle Toby and you are here in my Cosy Safe Space where you are free to express yourself anonymously and without judgment. Come and have a sit down and a drink and tell me all of your problems.

Whether you choose to listen to my advice is up to you, but to be honest, you’d be a fool not to. And frankly, you’d also be downright rude after taking up my time like that and scoffing all of my biscuits.

So just relax, get it all off your chest and then do whatever I say.

Tonight’s first request for help comes from ‘L’ in Middle Earth:

Dear Uncle Toby,

I have a ring dilemma. Not as bad as those crazy kids in Mordor but when my ex and I split up we gave everything back to each other including gifts.  One of the items he returned was a ring I'd bought him for our first anniversary. I've kept it and he now wants it back.  Should I keep it or return it?

Please help me because you’re awesome,
Love L xx

Well L, this is a tricky one. One of the main reasons it is so difficult is because you’ve mentioned the word ‘ring’. In order to retain my professional integrity, I’m going to have to refrain from making any jokes about bums here and, to be completely open with you about this, I find that really hard.

Anally way Anyway, you had a very clear agreement where you returned all of your gifts back to one another. Why do you think it is that he’s suddenly changed his mind about this?

Is it because he has met someone else and wants to give them a present but is just too tight to buy one properly?

Is it because he’s been seduced by a Cash 4 Gold advert?

Or is it because he’s had a change of heart and wants to get back together with you?

Freud would tell us that, despite having become synonymous with the anus, the ring is actually a symbol of the vagina. He wants that ring back. YOUR ring back. And he wants to slip it on his finger. His FINGER!

Are you getting where I’m going with this?

Basically, if you give the ring back, you might as well bend over (or lie back with your legs open - whatever you prefer) and say, “yoo hoo, come and get it big boy”.

Agree to his demand and you will be giving back far more than a shaped-metal fanny symbol.

I suspect this news will either thoroughly delight or repulse you, depending on your view.

Personally I’d tell him to go screw himself. And, because the ring is obviously cursed, you’d best send it to me so I can dispose of it safely. *checks latest price of gold*

Okay, onto the next one:

Jordan from Jordan writes:

Dear Uncle Toby,

I’ve been going out with my beautiful girlfriend for almost a year. To celebrate this, she wants us to get matching tattoos. I do love her, but we’re both still very young. To be completely honest, I'm afraid of commitment and I'm genuinely terrified about getting such a permanent statement of my affection for her. I’m desperate not to lose her and yet somehow this doesn’t feel at all right. Please help me!

Awesome blog by the way,
Jordan.

Thanks Jordan, yeah it’s great, isn’t it.

Now it’s clear that you’ve got hung up on the ‘T’ word. You seem to be equating a tattoo with an engagement ring and in reality, they’re not at all the same. Who can say how your relationship will work out, but it sounds like you’re definitely very fond of her, so maybe after 12 months together, having something like this done would be good for you as well as her.

The key is to completely re-frame the proposition in your mind. Don't think of it as a 'tattoo'. Instead, think of it as a 'golden ticket to a thousand blow jobs'.

Every time you fancy it from now on, even when your girlfriend has a headache or is in that mood that is so bad it makes her bleed, just tap the tattoo and she'll have to consent to whatever you want (and yes, it does cover even that).

If at the end of the day it doesn't work out, tattoos are easily removed with laser guns. Honestly mate, this is priceless, you can't lose.

Okay, time for just one last cry for help in tonight’s episode...

G from ‘close by’ asks:

Dear Uncle Toby,

I’m really concerned that my son is becoming increasingly withdrawn. He doesn’t have a girlfriend and hardly ever even goes out. He’s 38 and by now I had hoped to have some grandchildren, but all he ever does is ‘blog’ or draw pictures on his computer. I suspect these are just cover stories and he’s actually masturbating over pictures of goats. Please advise.

