Why, who is this kindly old fellow with a peculiar dress sense and a keen desire to make youngsters happy. No! It’s not Sir Jimmy Saville, but good old Uncle Toby.
Just to clarify for those of you who have asked; no, Uncle Toby does not offer a range of rice or stir-in sauces. You're muddling him with Uncle Ben. Blimey, how could you get confused by that, they’re not even the same race for crying out loud!
Anyway, let's get on board the Troubled Bus and steer it away from the Cliff of Despair and back towards the calm gentle waters of Solution Beach.
Today's first problem comes from Jen in 'The Independent Free State of Cornwall'. So, that's Cornwall then:
Dear Uncle Toby,
I'm 18 years old and have just moved away from home to start the next phase of my life at university. I come from a small village where everyone knows everybody else, so moving to a large city is really scary! My mum is naturally concerned about my welfare and has warned me in particular about a thing called 'date rape'. I didn't want to appear stupid or worry her by admitting I didn't know what that was - please could you explain?
Jen xx
P.S. Thanks for your daily emails, inviting me to come to stay with you if I'm feeling lonely and vulnerable.
Hi Jen, you're welcome. I'm always here for you (unless you turn out to be a bit of a gargoyle - in which case, you're on your own).
Date rape is quite a sticky subject, but I'll do my best to handle it with my trademark tact and care.
What it basically consists of is getting the small, fleshy fruit of a palm tree and inserting it (or indeed several of them) into a lady's love passages, without their prior consent.
This is obviously a very invasive experience and most sadly of all, ruins what would otherwise be a perfectly good snack.
If you should be unfortunate enough to suffer with a date rape, be aware when cleaning out the debris that they do contain quite a large stone, so make sure you remove this before resuming normal activities down below.
Stay safe.
Onto our next correspondent, T from 'just over there':
Dear Uncle Toby,
Thanks so much for taking time out of your busy day to help us normal, troubled people with our crappy little problems.
Last week I tweeted a joke that contained the words 'whore' and 'slag'. Whilst I appreciate these are unpleasant ways to address ladies in the real world, I thought that on Twitter within the context that I used them, they wouldn't cause genuine offence.
The joke was supposed to be on a man who would really use such words, and not intended to be derogatory in any way. Whilst many females found this funny in the way it was intended, alas some ladies didn't see it like that and took great offence, suggesting that I had committed a crime towards the female species that's the equivalent of directing racial abuse at ethnic minorities and that I had contributed to the oppression of women by using these terms.
The intent behind these attempts at humour couldn't have been further away from the way they were interpreted by some and I regret having caused this upset. Some of my best friends are women. I'd be grateful for your thoughts on this thorny issue.
Thanks in advance for your limitless wisdom,
T x (that's a kiss by the way, and not my second initial as if my surname were Xavier or something).
Hi T, thanks for getting in touch. From the tone of your question, it seems obvious that you genuinely didn't mean to cause any harm. Unfortunately, getting the 'spirit' of a joke across in a tweet is extremely hard and is always open to misinterpretation.
It is really important that mankind offers nothing but absolute respect to females (or 'bitches' as they prefer to be called). Life gives them plenty to deal with after all, what with not only having to put up with periods and childbirth, but also cooking, cleaning, not watching football and having smaller brains.
If they want to dress like a prostitute, that's their choice and I for one, wouldn't try to stop them.
Finally tonight, here's one from thingy in somewhere or other:
Dear Uncle Toby,
I am a mid-twenties woman who suffers greatly from shyness and social anxiety. I don't know why, but people never seem to notice me and I often get ignored. Is there anyway I can overcome this and make more of an impact? It's such a relief to finally be able to share my problems with somebody like you who is such a great listener.
Many thanks,
Blahdy blah.
*checks watch*
*finishes sudoku*
And that's all we've got time for tonight folks! Remember to keep sending your problems in. No matter how big or small, I'm ready to help you (assuming I'm not prevented from doing so because of legal proceedings against me - so nothing involving small rodents, milk bottles or Vaseline just now thanks).
Showing posts with label humour. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humour. Show all posts
Wednesday, 3 October 2012
Monday, 1 October 2012
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).
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.
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.
Thursday, 27 September 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, 26 September 2012
Weight a minute
As the wise and learned regular readers of my blog will know, I decided a few weeks ago that it was time to terminate the baby that Mr Kipling had deposited inside my belly and get, if not properly fit, at least a bit more comfortable within myself. Here's another progress report for you about how it's going.
My dear and lovely mother said to me the other day that she thought I had lost some weight. By 'weight' she could well mean general standing and influence in the community, but I think she actually meant it in relation to my portly girth.
Now, the reason for her saying this will either be because:
a) she knows that's what I've been trying to do. So being the kindly soul that she is, she's telling me what she thinks it is I want to hear, whilst privately weeping about how I will never present her with a grandchild while I remain this large. (Hmm, a lot of 'she' in that sentence there. Oh look, here come some more).
or
b) she genuinely thinks that I have lost weight. Whilst on the surface she pretends this is great, inside she'll be worrying that I'm wasting away and will start baking me lots of cakes and pies.
But in truth, I really do feel like I am making good progress in the right direction to get in shape. I have deliberately stayed away from monitoring the situation with weights and measures because I know I'd get obsessed with them and the roller-coaster of emotions they'd trigger.
I have no hard facts to present to you as evidence of my stoic adherence to a way of life that now excludes the second, third and fourth helpings I would have at one time shovelled down my gizzard.
So instead, I have to rely on other, more wooly indicators. These are far less tangible, but they still provide me with encouragement and hope.
I thought I'd share a few of the things I've noticed that have changed since I've started eating a bit less and doing a bit more. Who knows whether they're all related to my new regime, but I think in all likelihood they are:
* previously when I used to walk along, I felt like a cow who had reared up onto her hind legs and was strolling along with very full udders that were swinging from side to side (not sure where the teats came from mind). But now I feel like someone has given me a jolly good milking and there is far less udder / belly sway during movement.
* my trousers keep trying to fall down! Honestly officer, it happened all of its own accord. Yes I know it was an unfortunate coincidence to be walking past a 6th form college at the time. No, it's always that shape. Yes, it is cold today.
* I now get full half-way through a meal. This has honestly never happened to me before! I usually manage to last right until the end and then come back for seconds straight away. So embarrassing.
* I've somehow mastered the art of taking tea and cake without the cake! I know this sounds abhorrent, but a cup of tea by itself is actually really nice. I've started to appreciate the flavour of it much more. Plus, it can actually be quite filling in an odd way.
* I've learned that eating healthy food has an interesting effect on one's bowels. Who knew that filling up on fruit and nuts (note: not Fruit and Nut) could actually power you to blow your entire duvet clean out the window. And by 'clean' I really mean, oh never mind. Was particularly proud of a late night [insert polite word for fart] that sounded exactly like the noise they play when someone gets an answer wrong on Family Fortunes. Epic.
* no one has given their seat up for me on the bus in ages now. Although that could just be because of a moral breakdown in society, rather than people no longer thinking that I'm expecting.
One insight I have had from reducing calorific input, is just how much my excess eating had been emotionally based. I know that comfort eating is a well known phenomenon, and I would do my fair share of this. But actually, more often I would have a feast to celebrate feeling well and happy. Either way though, the end result is the same.
I am aware that my feelings of good progress could all just be clever trickery on the part of my subconscious. My cunning mind might be trying to convince me that all is fine now, so I can stop this reduced eating nonsense - "ooh, looking good Mr Skeletor, now stop this charade and feed me with cake again".
But I will persevere because I HAVE THE POWER!!! *holds baguette aloft like a sword*
And if you've never watched He-Man, you'll be thinking I'm mentally disturbed right about now. But really, we both know you're the one who has missed out.
My dear and lovely mother said to me the other day that she thought I had lost some weight. By 'weight' she could well mean general standing and influence in the community, but I think she actually meant it in relation to my portly girth.
Now, the reason for her saying this will either be because:
a) she knows that's what I've been trying to do. So being the kindly soul that she is, she's telling me what she thinks it is I want to hear, whilst privately weeping about how I will never present her with a grandchild while I remain this large. (Hmm, a lot of 'she' in that sentence there. Oh look, here come some more).
or
b) she genuinely thinks that I have lost weight. Whilst on the surface she pretends this is great, inside she'll be worrying that I'm wasting away and will start baking me lots of cakes and pies.
But in truth, I really do feel like I am making good progress in the right direction to get in shape. I have deliberately stayed away from monitoring the situation with weights and measures because I know I'd get obsessed with them and the roller-coaster of emotions they'd trigger.
I have no hard facts to present to you as evidence of my stoic adherence to a way of life that now excludes the second, third and fourth helpings I would have at one time shovelled down my gizzard.
So instead, I have to rely on other, more wooly indicators. These are far less tangible, but they still provide me with encouragement and hope.
I thought I'd share a few of the things I've noticed that have changed since I've started eating a bit less and doing a bit more. Who knows whether they're all related to my new regime, but I think in all likelihood they are:
* previously when I used to walk along, I felt like a cow who had reared up onto her hind legs and was strolling along with very full udders that were swinging from side to side (not sure where the teats came from mind). But now I feel like someone has given me a jolly good milking and there is far less udder / belly sway during movement.
* my trousers keep trying to fall down! Honestly officer, it happened all of its own accord. Yes I know it was an unfortunate coincidence to be walking past a 6th form college at the time. No, it's always that shape. Yes, it is cold today.
* I now get full half-way through a meal. This has honestly never happened to me before! I usually manage to last right until the end and then come back for seconds straight away. So embarrassing.
* I've somehow mastered the art of taking tea and cake without the cake! I know this sounds abhorrent, but a cup of tea by itself is actually really nice. I've started to appreciate the flavour of it much more. Plus, it can actually be quite filling in an odd way.
* I've learned that eating healthy food has an interesting effect on one's bowels. Who knew that filling up on fruit and nuts (note: not Fruit and Nut) could actually power you to blow your entire duvet clean out the window. And by 'clean' I really mean, oh never mind. Was particularly proud of a late night [insert polite word for fart] that sounded exactly like the noise they play when someone gets an answer wrong on Family Fortunes. Epic.
* no one has given their seat up for me on the bus in ages now. Although that could just be because of a moral breakdown in society, rather than people no longer thinking that I'm expecting.
One insight I have had from reducing calorific input, is just how much my excess eating had been emotionally based. I know that comfort eating is a well known phenomenon, and I would do my fair share of this. But actually, more often I would have a feast to celebrate feeling well and happy. Either way though, the end result is the same.
I am aware that my feelings of good progress could all just be clever trickery on the part of my subconscious. My cunning mind might be trying to convince me that all is fine now, so I can stop this reduced eating nonsense - "ooh, looking good Mr Skeletor, now stop this charade and feed me with cake again".
But I will persevere because I HAVE THE POWER!!! *holds baguette aloft like a sword*
And if you've never watched He-Man, you'll be thinking I'm mentally disturbed right about now. But really, we both know you're the one who has missed out.
Monday, 24 September 2012
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.
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.
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,
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.
Sunday, 23 September 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, 18 September 2012
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.
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.
Monday, 10 September 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, 9 September 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, 8 September 2012
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*
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*
Monday, 3 September 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, 2 September 2012
Taking Offence
*Advanced warning! This post may contain the words: dick, knob, willy, cattle prod and goats cheese*
A funny thing happened to me on Twitter this week (aside from the usual offers of free iPads and invitations to 'cam' from scantily clad robots).
Somehow I managed to get under the skin of some Mitt Romney supporters. For those of you who don't know, Romney is the Republican Party's presidential candidate who will take on Barack Obama in this year's US election.
You may remember him from a recent visit to the UK where he generally appeared to not have a clue as to who he was talking to, nor what about. Famously, shortly before they commenced, he said he was concerned that London wasn't ready to host the 2012 Olympics. Well, let's just say, “In. Your. Face.”, to that ridiculous accusation.
It's fair to say that, like quite a few people as it turns out, I don't like the guy or his policies.
What with it being the week where he received official approval from the Republican Party to face off against Obama, I decided to tweet something along the lines of:
Dear USA,
Please don't vote for Mitt Romney because we all think he's a bit of a dick.
Yours sincerely,
Everyone Else.
Now, I imagine that during his time in various positions of authority, he will have faced far worse chides and insults. Admittedly my tweet lacked much in the way rational, persuasive argument against him becoming president, but that wasn't the point.
There are far more intelligent commentators who could give you a list of reasons exactly why Romney and co are actually dicks. My tweet was intended purely as humorous way of essentially saying, "I don't like Romney" (as if anyone should care what my view was).
To be honest, I'm not really bothered who wins the election anyway. I'd rather it was Obama, but it's not something I have any influence over. I won't be knocking on any doors asking for support or wearing a rosette with a donkey on (unless the Democrats want to fly me to the States, put me up in a swanky hotel and pay me to campaign for them, in which case I'd happily spread the word & persuade people not to vote for any Republican penises).
Anyway, the tweet got a few re-tweets and a some people found it funny in the way that was intended. But as it turned out, one lady in the US was deeply offended by me calling Romney a "dick". This wasn't at all kind apparently, for he was a good man with great values.
I was really tempted to point out to her that I'd only called him "a bit of a dick", which is surely not quite so bad. It's more like calling him a foreskin or something. But I resisted - her bio pointed out that she was a vocal follower of Jesus and I wasn't sure how she felt about foreskins or the lack of them.
What really struck me about this was just how rattled a Romney supporter seemed to be by the (attempted) humorous tweet of a British man thousands of miles away with barely any influence in his own household, let alone the political system of the US.
It would appear that some Romney supporters are really tetchy about him being criticised. Something that is surely born out of the insecurity of knowing deep down that, although he wears your party's colours and elephant thingy, you have been lumbered with a bit of a knobber.
I do find it really interesting what offends people - especially on such an open, public forum like twitter which is hardly conducive to serious debate. It can be tricky to get the humour in a tweet across in just 140 characters. I'm confident that people who know me in real life will get my tweets as they are generally an extension of the kind of nonsense I come out with most days. But I suppose inevitably there will be some people who either don't sense the intended tone, or even if they do, still get offended by it.
I do find it hard to empathise with genuine victims of offence as it's not something that happens to me very much at all. In fact I'd say that in rare circumstances I am 'troubled' by some people's comments but hardly ever offended (in the way I understand the word anyway).
Romney aside, this week I also tweeted something that I knew some people might take offence at. During the Paralympics opening ceremony, Professor Stephen Hawking gave a speech. I tweeted something along the lines of "Did Stephen Hawking just mime that?".
I didn't get any response to it either way, but did wonder if it may have troubled some. The reason I felt comfortable to share this though was because a) having seen Stephen Hawking on various TV shows and interviews, it's evident he has a fantastic sense of humour and I genuinely hope he'd laugh along with it. And also b) the real joke is not a jibe at him and his electronic voice machine, but at the many acts who mimed at the recent Olympic closing ceremony.