Great blog and pictures by the way, oh and your tea's nearly ready.
Love G xx

Well G, you made some life big life choices when you decided to keep this one and not offer him up for adoption. Maybe if you put in a little bit of effort to try and understand why he is like he is, you wouldn’t be quite so hard on him all of the time.

As with any relationship, communication is the key. But in this case, ultimately, I blame the parents.


So there we are folks, I hope you’ve found some of this helpful. If nothing else, I think we’ve learned that a problem shared with me is a problem that has been told to "jog on matey, because I've just got my life back".

If you’d like to have any of your problems totally solved, just email me and I’ll include them in a future post.

Thanks for tuning in and remember, don’t have nightmares. But if you do, share them with me, because I also know what your dreams mean.

Sweet retweets

I have a confession to make - I have never understood why, when it is someone's birthday, we often say to them, "many happy returns!". Nobody else seems to have a problem with it, but to me it doesn’t really make sense.

I looked up this phrase in a dictionary, and all it gave as a definition was, "just something that people say to others on their birthday, but nobody even knows why lol". This was the same dictionary that had removed the word "gullible" from its pages mind you.

Nevertheless, when it comes to that special day when we celebrate the fact that x number of years ago, you caused your mother unspeakable pain before slithering out of her distended vagina, I still say this confusing phrase to people. But when I do, it's always slightly hesitant in case they reply with, "excuse me, but what does that even mean?"

The only explanation I'd be able to give is, "Erm, well, yeah, obviously by 'many happy returns', I mean that your presents all look pretty rubbish, so I hope you really enjoy returning them for something better. Here's the receipt for my gift by the way. Yeah I know, but it looks more expensive, right?"

This morning I tweeted something to this effect (though obviously it was much more condensed thanks to the 140 character limit). I was thrilled that it got a couple of retweets.

For those of you that aren't familiar with Twitter (here I'm thinking of you mum, and also the person who has accidentally ended up on my blog because the Toby King they googled was the Panamanian reggae singer and not the renowned artist, photographer and blogger who’s a bit up himself), a retweet or 'RT' as it's known in the world of Twitter where every unabbreviated word takes up precious space, is where somebody reads a tweet and likes it so much, they consequently decide to share it with their followers so they might enjoy it too.

Some people can get really quite obsessed with getting RTs off of others. The tacit approval they represent can prove quite addictive. For me it's especially true when you tweet something that could be deemed as rather obscure like my many happy returns joke. I get quite a a euphoric and reassured feeling when it turns out that other people might be on the same wavelength as me. Maybe I’m not quite such a freak after all!

If you post something that you think is funny, but it gets no RTs or any other responses at all, it kind of feels like you've made a joke in a crowded room but the only response is deathly silence (and probably an embarrassed cough, some awkward shuffling and the distant sound of a mewling infant).

So conversely, when it seems to resonate with other people too, it's like your head fills with canned laughter and you feel accepted and validated somehow.

Although they are nice and often genuinely warm my heart, over the years I have learned not to get too hung up on RTs or the absence of them. I know from my own experience of reading tweets, sometimes you see something you enjoy and it may even make you laugh, but still you don't RT it.

There can be several reasons for this. Sometimes my attention has already been grabbed by the next tweet, or I've already RTd lots of other people in a short time and feel like I've done my duty for a while. Sometimes I've lost signal on my phone or had to put it away abruptly as somebody else needs to use this toilet cubicle. And there are even times when I decide something is far too funny for its own good so there's no way I'm going to share that because I'm cross I didn't think of it myself.

Despite being aware of these and many other reasons why people haven’t shared our jokes, we still appear to think that we have developed super-powered magical abilities where we know exactly what other people are thinking about us!

If we get a RT, people think we’re super cool! If we don’t, everyone hates us! We build this false image in our head of how we think we are perceived by others which is always bound to be warped and fall short of the truth.

More than once I’ve tweeted something that I thought was hilarious but didn’t get a single response. So I ended up thinking to myself, actually yeah, that was pretty lame. But then, a while later a couple of people did RT it after all. Suddenly my mindset has changed as I then think to myself, actually I knew it was funny. I can be such a fickle, insecure so and so.

In summary, although no response to a tweet can sometimes feel like a deathly silence, its still likely that is was actually enjoyed nonetheless. And if it wasn’t, who cares? It’s only flipping Twitter!

Now, contrary to the above, sometimes a RT is quite the opposite of a sign that it was approved of and enjoyed. Some people, especially one of my followers in particular, will RT something and often follow it up with a disparaging comment.

Generally I've got no problem with this, especially when someone has expressed what to you seems to be a ridiculous, extreme view. A RT can be the easiest way to highlight it and say, "crikey, look what this wazzock has just said!"

But it does seem almost cowardly if you consistently do so, without then also addressing your concerns to the original tweeter. Mocking someone whilst trying to remain anonymous is just snide (and consequently my nickname for the person who does this bitching from the safety of their own tweets is Snidey Sniderson - one more to add to the list in my previous post - which incidentally, I’m still not going to reveal the identities of, so don’t ask).

Ultimately, as with anything in life, it's the process of actually doing it, of coming up with a humorous tweet that should be enjoyed, not any plaudits that may follow it (however much they might stroke one’s ego).

Having said that, now all that remains for you to do (except for you mum and the reggae fan) is RT this post because you enjoyed it so much!

*silence*

Hello? Hello!?

*taps screen*

Pah! Seriously? Screw you guys. 

Twype Casting

If you're a football fan, you'll no doubt know who the late, great Sir Bobby Robson was. For those of you who don't know him (probably the women and poofters among you), he was a legendary football manager and all round thoroughly nice chap. But he was also famous for forgetting and muddling people's names. This wasn't any sign of dementia, it was something that he'd done throughout his life.

One time, a reporter asked one of his players called Shola Ameobi, what Sir Bobby called him - an interesting question to address to someone with an unusual name given Sir Bobby's propensity for mispronouncing them. Ameobi's slightly sheepish reply was "Carl Cort" (another player from his squad).

I often feel that I myself suffer from a bit of Bobby Robson Name Syndrome. It usually takes a good half dozen encounters before I get it fixed in my head what to call someone. By the end of a phone conversation, I've often forgotten who it is I'm talking to. If you're called Rachael, it's highly probably I'll call you Rebeca and vice versa. It's nothing personal of course, just that my brain doesn't seem to be wired up correctly in the naming department.

It's bad enough in the real world, but social media has opened up a whole new area of confusion for me. I love using Twitter, but sometimes find it all a bit overwhelming. Every few seconds a new message will crop up in my timeline and it can be really hard to keep track of what's going on. I follow over 2000 people, which added to the fact that I'm a bit slow and forgetful anyway, makes it nearly impossible to remember who everyone is.

Unlike on Facebook where I tend to actually know the majority of my friends there (although 'friends' is pushing it a bit - it’s more people that I just can't seem to shake off), most of my Twitter followers are, or at least start off as, total strangers. So I haven't even got past shared experiences to help jog my memory of who is who.

Added to this, people are also prone to regularly change their profile pictures and, in some cases, even their usernames. This often throws me completely and I'll end up trying to carrying on a conversation with someone that I've never spoken to before.

So what does a feeble minded man do to try and navigate this minefield in order to avoid making 'beaucoup de name related faux pas?'

Twitter nicknames of course! Or ‘Twicknames’ as they shall be known because it is Twitter law to prefix anything Twitter related with a ‘t’ and a ‘w’ (let’s hope there is never a Twitter hat project).

To explain: there are certain people on Twitter who I end up giving my own little name or more accurately, description to. I find this helps me keep track much more easily than relying on usernames and photos alone. This isn't something I've done deliberately, just something that over time, my mind conjured up all by itself to help me out.

So I thought it might be fun to list a few of them here. Maybe you'll recognise yourself or someone else! But don't bother to ask me as I'm not going to identify who any of them are - that's just between me and my brain.