Obviously one can never please / entertain / insult / offend people all of the time. But I reckon so long as your remarks come from a place of honest integrity and right intent, then anyone who does get offended by them are just a bit of a dick anyway.
A funny thing happened to me on Twitter this week (aside from the usual offers of free iPads and invitations to 'cam' from scantily clad robots).
Somehow I managed to get under the skin of some Mitt Romney supporters. For those of you who don't know, Romney is the Republican Party's presidential candidate who will take on Barack Obama in this year's US election.
You may remember him from a recent visit to the UK where he generally appeared to not have a clue as to who he was talking to, nor what about. Famously, shortly before they commenced, he said he was concerned that London wasn't ready to host the 2012 Olympics. Well, let's just say, “In. Your. Face.”, to that ridiculous accusation.
It's fair to say that, like quite a few people as it turns out, I don't like the guy or his policies.
What with it being the week where he received official approval from the Republican Party to face off against Obama, I decided to tweet something along the lines of:
Dear USA,
Please don't vote for Mitt Romney because we all think he's a bit of a dick.
Yours sincerely,
Everyone Else.
Now, I imagine that during his time in various positions of authority, he will have faced far worse chides and insults. Admittedly my tweet lacked much in the way rational, persuasive argument against him becoming president, but that wasn't the point.
There are far more intelligent commentators who could give you a list of reasons exactly why Romney and co are actually dicks. My tweet was intended purely as humorous way of essentially saying, "I don't like Romney" (as if anyone should care what my view was).
To be honest, I'm not really bothered who wins the election anyway. I'd rather it was Obama, but it's not something I have any influence over. I won't be knocking on any doors asking for support or wearing a rosette with a donkey on (unless the Democrats want to fly me to the States, put me up in a swanky hotel and pay me to campaign for them, in which case I'd happily spread the word & persuade people not to vote for any Republican penises).
Anyway, the tweet got a few re-tweets and a some people found it funny in the way that was intended. But as it turned out, one lady in the US was deeply offended by me calling Romney a "dick". This wasn't at all kind apparently, for he was a good man with great values.
I was really tempted to point out to her that I'd only called him "a bit of a dick", which is surely not quite so bad. It's more like calling him a foreskin or something. But I resisted - her bio pointed out that she was a vocal follower of Jesus and I wasn't sure how she felt about foreskins or the lack of them.
What really struck me about this was just how rattled a Romney supporter seemed to be by the (attempted) humorous tweet of a British man thousands of miles away with barely any influence in his own household, let alone the political system of the US.
It would appear that some Romney supporters are really tetchy about him being criticised. Something that is surely born out of the insecurity of knowing deep down that, although he wears your party's colours and elephant thingy, you have been lumbered with a bit of a knobber.
I do find it really interesting what offends people - especially on such an open, public forum like twitter which is hardly conducive to serious debate. It can be tricky to get the humour in a tweet across in just 140 characters. I'm confident that people who know me in real life will get my tweets as they are generally an extension of the kind of nonsense I come out with most days. But I suppose inevitably there will be some people who either don't sense the intended tone, or even if they do, still get offended by it.
I do find it hard to empathise with genuine victims of offence as it's not something that happens to me very much at all. In fact I'd say that in rare circumstances I am 'troubled' by some people's comments but hardly ever offended (in the way I understand the word anyway).
Romney aside, this week I also tweeted something that I knew some people might take offence at. During the Paralympics opening ceremony, Professor Stephen Hawking gave a speech. I tweeted something along the lines of "Did Stephen Hawking just mime that?".
I didn't get any response to it either way, but did wonder if it may have troubled some. The reason I felt comfortable to share this though was because a) having seen Stephen Hawking on various TV shows and interviews, it's evident he has a fantastic sense of humour and I genuinely hope he'd laugh along with it. And also b) the real joke is not a jibe at him and his electronic voice machine, but at the many acts who mimed at the recent Olympic closing ceremony.
Obviously one can never please / entertain / insult / offend people all of the time. But I reckon so long as your remarks come from a place of honest integrity and right intent, then anyone who does get offended by them are just a bit of a dick anyway.
Saturday, 1 September 2012
Video killed the radio star (and nearly me as well).
Okay, so it turns out that beard aside, Steven Spielberg and I have very little in common. I have created a video that I'm more ashamed of than Paris Hilton's parents would have been of her infamous taped collection of private moments (and not just because it reminds me that the rest of the world hears not my voice, but that of a slow farmer on drugs).
In my defence, it was my very first time and I was plagued with technical difficulties, but my dreams of making it big in Hollywood (California, not the one in Worcestershire - I could probably still hit some heights there) are in tatters.
The reason I was messing around with a video in the first place was to try and establish a clear winner of my Mo Farah portrait. Rather than pick a name out of the hat or toss a coin, I thought it would be a marvellous idea to ask people who I meet throughout the day a simple question - Geraldine or Kevin? Whoever got the most votes would win!
So I collected around four minutes of footage that I thought I could stitch together and hopefully edit into an amusing montage that would probably become a massive viral hit on YouTube.
Now as we've discovered, I have no idea what I'm doing, but not for the first time in my life thought 'how hard can it be?'. Only to discover that actually, it's really effing hard. It didn't help that the people I was working with were clearly not professional actors. If they'd been a little bit more 'with it', perhaps I would have stood a better chance and I'd be eyeing up a little place in Beverly Hills by now. You know what? Now I’ve started blaming other people, everything is beginning to make more sense.
After spending several hours trying to find a way of transferring the videos from my Android phone to my iMac computer, I thought I was ready to polish this little collection of video turds into one slightly more glittery one. Clever editing would surely save the day!
But alas, despite working without problems on my phone, once transferred to my computer the audio had changed from people talking to the sound of a thousand howling bees. I started to attempt to find some answers on Google, only to find a nice residential course on bee keeping in Swansea and an article on the decline of the howler monkey.
So, any editing would have to be done in-phone. After pottering around the app store for a while (and downloading some updates to my strip-poker games) I discovered an app called 'Magisto'. This appeared to solve all my problems as it offered a fully automatic editing service. All you have to do is choose your videos and a soundtrack and their advanced Artificial Intelligence would do the rest! Perfect I thought!
The example video on their website turned a collection of snowboarding clips into an amazingly slick movie that guys with shoulder length blonde hair and goatee beards would have described as ‘totally rad’.
However in reality, it turned out that the ‘Artificial’ was a little more dominant than the ‘Intelligence’. Admittedly it was a ridiculously simple process to instigate. After giving it the film clips and music, it popped off for 20 minutes or so to do its thing. I was really hoping that it genuinely was happening automatically and hadn’t been emailed to a poor guy in a Korean sweat shop who was getting paid tuppence an hour to knock out a nicely edited result.
It was with great anticipation that I viewed the final result. If this had have been edited by the enslaved Korean guy, I would have wanted my tuppence back and him put on double shifts with half rations. It had handily managed to edit out all reference to Kevin or Geraldine. What’s left is jumbled nonsense which, whilst it probably reflects what’s going on in my head, doesn’t help answer the winner of the competition. To top it all off, I forget to put a question mark at the end of the title name which annoys me every time I see it.
Get the popcorn laced with cyanide and check it out yourself!