I apologise in advance if this makes anyone feel paranoid, but your mental well being is not as important as my fun and games, so stop reading if you think you could get huffy. The chances are you're not in the list (but don't get huffy if you think I've missed you out either).

Some Twicknames / Twescriptions

The one with the face like a Victorian doll - she's pretty but her face does look like it could be made of porcelain. Suspect her eyes shut automatically when you tip her backwards and she only comes to life at night, having spent the day on an old lady's bedside shelf.

The one who looks like she'd smell of cheese - hard to put your finger on why you think someone might smell of cheese, but she does look a bit whiffy. Quite greasy hair and wears the kind of clothes that look like they could well have Edam rind in the pockets.

The one whose cheeks I want to pinch - she has such a lovely, smiley face, kind of like a giant baby. If I knew her in real life, I wouldn't be able to resist tweaking her cheeks every time I saw her and would probably consequently be up on assault charges.

The one who's well meaning but stupid - thick but smiles a lot.

The one everyone else seems to find funny, but I think is a dick - honestly can't see his appeal. Painfully unfunny tweets, but everyone seems to love him. Suspect he's actually a bot and part of some kind of Twitter experiment to prove that most people are stupid.

The one who doesn't have a clue how beautiful she is - so many girls on Twitter seem to think they're inadequate in some way. Our current culture appears to have skewed what people regard as pretty or beautiful and this saddens me. This one especially has no need to feel anything but pride in her appearance. Could just be an attention seeker though.

The one who knows full well how beautiful she is - if you've got it, flaunt it I guess. Suspect she ALWAYS gets her own way.

The one who thinks she's way more beautiful than she really is - oh lordy, what are you doing? And never, ever post pictures like that again. Please never breed.

The one who looks beautiful in her thumbnail avi, but a right state when you see it full size - so deceptive, as illustrated by the example below:

The one who takes the most dreadful photos ever - oh they're just horrid. I'm all for people following & sharing a passion, but not if it makes my eyes bleed.

The one who comes across as very bigoted - looks like a pig too, so yes, naturally enough I call them 'pigot'.

The one who only seems to tweet me back once a month - Oi! I thought we were having a conversation! But no. Suspect they're on some kind of pay-as-you-go twitter scheme where each tweet costs them money, or a beloved pet.

The one who always seems to retweet my tweets - most likely my mum.

The one who is fat, bald, four-eyed and likes the sound the sound of his own tweets - actually a pretty amazing guy who writes a wonderful blog. Small penis.

So there we are. Ring any bells? Suspect you may recognise some of the characteristics from your own timeline as I’m sure many of these traits are quite common in Twitter land.

New ones of these keep cropping up, so suspect I may well do a follow up post at some point in the future.

Crash. Bang. Wallop. Ouch.

It turns out that the all powerful universal driving force (God / Allah / that Indian one with lots of arms / a 13 year old oik who has created me in a cosmic version of The Sims / or whatever your personal belief), has once again given me a helping hand (or bloody great shove) towards my goal of losing weight and getting myself in shape.

It all began yesterday evening. My sister's best friend and his sports-mad family were visiting and invited me to join in with a game of rounders. Now, the last time I remember playing rounders was 1984, but I figured that the basic principles can't have changed that much in the intervening years. I agreed to take part because I thought it would be an enjoyable way to burn off a few calories, plus I'd pretend it was actually cricket and imagine myself to be Freddie Flintoff at his most flamboyant, spraying that tennis ball all over the field for six runs apiece.

As I stood at the crease (no idea what the technical term is for rounders, so I'll use cricket terminology to help reinforce my role playing fantasy), the demon bowler steamed in (as much as an eleven year old girl can steam in). Given that we were playing with a miniaturised rounders bat (unless I have grown twenty times my 1984 height), I was concerned that I'd just spin round on the spot and avoid contact with the ball completely.

But just like Freddie would have done, I absolutely middled it. The ball soared for miles, taking out a couple of satellites before returning to Earth covered in space dust (as in dust from space, not as in the strange fizzy / crackly sweet powder that makes your tongue tingle). Six runs!

As it turned out though, unlike in cricket, one still had to run around our improvised diamond track made up of buckets and table tennis bats, in order to 'score a rounder' or whatever it is one achieves by so doing. So off I went on a glorious lap of honour. I accelerated at quite a pace toward the first base, when I suddenly realised that my legs were doing things all of their own accord. I was hurtling along, but very much out of control.

I knew I was going to crash to Earth harder than the tennis ball had after its journey into the stratosphere, but I just couldn't slow myself down at all. As is traditional at times of calamity, everything went into slow motion as the grass got closer and closer before whacking me flush on the chin. I honestly couldn't imagine that it would have been possible to have collided with it at any greater force.

Concerned people rushed to my aid whilst my sister collapsed into hysterical laughter - something that only made the almighty pain feel a million times worse. Her friends seemed to think that I'd literally thrown myself into the game with tremendous gusto and this was just a heavy landing from a deliberate dive. So far as I'm concerned, it's better that they think this rather than knowing that, in truth, my legs took on a mind of their own. It was like the game of Misfits where my usual upper body had been paired with the legs of a newly born foal.

I did my best to dust myself down and laugh along with everyone else. In reality though, I felt like I was about to faint, be sick and couldn't shut my mouth properly since it had born the brunt of the impact. To add insult to injury, technically I had been run out as, despite my Tom Daley-esque exploits, I hadn't even made it to the first table tennis bat.

I somehow managed to stagger back to the house despite feeling ridiculously dizzy and sick. I had to navigate through where we keep the chickens which felt especially dangerous because if I'd collapsed there, I fear they would have pecked me to pieces.

After lying on the sofa and moaning and groaning, it became clear that I really ought to go to A&E to be checked out. As well as feeling dazed and confused, I couldn't shut my mouth which felt like it was very much out of alignment.

I hobbled into the reception area like an extra from Casualty and tried to explain what had happened. Not being able to stand up straight and talk properly made communication very difficult and at first the receptionist thought I was trying to tell her that I had burned my head. Eventually the message got through and she sent me to sit with the other unfortunate souls who were destined to spend their Sunday night at the hospital.

I heard the receptionist make a phone call saying that she was very concerned about me, although I guess you would be if you thought someone's head is actually on fire. After just a few minutes I was ushered through to a cubicle where I was prodded, poked and questioned about what had happened.

For some reason, I felt a bit self conscious explaining that I'd hurt myself during a game of rounders. It sounded a bit 'gay' to me. I would have much preferred that it had happened during a more manly sport or a good old brawl.

My embarrassment was confounded when the nurse, whilst updating details on the computer, shouted across the whole of the A&E ward to check, "It was a game of rounders you were playing, wasn't it Mr King?". It was the medical equivalent of someone at a busy chemists asking for a price check on the haemorrhoid cream.

I must say that, the often maligned NHS did a fantastic job. I was seen by six or seven different medical staff and they were all incredibly friendly, patient and helpful.

After getting the results from the X-ray back, it turns out that I've damaged the ligaments of my jaw but haven't broken anything. Although this is bloody painful, it will at least fix itself in time. I was so relieved that it was nothing more serious.

Right now, as I hunch tentatively over my iPad slowly writing this, I also still get occasional dizziness and have bruised ribs and a swollen knee. But I count myself as being ridiculously lucky not to have done anything more painful (and more importantly, not to have damaged my glasses or mobile phone).

With my jaw in a bit of a state, eating is quite a painful chore. So thanks once again Higher Power for helping reduce my calorie intake by conjuring up a situation where I'm inevitably going to eat less for a while. Maybe for your next trick you could magic me a lottery win so I could afford a house with a gym, swimming pool and my own personal nutritionist. Cheers.