So, you’ll just have to trust me when I tell you that, thanks to Keira Husky from my earlier post changing her mind in dramatic fashion at the very last second, we have a draw! Yes I know I should have asked an odd number of people to make sure a draw wasn't possible, but honestly I’ve had it up to my tits now so that's not going to happen.
The easiest, most practical solution is to share the picture. So, if Geraldine and Kevin could just let me know your age, smoker status, lifestyle and any dangerous hobbies, I’ll have an actuary work out who should get the picture first and for how long.
Only joking of course - there's no way I’m going to put myself through the hell of talking to an actuary! Congratulations both - you’ll get a picture each. Just DM me your addresses on Twitter and I’ll get everything sorted next week.
And if anyone wants to tell me that, in hindsight, it would have been simpler to have just done that anyway, wow thanks! I never realised! Here’s my open wound and over there is a bag of salt - you know what to do.
Having said that, I’ll probably have forgotten this in a few days and will try to make another crazy film, so please rub that salt in really hard.
In my defence, it was my very first time and I was plagued with technical difficulties, but my dreams of making it big in Hollywood (California, not the one in Worcestershire - I could probably still hit some heights there) are in tatters.
The reason I was messing around with a video in the first place was to try and establish a clear winner of my Mo Farah portrait. Rather than pick a name out of the hat or toss a coin, I thought it would be a marvellous idea to ask people who I meet throughout the day a simple question - Geraldine or Kevin? Whoever got the most votes would win!
So I collected around four minutes of footage that I thought I could stitch together and hopefully edit into an amusing montage that would probably become a massive viral hit on YouTube.
Now as we've discovered, I have no idea what I'm doing, but not for the first time in my life thought 'how hard can it be?'. Only to discover that actually, it's really effing hard. It didn't help that the people I was working with were clearly not professional actors. If they'd been a little bit more 'with it', perhaps I would have stood a better chance and I'd be eyeing up a little place in Beverly Hills by now. You know what? Now I’ve started blaming other people, everything is beginning to make more sense.
After spending several hours trying to find a way of transferring the videos from my Android phone to my iMac computer, I thought I was ready to polish this little collection of video turds into one slightly more glittery one. Clever editing would surely save the day!
But alas, despite working without problems on my phone, once transferred to my computer the audio had changed from people talking to the sound of a thousand howling bees. I started to attempt to find some answers on Google, only to find a nice residential course on bee keeping in Swansea and an article on the decline of the howler monkey.
So, any editing would have to be done in-phone. After pottering around the app store for a while (and downloading some updates to my strip-poker games) I discovered an app called 'Magisto'. This appeared to solve all my problems as it offered a fully automatic editing service. All you have to do is choose your videos and a soundtrack and their advanced Artificial Intelligence would do the rest! Perfect I thought!
The example video on their website turned a collection of snowboarding clips into an amazingly slick movie that guys with shoulder length blonde hair and goatee beards would have described as ‘totally rad’.
However in reality, it turned out that the ‘Artificial’ was a little more dominant than the ‘Intelligence’. Admittedly it was a ridiculously simple process to instigate. After giving it the film clips and music, it popped off for 20 minutes or so to do its thing. I was really hoping that it genuinely was happening automatically and hadn’t been emailed to a poor guy in a Korean sweat shop who was getting paid tuppence an hour to knock out a nicely edited result.
It was with great anticipation that I viewed the final result. If this had have been edited by the enslaved Korean guy, I would have wanted my tuppence back and him put on double shifts with half rations. It had handily managed to edit out all reference to Kevin or Geraldine. What’s left is jumbled nonsense which, whilst it probably reflects what’s going on in my head, doesn’t help answer the winner of the competition. To top it all off, I forget to put a question mark at the end of the title name which annoys me every time I see it.
Get the popcorn laced with cyanide and check it out yourself!
So, you’ll just have to trust me when I tell you that, thanks to Keira Husky from my earlier post changing her mind in dramatic fashion at the very last second, we have a draw! Yes I know I should have asked an odd number of people to make sure a draw wasn't possible, but honestly I’ve had it up to my tits now so that's not going to happen.
The easiest, most practical solution is to share the picture. So, if Geraldine and Kevin could just let me know your age, smoker status, lifestyle and any dangerous hobbies, I’ll have an actuary work out who should get the picture first and for how long.
Only joking of course - there's no way I’m going to put myself through the hell of talking to an actuary! Congratulations both - you’ll get a picture each. Just DM me your addresses on Twitter and I’ll get everything sorted next week.
And if anyone wants to tell me that, in hindsight, it would have been simpler to have just done that anyway, wow thanks! I never realised! Here’s my open wound and over there is a bag of salt - you know what to do.
Having said that, I’ll probably have forgotten this in a few days and will try to make another crazy film, so please rub that salt in really hard.
Monday, 27 August 2012
Lion around
As you will have no doubt already seen, there are reports of a lion on the loose in Essex (or on the 'lose' in Essex according to many misspelt tweets, like he was having a bad night at a casino or something).
When news of this started to trickle in late last night, Twitter seemed to explode into a big cat frenzy. Somehow, the idea of a giant beast prowling round a populated part of England captured the imagination and led to a spike in tweets - mainly jokes about lions, most of which were paw.
See, even now I can't help myself. But I'm trying, that's the mane thing. Emotions are still roar. Lion? No I'm serious.
So just why did the image of a potential killer freely roaming the streets appeal to the average tweeter so much? Will he be this year's Raul Moat, where some people help him evade capture for a couple of weeks before he takes a final stand, threatening to bite himself to death?
I don't suppose we'll ever know fur sure, but let's paws for thought and chew over a couple of potential reasons for the popularity of this topic.
If your upbringing was anything like mine, your childhood would have been full of stories about animals escaping from the zoo or circus (as well as some 'stranger danger' ones where bad people from the circus did very improper things to young children, but we won't consider those just now).
I mean, in one famous story, a tiger actually came round for tea for crying out loud!
Escaped animals were a source of excitement and fascination. Plus they may even lead to mum getting out the best crockery and baking some homemade cakes. In all the stories I was ever read about escaped animals, not one went and even did a little bit of shoplifting, let alone mauled innocent people to death.
The closest I ever came to experiencing a wild animal coming to tea, was when a cow escaped from the local cattle market just down the road from where I lived. It ran up the road and crashed through a neighbour's window into their living room. I remember being genuinely disappointed that it didn't make it slightly further up to our house. However, I later found out than rather watch a bit of tv whilst eating dainty grass sandwiches, it was actually destroyed in an almighty mess of blood & cow poo. So it was probably for the best.
So, I reckon this rogue beast has reignited the excitement and wonder each of us has rarely felt since childhood. A kind of innocence towards danger - something that we try and recreate in adulthood with scary theme park rides and horror movies.
But it's not only that. The other reason I think the lion tweets were spreading like wildfire was the myriad of possibilities for joke tweets. Not only did you have the roar material of the lion to work with (puns by the ton), but he was strolling round Essex - a hotbed of stereotypes ready to be worked into the jokes too.
So we had tweets mentioning that he was actually a female snow leopard who'd overdone the fake tan and had excessive hair extensions. Some clever wag questioned just how far he'd be able to make it in white stilettos. And then there was something about a vajazzle, but thankfully I can't remember the punchline on that one.
The whole scenario had suddenly offered everyone the potential to become a comedian. Who cared whether there really was a lion on the loose? The imagery was funny whether it had a basis in truth or not. There always seemed to be one more joke to get your teeth into.
Given that at the time of writing there are only a couple of eyewitness reports and one photograph of such poor quality that even experts at the zoo can't determine if it shows a lion or not, there's still a fair chance that this is all just the result of a couple of people having had one too many drinks anyway.