In a bit of a pickle. Erm, I mean jam.

Q: How does Bob Marley like his donuts?

A: Wi' jammin!

Although latest research shows he actually preferred custard but this fact was deliberately distorted by joke writers for comedic effect.

Today's blog is all about jam (as in the sweet, sticky stuff that comes out of a jar (but is not honey), not as in an assembled group of musicians improvising random tunes nor as in a long line of cars full of irate motorists). And for those of you who think I over complicate simple explanations, screw you (as in the politer version of 'fuck you', not as in turn you round and around until you seal a bottle of lemonade).

So anyway, there I was browsing my way through Twitter one day, only to stumble across a cry for help from the Janner Jam company. They were stuck on 666 followers and, unless they quickly gained another, very bad demonic things would surely happen to them.

Naturally I went and changed into my special superhero outfit (which is admittedly rather snug nowadays and in need of a good wash to remove some dubious stains) before clicking on the 'Follow' button and becoming their 667th follower. Suddenly the dark clouds had passed and the sun shined on their little jam factory once again.

If they could have done, I suspect they would have hoisted me aloft their shoulders and paraded me around their town like the saviour I was. Although given that the town is Plymouth, they may well have then sacrificed me to some sea god and shared my charred body parts among the hungry townsfolk.

Thankfully, instead of this grand parade, my reward was a jar of their strawberry jam. Let me just write that down again to make sure you understand. I followed someone on Twitter and in return, they sent me jam. Actual, real life, leave-the-lid-off-and-wasps-and-bees-will-come-and-attack-you-for-it jam. How super flipping amazing is that!?

Amazing that is, unless of course, the jam tastes disgusting. However, I'm pleased to report that the jam is actually properly gorgeous.

As a lover of both toast and cream teas, I'm au fait with many different flavours and brands of jam. Unlike with most things, I really do know what I'm talking about. And I can honestly say that Janner's Strawberry jam is right up there with the very best. In fact, if my local supermarket stocked it, I'd forego my usual choices of Tiptree or Bon Maman and definitely buy a whopping great jar of Janner's.

It has a delightfully sweet taste, but which doesn't overpower the actual flavour of the strawberries themselves. It's also got just the right consistency and texture and spreads nicely without then trying to slide off of its carrier. It's like some kindly old relative who has spent their entire life perfecting the art of jam making, has sent you a jar of their finest work.

In summary - it tastes bloody lovely and has inspired me to go and buy some crumpets. Check out their website to taste for yourself (after purchasing your own jar that is - don't lick your computer or phone screen as that will just taste like a mixture of dust and your fingers).

And if anyone would like to send me some crumpets to review, please feel free to send them on.

The same goes for anyone who owns a Mercedes garage, a video game shop or an escort agency (as in ladies whom one pays by the hour for their 'company', not as in the ropey old predecessor to the Ford Mondeo) - feel free to send me your product samples too.

To do or diet

I must admit that I wasn't expecting to write a 'diet' progress report quite so soon, but after what has been two full days of eating sensibly, doing more exercise and sucking my belly in whilst in polite company, words of this kind are now spilling out of my fingers.

I don't actually like the term 'diet' very much. To me it implies either cutting certain foods out, introducing new ones (like very expensive Chinese seaweed that's been licked by turtles), and generally meticulous watching of calorie intake. I'm not doing any of that.

'Eat a bit less, do a bit more' (or 'EABLDABM') is my philosophy. I shall continue to enjoy cake, faggots, beer and ice cream - liquidised and topped with caramel sauce and nuts - just as I did before, but 'less of it, less often' (LOILO). And of course I shall combine this with more exercise: lots of 'walks and nightly kinetic stretches' (WANKS).

Wow, with all this funky terminology I've just invented, I could probably actually create my own weight loss society. Or a cult where I'm worshipped! The 'cult utilising nutritious temperance' (CUN...oh).

I am tempted to take before and after photographs of myself, just in case I do need to produce some promotional literature to encourage membership. Rather than waste money on two separate photo shoots months apart, I can get all of this done in one go. All I will need is a giant pair of trousers (held out in front of me whilst I look ecstatic) to pose in for my 'after' shots. In fact, wearing giant trousers (or a corset) may be a short cut to looking slimmer any way. Maybe my cult will have an oversized uniform. Join up and even on day one, you'll be feeling a lot slimmer as your baggy jeans keep falling down and tripping you up.

When I do reduce my portly girth a little, it'll be like getting a whole new wardrobe. Well, a wardrobe of tired old shirts that finally fit me again, but still more choice than I currently have.

One of the advantages of having Crohn's disease was, under normally circumstances, a constant slimness regardless of what I ate. This meant that I always bought nicely fitted shirts that were described as 'tailored' or 'slim fit'. I couldn't wear these now for fear it would actually cause damage to the litter of Battenbergs gestating in my belly.

If I ever manage to fit into those again, it will be a tangible sign that my EABLDABM programme is working (or that my illness has flared up and once again I'm wasting away).

Yesterday I enjoyed a lovely picnic in the grounds of Salisbury Cathedral with the delightful company of my two best pals, Jessington Cupcake and Keira Husky. This was quite a challenge as we'd travelled via my favourite local bakery that stocks all manner of tempting treats, but I managed to restrain myself and buy just a sensible lunch that a normal person would enjoy (unlike my two companions who bought every last pasty they had).

It proved to me that I could have a brilliant, fun lunch with my pals and not completely gorge myself. There were also signs that [insert deity or higher power of your choice] was helping me in my endeavour to get trim in three different ways.

Firstly, despite it being a most beautifully warm, sunny day at a busy tourist destination, the ice cream kiosk was shut. I deliberately hadn't bought a cake from the bakery so as to allow myself a nice ice cream for pudding. Obviously, given the surroundings, I had a stern word with the Christian God upon learning of this, wondering why he had been so cruel. A thunderous voice replied, "BECAUSE YOU ARE A FATSO".

Well, I couldn't argue with that. But I did then question Him about why the grass was still so damp. He said He'd get back to me on that one and mumbled something about being too fat to understand.

The second thing that reduced my waistline was the emergence of a random bagpipe player (complete with kilt and funny hat - not sure about pants). Whilst enjoying the tranquil surroundings, chatting to my girlfriends about knitting and 50 Shades of Grey, suddenly our peace was shattered by the lusty lungfuls of air being passed through this dead sheep (or however bagpipes actually work). The anger I felt about this, together with the gesticulations I directed towards the performer, surely helped burn off a few extra calories.

The final bit of assistance I got to aid my weight loss was being held up in a shop, only to have to then run to catch my bus home. Yes, of course I could have walked home, thus ensuring even more energy being used up, but it's hard to tackle greediness and laziness at the same time.

Running is something that I only normally do when being chased by monsters, or if there's a limited supply of free cake somewhere. Since neither of those happen very often, it's not an action that comes naturally to me. I have to really concentrate of putting one foot in front of the other in quick enough succession to propel me forward and not end up going round in a circle or falling over.

The sight of me wobbling through the city centre at speed must have been extremely alarming for Salisbury's Friday afternoon shoppers. I imagine the CCTV operators might have thought for a moment that a small hippo had escaped from the zoo, popped on some clothes and a rucksack and was now trundling menacingly towards a stationary bus.

The worst things about running for a bus are:

a) being too out of breath to ask for my fare
b) having a very crippled old lady offer me her seat
c) waiting for a good three minutes for it to finally depart - during which time, there's the slow dawning realisation that I didn't need to run anyway

But hey, it must have shaved at least a millimetre off my belly (and probably an inch off the length of my pavement-pounded legs).