But there's no denying it transformed an average Sunday night on Twitter into quite a circus. At times of national hardship and despondency, releasing wild creatures into urban areas may well do wonders to lift the public mood. In the absence of any more Olympics / royal weddings / jubilees, monkeys riding zebras could be just what the country needs.
EDIT: The search for the lion was called off by police this afternoon after no trace of it was found. I need to do something to get the same buzz as last night though. Going to report to police that I've just seen a pterodactyl. Good luck spelling that Twitter!
When news of this started to trickle in late last night, Twitter seemed to explode into a big cat frenzy. Somehow, the idea of a giant beast prowling round a populated part of England captured the imagination and led to a spike in tweets - mainly jokes about lions, most of which were paw.
See, even now I can't help myself. But I'm trying, that's the mane thing. Emotions are still roar. Lion? No I'm serious.
So just why did the image of a potential killer freely roaming the streets appeal to the average tweeter so much? Will he be this year's Raul Moat, where some people help him evade capture for a couple of weeks before he takes a final stand, threatening to bite himself to death?
I don't suppose we'll ever know fur sure, but let's paws for thought and chew over a couple of potential reasons for the popularity of this topic.
If your upbringing was anything like mine, your childhood would have been full of stories about animals escaping from the zoo or circus (as well as some 'stranger danger' ones where bad people from the circus did very improper things to young children, but we won't consider those just now).
I mean, in one famous story, a tiger actually came round for tea for crying out loud!
Escaped animals were a source of excitement and fascination. Plus they may even lead to mum getting out the best crockery and baking some homemade cakes. In all the stories I was ever read about escaped animals, not one went and even did a little bit of shoplifting, let alone mauled innocent people to death.
The closest I ever came to experiencing a wild animal coming to tea, was when a cow escaped from the local cattle market just down the road from where I lived. It ran up the road and crashed through a neighbour's window into their living room. I remember being genuinely disappointed that it didn't make it slightly further up to our house. However, I later found out than rather watch a bit of tv whilst eating dainty grass sandwiches, it was actually destroyed in an almighty mess of blood & cow poo. So it was probably for the best.
So, I reckon this rogue beast has reignited the excitement and wonder each of us has rarely felt since childhood. A kind of innocence towards danger - something that we try and recreate in adulthood with scary theme park rides and horror movies.
But it's not only that. The other reason I think the lion tweets were spreading like wildfire was the myriad of possibilities for joke tweets. Not only did you have the roar material of the lion to work with (puns by the ton), but he was strolling round Essex - a hotbed of stereotypes ready to be worked into the jokes too.
So we had tweets mentioning that he was actually a female snow leopard who'd overdone the fake tan and had excessive hair extensions. Some clever wag questioned just how far he'd be able to make it in white stilettos. And then there was something about a vajazzle, but thankfully I can't remember the punchline on that one.
The whole scenario had suddenly offered everyone the potential to become a comedian. Who cared whether there really was a lion on the loose? The imagery was funny whether it had a basis in truth or not. There always seemed to be one more joke to get your teeth into.
Given that at the time of writing there are only a couple of eyewitness reports and one photograph of such poor quality that even experts at the zoo can't determine if it shows a lion or not, there's still a fair chance that this is all just the result of a couple of people having had one too many drinks anyway.
But there's no denying it transformed an average Sunday night on Twitter into quite a circus. At times of national hardship and despondency, releasing wild creatures into urban areas may well do wonders to lift the public mood. In the absence of any more Olympics / royal weddings / jubilees, monkeys riding zebras could be just what the country needs.
EDIT: The search for the lion was called off by police this afternoon after no trace of it was found. I need to do something to get the same buzz as last night though. Going to report to police that I've just seen a pterodactyl. Good luck spelling that Twitter!
Saturday, 25 August 2012
Always the right results
So earlier this week thousands of teenagers had disturbed nights and woke up feeling nauseous. No, not because Gary Glitter was doing his rounds, but because it was GCSE results day.
For most there was much fretting about, and sweating on, whether the grades would match those required to take these youngsters onto the next stage of the education or work of their choosing. Like a kindly uncle, I pointed out on Twitter that however important these results seemed right now, in the wider context of one's life, it really didn't matter if the grades fell short of expectations.
As is usual at this time of year, I was on hand at the school gates to comfort the especially disappointed and vulnerable young ladies who needed a shoulder to cry on.
It got me thinking back to over twenty years ago when I received my GCSE results. I remember feeling ridiculously anxious as I saw the postman getting ever closer to my house, only to feel the most dreadful disappointment…when it turned out that I'd got the days muddled and had to go through the turmoil of waiting for another 24 hours.
As it turned out, I was thoroughly thrilled with my marks. They were more than enough to get me into the college course I was planning to do and for a short time, made me feel a little less thick than usual.
Back then, when exams were much harder (honestly kids, they were), the levels of achievement were nothing like they are now. There was no such thing as an A* grade and anything above a C qualified you to count Stephen Hawking among your peers. Get an A in science, and you walked into a job at NASA.
What I finally realised this week was, not getting the grades you wanted could be the very best thing that ever happened to you. The BTEC National Diploma I had chosen to do at college wasn't done so through dedicated drive and passion in the field of Business and Finance.
During the college open day we'd been required to attend, I had originally decided to go and choose some A-Levels to study. But I had no idea in what (other than English because I adored writing stories). I loved art but had been so discouraged by the teachers who stifled rather than encouraged my creativity at school, I hadn't even studied that at GCSE level. I was an aimless drifter with no sense of direction (or fashion).
But then I saw my mate Adam heading off with a great sense of purpose to the presentation being given by the faculty of Business & Finance. At a complete loss of knowing what to do, I found myself falling in step behind him and the gang of other would-be entrepreneurs, ready to take the world of commerce by storm.
After being sweet talked by some of the Business lecturers who promised not only guaranteed riches beyond our wildest dreams, but also lots of trips away to various organisations (including a brewery), I eagerly signed up. Looking back I realise that a previously dormant passion for market forces hadn't actually been ignited by this. The feeling of purpose and hope I found within myself was formed purely from finally having some purpose and hope in any-bloody-thing for the first time in many years.
So it was with massive relief that my results were adequate to get me on this course. If they hadn't, I'd have slipped back into that horrible void of purposelessness and no doubt had a fresh crisis of direction. It later transpired that, according to one lecturer, they were so desperate to have people on the course (for their own funding purposes) that they'd have accepted substandard grades anyway.
Privately the lecture conceded that the interview and selection process was what he termed "a mirror test". In other words, they'd metaphorically hold a mirror in front of the face of each candidate and if condensation appeared to indicate evidence of breathing, you were in. So not for the first or last time in my life, I'd worried myself sick over nothing.
But what if I hadn't made it onto the course (either through extremely bad grades or overly shallow breath)?
Yes I'd have faced a crisis, but maybe from that my true vocation would have emerged. As it was, I successfully completed the college course and, even though I hadn't particularly enjoyed the subject matter, then went and did the same again at university level. Once you get used to a way of life, usually the easiest option is to continue with it, even if it's not very fulfilling.
Successful graduation from that led to an IT career in financial services (something I'd genuinely dreamed of until it came true). Whilst I'm grateful for much of what it has given me - enough money to get by and friendships with some lovely people I'd never have otherwise met (although mainly the money, obviously) - with hindsight, it's not what I would have chosen.
But what is hindsight other than a cheeky bugger who turns up in your head and mocks you for making the decisions you did, even though at that time in your life, you couldn't have known to do anything else? Even though it wasn't 'me', I've learned much from my studies and work (and not just how to calculate compound interest).
Whilst I wouldn't have chosen that path if I'd known what I know now, I don't beat myself up about any of it. Somehow, through the midst of the confusion and more confusion, I've ended up in a place I'm happy with.
The moral of this story is I'd suggest, don't worry if life doesn't bring you what you think it is that you need. Somehow you'll always get to exactly where you need to be.
For most there was much fretting about, and sweating on, whether the grades would match those required to take these youngsters onto the next stage of the education or work of their choosing. Like a kindly uncle, I pointed out on Twitter that however important these results seemed right now, in the wider context of one's life, it really didn't matter if the grades fell short of expectations.
As is usual at this time of year, I was on hand at the school gates to comfort the especially disappointed and vulnerable young ladies who needed a shoulder to cry on.
It got me thinking back to over twenty years ago when I received my GCSE results. I remember feeling ridiculously anxious as I saw the postman getting ever closer to my house, only to feel the most dreadful disappointment…when it turned out that I'd got the days muddled and had to go through the turmoil of waiting for another 24 hours.
As it turned out, I was thoroughly thrilled with my marks. They were more than enough to get me into the college course I was planning to do and for a short time, made me feel a little less thick than usual.
Back then, when exams were much harder (honestly kids, they were), the levels of achievement were nothing like they are now. There was no such thing as an A* grade and anything above a C qualified you to count Stephen Hawking among your peers. Get an A in science, and you walked into a job at NASA.
What I finally realised this week was, not getting the grades you wanted could be the very best thing that ever happened to you. The BTEC National Diploma I had chosen to do at college wasn't done so through dedicated drive and passion in the field of Business and Finance.
During the college open day we'd been required to attend, I had originally decided to go and choose some A-Levels to study. But I had no idea in what (other than English because I adored writing stories). I loved art but had been so discouraged by the teachers who stifled rather than encouraged my creativity at school, I hadn't even studied that at GCSE level. I was an aimless drifter with no sense of direction (or fashion).
But then I saw my mate Adam heading off with a great sense of purpose to the presentation being given by the faculty of Business & Finance. At a complete loss of knowing what to do, I found myself falling in step behind him and the gang of other would-be entrepreneurs, ready to take the world of commerce by storm.
After being sweet talked by some of the Business lecturers who promised not only guaranteed riches beyond our wildest dreams, but also lots of trips away to various organisations (including a brewery), I eagerly signed up. Looking back I realise that a previously dormant passion for market forces hadn't actually been ignited by this. The feeling of purpose and hope I found within myself was formed purely from finally having some purpose and hope in any-bloody-thing for the first time in many years.
So it was with massive relief that my results were adequate to get me on this course. If they hadn't, I'd have slipped back into that horrible void of purposelessness and no doubt had a fresh crisis of direction. It later transpired that, according to one lecturer, they were so desperate to have people on the course (for their own funding purposes) that they'd have accepted substandard grades anyway.
Privately the lecture conceded that the interview and selection process was what he termed "a mirror test". In other words, they'd metaphorically hold a mirror in front of the face of each candidate and if condensation appeared to indicate evidence of breathing, you were in. So not for the first or last time in my life, I'd worried myself sick over nothing.
But what if I hadn't made it onto the course (either through extremely bad grades or overly shallow breath)?
Yes I'd have faced a crisis, but maybe from that my true vocation would have emerged. As it was, I successfully completed the college course and, even though I hadn't particularly enjoyed the subject matter, then went and did the same again at university level. Once you get used to a way of life, usually the easiest option is to continue with it, even if it's not very fulfilling.
Successful graduation from that led to an IT career in financial services (something I'd genuinely dreamed of until it came true). Whilst I'm grateful for much of what it has given me - enough money to get by and friendships with some lovely people I'd never have otherwise met (although mainly the money, obviously) - with hindsight, it's not what I would have chosen.
But what is hindsight other than a cheeky bugger who turns up in your head and mocks you for making the decisions you did, even though at that time in your life, you couldn't have known to do anything else? Even though it wasn't 'me', I've learned much from my studies and work (and not just how to calculate compound interest).
Whilst I wouldn't have chosen that path if I'd known what I know now, I don't beat myself up about any of it. Somehow, through the midst of the confusion and more confusion, I've ended up in a place I'm happy with.
The moral of this story is I'd suggest, don't worry if life doesn't bring you what you think it is that you need. Somehow you'll always get to exactly where you need to be.
Thursday, 23 August 2012
Barking
Hurrow! My name is Harry and I am dog. I am in the photogruff up there with my boy. I am the one with the lovely thick hair and the fresher breath.
My boy tell me that uveryday on Twitter, people say to him, ‘who is that luverly handsome fellow in your avi?’. Obviously he realise they not talk about him. So I fort it be grrreat idea to write guest blog post to introduce myself properly.
My boy duz not know what I am doing here. He at wurk right now, earning money for bones and cakes and squeaking toys that I destroy after only wurn minute.
While he out, I like to use compooter to look at pictures of fluffy poodles and watch video of bad things happening to all the cats. My favourrite wurn is when lady put cat inside the wheelybin. It make me barrk a lot because I don’t like cats. Or crrazy mad ladies. Or bins.
It verrry hard to type properrly on stupid little Apple keyboard though so please furgive bad spells. Still betterer at this than my boy though.
Although I look friendly in photogruff, I am actually very angry with strangers. Why you walk past my house? Why you put bits of paper through my leterrbox? When I furnally get to knows you, I make good frriend. But until that time, I will bite off of your face.
You can speed up the frriending process by giving me treats (note: not the little chocolate sweets with the peanut. Not allowed chocolate. Bad dog. On your bed).
Wurn of my bestest skill is weeeing on lampost. I don’t mean to boast, but I have bestest, most dominant smelling wee in all neighbourrhood. Even when I have weed out all of the wee, somehow I finds just a drop more to make sure everyone knows this here is my lampost buddy.
But when it cold and wet outside of the doors, I prefurs to use our indoor toileting facilities. Why go and get all cold wet when just a short trot to kitchen lets one get relieved in warm condition whilst enjoying nice cooking smell?
My boy Toby is prretty good boy to look after. Most of time he do what I say. Sometimes I even let him sit on the furrniture, but if he bad, I makes him sit on floor. I often share his foods, but neverr let him eat from my bowl. It just not hygeenic.
I used to sleep on his bed, but he move arround too much and he snore and he scream out fings like “I come to get you Kelly Brook!” or “But why can’t I wear your clothes mum?”. So nowadays I sleep on my own bed nice and peas fully. At least he can not blame me for his farting now.
I must be going now. I have not yet done today’s Times crossword or barrked at the cars outside. My boy be home soon and then I have to pretend to listen about his day. I try and nod, but usually go sleep.
If you have any questions for me, please get in touch. I verry clever and wise and know stuff. Just don’t tell my boy I did this post. *wags tail*
My boy tell me that uveryday on Twitter, people say to him, ‘who is that luverly handsome fellow in your avi?’. Obviously he realise they not talk about him. So I fort it be grrreat idea to write guest blog post to introduce myself properly.
My boy duz not know what I am doing here. He at wurk right now, earning money for bones and cakes and squeaking toys that I destroy after only wurn minute.