As I finish writing this post, it's quite ironic that I've just been to answer the door to the postman who has delivered me a pot of jam from a friendly jam company on Twitter. It's with great self control then, that I'm saving it to try later and resisting firing up the toaster immediately. Maybe I could just dip a finger in though...

*heads off to kitchen for a table spoon*
*feels proud that it's not to the shed for a shovel*

Right or Wrong Guard?

Today I did quite a dangerous thing. Usually I’m not so reckless, but for some reason - maybe because it was Monday morning and I just needed a thrill, or maybe it’s a time of life thing - I took a massive gamble that could have proved fatal. I wore a brand new deodorant without having tested it first.

So maybe not actually fatal then (although I suppose a severe allergic reaction is always possible), but come on, you’ve got to admit, it is pretty risky. I didn’t even do a spray test to get a sense of the fragrance before wearing it. I just shook it up, held my breath and gave myself a hefty dose under each arm.

Usually I’d have carried out stringent tests in safe, well ventilated conditions, well away from real people that I have to interact with.

Aside from the obvious criteria like smell and effectiveness, I’d have been checking that it didn’t make it feel like my armpits were actually on fire just after using it (something that happened with a citrus flavoured can of Lynx I once had for Christmas - luckily the actual flames soon died down and it just caused me to itch under each arm all day, like a fragrant monkey).

Having worn it during real-life conditions, I now feel qualified to bring you a mini product review that might help influence your future buying decisions, whether it be for yourself, a friend or someone you don’t like who you’d love to have fiery pits.

The name of this product is...fairly fiddly to work out because there is a ton of writing on the front of the aerosol - some of it name, some of it blurb, most of it bollocks. It’s definitely made by Right Guard though and I think the name is “Total Defence 5, Cool, 48H”.

It describes itself as a “High-performance anti-perspirant deodorant” and now has “30% more protection power”. Whilst it’s no substitute for more traditional methods, it would undoubtedly offer effective protection against pregnancy and other, less serious STIs - one spray of this on the little fella and it won’t be getting up to any mischief for quite a while.

Performance wise, it does do the trick. I had a normal day in the office where everything was fine.

But walking home was more of a challenge because it was very warm, so I was sweating like Julian Assange on his way to court. Whilst it didn’t prevent perspiration like I guess its supposed to, it did keep everything from reeking of whatever toxic substance I happened to be secreting this day.

So, reading this, you might think it does what it says on the tin and therefore is worth trying (it’s on offer in some supermarkets right now). Well, I’ve saved the worst until last, although you notice this drawback as soon as you start using it: the fragrance.

Boy oh boy it’s not good. It is very reminiscent of the little blue cubes you get in gentleman’s urinals. So although it doesn’t smell of poo itself, it does trigger the very same olfactory receptor memory that you get from being in a Gents, meaning that it smells of poo by association.

I guess “Cool” is a more attractive name to market than “Poo by Proxy”, but it’s far less accurate.

I could only recommend this if you think that the lady of your dreams likes the smell of disinfectant, or if you suspect there’s a chance that someone might try and use your armpit as a urinal.

Guy’s if you’re reading this now thinking, ‘oh flipping heck, I use this all the time and he’s just basically said I smell like a toilet’, I offer no apology. Move on to something else and see how many ladies you get hovering around you now instead of flies.

If your current squeeze actually likes you wearing this, dump her now - even if you’ve been married for many years. She’s probably just saying she likes it to keep all the other bees from yo’ honey, whilst she’s off being a floozy with, let’s be honest, more than one man at a time. Don’t let her trap you like this, escape whilst you can!


One final thing before you go. If you like my blog posts (let’s face it, where else could you go to find a review of a ropey deodorant that also doubles as a marriage guidance post?) please take a minute to click on an advert or two that are roundabout here somewhere.

They should offer you amazing products and services tailored to your needs, based on your previous web browsing. If one of them is a link to Big Black Cocks dot com, you really need to ask yourself some questions. And don’t think for a minute that anyone will believe you were actually looking for large, dark chickens.