While he out, I like to use compooter to look at pictures of fluffy poodles and watch video of bad things happening to all the cats. My favourrite wurn is when lady put cat inside the wheelybin. It make me barrk a lot because I don’t like cats. Or crrazy mad ladies. Or bins.
It verrry hard to type properrly on stupid little Apple keyboard though so please furgive bad spells. Still betterer at this than my boy though.
Although I look friendly in photogruff, I am actually very angry with strangers. Why you walk past my house? Why you put bits of paper through my leterrbox? When I furnally get to knows you, I make good frriend. But until that time, I will bite off of your face.
You can speed up the frriending process by giving me treats (note: not the little chocolate sweets with the peanut. Not allowed chocolate. Bad dog. On your bed).
Wurn of my bestest skill is weeeing on lampost. I don’t mean to boast, but I have bestest, most dominant smelling wee in all neighbourrhood. Even when I have weed out all of the wee, somehow I finds just a drop more to make sure everyone knows this here is my lampost buddy.
But when it cold and wet outside of the doors, I prefurs to use our indoor toileting facilities. Why go and get all cold wet when just a short trot to kitchen lets one get relieved in warm condition whilst enjoying nice cooking smell?
My boy Toby is prretty good boy to look after. Most of time he do what I say. Sometimes I even let him sit on the furrniture, but if he bad, I makes him sit on floor. I often share his foods, but neverr let him eat from my bowl. It just not hygeenic.
I used to sleep on his bed, but he move arround too much and he snore and he scream out fings like “I come to get you Kelly Brook!” or “But why can’t I wear your clothes mum?”. So nowadays I sleep on my own bed nice and peas fully. At least he can not blame me for his farting now.
I must be going now. I have not yet done today’s Times crossword or barrked at the cars outside. My boy be home soon and then I have to pretend to listen about his day. I try and nod, but usually go sleep.
If you have any questions for me, please get in touch. I verry clever and wise and know stuff. Just don’t tell my boy I did this post. *wags tail*
Wednesday, 22 August 2012
Toilet humour
It strikes me as incredibly sad that 50% of you will have never experienced the dirty, stained sanctuary of relief that is simply known as ‘The Gents’. In fact, given that there’s a picture of me on this page, it’s actually likely that my readership consists of proportionately more ladies than men, so this figure is probably even higher.
Though having said that, I guess some females may have accidentally stumbled into the Gents before. Maybe because the queue for the Ladies was too long and you couldn't hold on. Or maybe, whilst the silhouetted figure on the door was wearing trousers, he'd adopted such a feminine pose that you were fooled into thinking 'he' may actually be a 'she'. Or maybe you're just a weirdo. Whatever the reason, visiting once or twice doesn’t count - it's only with prolonged exposure to this environment that you learn its subtle culture.
For the purposes of the science within this blog, I’m going to ignore the anomaly that is the ‘Unisex’. This strange and thankfully rare creature is one of those poor blighters that is born to annoy everyone. There are certain activities best done in as much privacy as possible and certainly not in front of the opposite gender. I’ll explore this in another post at some point in the future as one of my favourite cafes has this peculiar set up and I’ve frightened many a woman in there.
But anyway, back to the Gents. Firstly, let's be clear about the name. You don't HAVE to be an actual gentleman to use these facilities. Social class is irrelevant. So long as you have a penis (or at least an ability to urinate standing up), you are welcome. And, it doesn't even matter if you're not very good at weeing whilst stood up - many a wade through a piss-soaked floor has told me that most men are not (or they simply don't care).
No, these places are far from being some cosy gentleman's club with oak panelled walls and comfy velvet seats. They are in fact utilitarian facilities that allow males of any caste to offload their waste.
One of the strangest things is that for the purposes of urination, you will often be given just a ceramic coated wall to pee against with a gutter at the bottom to collect the run-off. Or sometimes there's a metallic trough fixed to the wall.
Whatever the container, a quick glance at the gathering puddle and ingrained stains on the floor beneath, will tell you which is the most favoured place to stand. You then have the choice to keep your feet dry and go to a different spot, or you can get wet shoes but be the dominant male and leave your wet scent lying on top of everyone elses.
Often you will find yourself in what is an uncomfortable situation for many - urinating alongside other men. A strange scenario that is made all the worse if you think about it too much. Personally, I find my bladder to be very shy when peeing next to another man. I’ve been known to have to wait there for ages before I am finally able to relax enough to let go and do my business. The resulting torrent can last for weeks, especially when there’s a full moon.
It was in this very 'group wee' scenario that lead to the most unfortunate toilet event I have ever experienced. I was in my teens (so, like last year or some when not long ago), and stood next to a wizened old man in a denim jacket. Rather than a flat wall or trough, we were this time actually using our own individual finely crafted ceramic urinals, complete with several purple cubes of zesty toilet cleaner that provided a fine target at which to aim, and which rewarded a direct hit with the release of its refreshing odour.
Everything was going fine to start with. It is an unwritten, yet strictly observed rule that one should pay no attention to the activities going on either side of you during a group wee, though occasional casual banter is fine, especially to excuse the passing of wind. Though I have to admit to 'sneaking a peek' once in a while, just to make myself feel proud or inadequate.
However, despite the promising start, things took a downward turn as the denim-clad old guy was doing his finishing off ritual (this is where a futile attempt is made to shake every last drop of moisture away from one's manhood, before returning it back inside one's trousers, only to always find it actually still needed a little more drying). Obviously this chap had built up much experience of peg-shaking over the years, and even out the corner of my eye, I could clearly see he was an old hand at this noble cleansing art.
But then, almost as if in slow motion, it happened. That last stubborn drop of old-man wee-wee was forcefully shaken from his todger. However, rather than obey gravity and run off with the rest of his golden raindrop friends, such was the vigour of this man's shake technique, that final acrid teardrop travelled in my direction, nestling first on my upper lip, before running down inside my mouth.
Inside I was in a state of great alarm and agitation. But being English and awkward, outwardly I remained calm and composed, poker faced, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Indeed, I waited until the gentleman had re-homed his little friend and vacated his urinal, before I even thought about spitting the invading liquid out.
But after he'd left, boy did I spit. I spat like was a dog puppet that had Bob Carolgees' arm up its backside. Then I went and washed my mouth out several times, before doing so several times more.
Whenever I have since had any health issue in my life, I always think back to this event and wonder if it was the cause of all my ills.
If life was like a comic book, I would now have some sort of superpower, though I'm not sure what gift the urine of an elderly man in a denim jacket could possibly bestow. Eternal life maybe? Perhaps he was actually 271 years old and I've simply yet to realise that I am actually going to live forever.
Of course, it's not all about urinals though. Just like in the Ladies there are cubicles too. As well as allowing one a place to poo, they also afford you some private space, doubling up as your own temporary office / reading library / bedroom.
There are some men who prefer not to join the communion at the urinals and forego the 'wee next to strangers' scenario entirely. Instead, these men use the cubicles purely for the purpose of urination. For whatever reason (penis envy / not wanting to get wee in their mouths etc) they prefer to go it alone. Although it goes against the spirit of things a little, I've nothing against this practice, provided they DON'T PISS ALL OVER THE SEAT. Come on guys, lift the seat up for a start (especially the actual main lid) to at least give yourself a chance of reaching the pan.
Aside from avoidable misdirected urination, the one other thing that annoys me about life in the Gents is the lack of hand-washing after the event. If the facilities are there (and don't look like they might add more germs than take away) use them! Though there are exceptions to this rule - e.g. if you're in a massive rush to get your pregnant wife to the hospital or the second half of the football is about to kick off.
And finally, let us not forget about the Rolls-Royce of any toilet block, regardless of gender - the disabled cubicle. These are often double the size of your standard Ford Mondeo cubicle. Plus they have big handles to help hoist yourself around and dangly red emergency cords that are just begging to be pulled. I've never had the courage to pull the cord, but someone once told me that they did and the voice of an angel filled the room, checking they were okay.
This deluxe toilet paradise should not be reserved purely for the weak or chair ridden. I encourage you to try one for yourself at the earliest opportunity. Obviously, not everyone is so open minded about these things, so unless you've been forced to use one in a McDonald's or Café Nero or a similar establishment because the standard able-bodied facilities upstairs are closed, be prepared for some odd looks when you amble out without obvious sign of impairment.
If you're really feeling the heat with the disapproving stares upon exiting the disabled loo, (especially if there's actually someone in a wheelchair bursting to go) it's best to feign a limp or some kind of mental trouble to get yourself off the hook. Nobody will know - it will be our special secret.
Incidentally, that last sentence was once whispered to me in the toilets at Sunday School, but I'll save that story for another time.
Though having said that, I guess some females may have accidentally stumbled into the Gents before. Maybe because the queue for the Ladies was too long and you couldn't hold on. Or maybe, whilst the silhouetted figure on the door was wearing trousers, he'd adopted such a feminine pose that you were fooled into thinking 'he' may actually be a 'she'. Or maybe you're just a weirdo. Whatever the reason, visiting once or twice doesn’t count - it's only with prolonged exposure to this environment that you learn its subtle culture.
For the purposes of the science within this blog, I’m going to ignore the anomaly that is the ‘Unisex’. This strange and thankfully rare creature is one of those poor blighters that is born to annoy everyone. There are certain activities best done in as much privacy as possible and certainly not in front of the opposite gender. I’ll explore this in another post at some point in the future as one of my favourite cafes has this peculiar set up and I’ve frightened many a woman in there.
But anyway, back to the Gents. Firstly, let's be clear about the name. You don't HAVE to be an actual gentleman to use these facilities. Social class is irrelevant. So long as you have a penis (or at least an ability to urinate standing up), you are welcome. And, it doesn't even matter if you're not very good at weeing whilst stood up - many a wade through a piss-soaked floor has told me that most men are not (or they simply don't care).
No, these places are far from being some cosy gentleman's club with oak panelled walls and comfy velvet seats. They are in fact utilitarian facilities that allow males of any caste to offload their waste.
One of the strangest things is that for the purposes of urination, you will often be given just a ceramic coated wall to pee against with a gutter at the bottom to collect the run-off. Or sometimes there's a metallic trough fixed to the wall.
Whatever the container, a quick glance at the gathering puddle and ingrained stains on the floor beneath, will tell you which is the most favoured place to stand. You then have the choice to keep your feet dry and go to a different spot, or you can get wet shoes but be the dominant male and leave your wet scent lying on top of everyone elses.
Often you will find yourself in what is an uncomfortable situation for many - urinating alongside other men. A strange scenario that is made all the worse if you think about it too much. Personally, I find my bladder to be very shy when peeing next to another man. I’ve been known to have to wait there for ages before I am finally able to relax enough to let go and do my business. The resulting torrent can last for weeks, especially when there’s a full moon.
It was in this very 'group wee' scenario that lead to the most unfortunate toilet event I have ever experienced. I was in my teens (so, like last year or some when not long ago), and stood next to a wizened old man in a denim jacket. Rather than a flat wall or trough, we were this time actually using our own individual finely crafted ceramic urinals, complete with several purple cubes of zesty toilet cleaner that provided a fine target at which to aim, and which rewarded a direct hit with the release of its refreshing odour.
Everything was going fine to start with. It is an unwritten, yet strictly observed rule that one should pay no attention to the activities going on either side of you during a group wee, though occasional casual banter is fine, especially to excuse the passing of wind. Though I have to admit to 'sneaking a peek' once in a while, just to make myself feel proud or inadequate.
However, despite the promising start, things took a downward turn as the denim-clad old guy was doing his finishing off ritual (this is where a futile attempt is made to shake every last drop of moisture away from one's manhood, before returning it back inside one's trousers, only to always find it actually still needed a little more drying). Obviously this chap had built up much experience of peg-shaking over the years, and even out the corner of my eye, I could clearly see he was an old hand at this noble cleansing art.
But then, almost as if in slow motion, it happened. That last stubborn drop of old-man wee-wee was forcefully shaken from his todger. However, rather than obey gravity and run off with the rest of his golden raindrop friends, such was the vigour of this man's shake technique, that final acrid teardrop travelled in my direction, nestling first on my upper lip, before running down inside my mouth.
Inside I was in a state of great alarm and agitation. But being English and awkward, outwardly I remained calm and composed, poker faced, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Indeed, I waited until the gentleman had re-homed his little friend and vacated his urinal, before I even thought about spitting the invading liquid out.
But after he'd left, boy did I spit. I spat like was a dog puppet that had Bob Carolgees' arm up its backside. Then I went and washed my mouth out several times, before doing so several times more.
Whenever I have since had any health issue in my life, I always think back to this event and wonder if it was the cause of all my ills.
If life was like a comic book, I would now have some sort of superpower, though I'm not sure what gift the urine of an elderly man in a denim jacket could possibly bestow. Eternal life maybe? Perhaps he was actually 271 years old and I've simply yet to realise that I am actually going to live forever.
Of course, it's not all about urinals though. Just like in the Ladies there are cubicles too. As well as allowing one a place to poo, they also afford you some private space, doubling up as your own temporary office / reading library / bedroom.
There are some men who prefer not to join the communion at the urinals and forego the 'wee next to strangers' scenario entirely. Instead, these men use the cubicles purely for the purpose of urination. For whatever reason (penis envy / not wanting to get wee in their mouths etc) they prefer to go it alone. Although it goes against the spirit of things a little, I've nothing against this practice, provided they DON'T PISS ALL OVER THE SEAT. Come on guys, lift the seat up for a start (especially the actual main lid) to at least give yourself a chance of reaching the pan.
Aside from avoidable misdirected urination, the one other thing that annoys me about life in the Gents is the lack of hand-washing after the event. If the facilities are there (and don't look like they might add more germs than take away) use them! Though there are exceptions to this rule - e.g. if you're in a massive rush to get your pregnant wife to the hospital or the second half of the football is about to kick off.
And finally, let us not forget about the Rolls-Royce of any toilet block, regardless of gender - the disabled cubicle. These are often double the size of your standard Ford Mondeo cubicle. Plus they have big handles to help hoist yourself around and dangly red emergency cords that are just begging to be pulled. I've never had the courage to pull the cord, but someone once told me that they did and the voice of an angel filled the room, checking they were okay.
This deluxe toilet paradise should not be reserved purely for the weak or chair ridden. I encourage you to try one for yourself at the earliest opportunity. Obviously, not everyone is so open minded about these things, so unless you've been forced to use one in a McDonald's or Café Nero or a similar establishment because the standard able-bodied facilities upstairs are closed, be prepared for some odd looks when you amble out without obvious sign of impairment.
If you're really feeling the heat with the disapproving stares upon exiting the disabled loo, (especially if there's actually someone in a wheelchair bursting to go) it's best to feign a limp or some kind of mental trouble to get yourself off the hook. Nobody will know - it will be our special secret.
Incidentally, that last sentence was once whispered to me in the toilets at Sunday School, but I'll save that story for another time.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)