Thursday, November 27, 2008

Worst Man

I'm sure they can all laugh about it now...

Monday, November 24, 2008

Disgusting Individual

I'm afraid that's me. My incredible end-of-year totalitarian Exercise dictatorship has been overthrown. I revolted. It's too cold to cycle (my lungs are thick with tar anyway), thus I'm not burning the crap I'm eating with a vengeance.

I'm enjoying commuting, to a degree. I occasionally spot tubelady, and that cheers me up, even if she's more aloof than a minor Nazi Royal.

And the cute Thai girl in my local supermarket, well, I've not seen her since, in a not-being-served-by-her sense, at any rate.

And frankly, that's no bad thing, because I am a Disgusting Individual for any woman. My weekends are rendered null and void now that virtually all my friends are married or in relationships, barring Russell, who's like a Jack Russell at the moment. I spend my Fridays attacking the booze and last Friday was no exception, but then again I probably noticed it more as my drinking companions that night were my Lovely Muslim Ladyfriend (pregnant), her sister (Muslim), a pocket Hindu who would collapse just smelling a puddle of Kaliber, and Russell who could out-calm and ruffle Barack Obama with his laid-back, not-drinking-that-much demeanour.

So basically, it was just me knocking back the wine and getting lairy, and in a group like that, you really become aware how drunk you're getting.

I distinctly unimpressed a cute, pink-haired Italian waitress that night. I was ignored by vast swathes of the two X chromosome-owning community (the ones with wombs). And I spent the remainder of that night as I did the rest of the weekend, and the weekend before that, and the weekend before that; I drank alone in front of my computer, chain-smoking, not writing my (Ha!) novel, and watching Family Guys on surf the

But that's not where the disgust lies. Oh no. It occurred to me over the weekend that perhaps I should wash my duvets, so I walked to the laundromat where the gentleman within told me that two duvets and two pillows would be £11 per item. You do the math(s). Needless to say, I could've walked out and bought new sets of everything - which I didn't - although I probably should. You see, I have never.... NEVER... washed these items, which means the last time I had clean bedding was sixteen years ago.

Sadly, I'm not joking. I had the same duvets at University. YES, the sheets have been washed, but the duvets themselves? Ahem. No.

This means that the last time my duvets were clean, it was 1992. Bryan Adams' 'Everything I do' was Number One for FOUR FUCKING MONTHS.
The Soviet Union still existed.
When Iraqis talked about 'The War', they were referring to the one with Iran.
And Freddie Mercury was alive. (Just).

And my duvets haven't been clean since. I've had colds within them, sweated profusely beneath them, Jesus, I've even had sex with several different women under them, they're that old. And if you remove those clean sheets, they really look crap. There's more semen on that bedding than in the United States Navy.

In fact, I'll wager that if one could harness all that energy from 17 years worth of wanking had beneath that cloth, I daresay you could keep Blackpool lit for at least a week.

Which brings me neatly, if disturbingly, to the real scum of this post, the pinnacle of what makes me such a disgusting individual. Last week - and I really apologise for this (but not enough to not type this) - I was having one of those wanks. It is a wicked, detrimental habit I occasionally flirt with (every night) before shutting my eyes and burping myself to sleep. But I digress; I masturbated furiously and with gusto and deposited my nutspluff into a pre-placed kleenex.

Upon reaching that familiar state of a job well done mixed with colossal disappointment, I threw the damp ball of tissue somewhere at my bedroom wall and went to sleep. The following evening, after a rigorous day unfolding paperclips at work, I was back in front of my home computer when a small white ball caught my eye.

Ah! Eurgh. My issue tissue. I bent down to pick it up and remove the offending article, when I spotted something; the tissue had been nibbled.

The fucking mouse that lives in our flat that our landlord can't be bothered to evict, had been eating my ball.

Oh, and shat next to it too.

This is how I live. I am a disgusting, disgusting individual.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Thai Teen Scurry

I think I am being looked upon as attractive by a young lady. I can't be sure. Well I sorta can, but my cynical side won't accept it.

She works at my local supermarket of all places, and I thought that she might be mad, or blind, when she eagerly waved me a frenetic goodbye a few transactions ago last week.

I scuttled off in disbelief.

The following day I was back, stood in the queue, when I noticed her racing up to a till so she could serve me.

'Hello!' she beamed.
I went red.
'What is your name?'
'Fweng,' I whispered, in case the queue was listening, then read her tit and repeated what it said on the badge.
'I don't like my name though,' she added. 'I prefer Lisa.'
'Oh.' I said blandly.
'You like tuna?' she said cheerfully as she scanned my fourth tin of cheap Hobo-brand fishflakes.
'Uh, yes,' I replied with the ready wit of David Niven.

Then I left, and she waved a frenetic goodbye.

She's quite cute; Thai, I think. And about four foot nothing. But she is cute. Young though. Although I'm still slightly scared/ flattered/ bemused/ unable to know what to do next. My mind is conjuring up a billion different reasons why I shouldn't entertain any of this but, well, I'm a bit lonely.

Lisa was at a different till this afternoon. I'm not sure if she saw me. But I did notice her serving another young man and flirting happily.

Perhaps she just wants the UK equivalent of a green card, whatever that is. The vomit-coloured card, perhaps. This is just like the time I was convinced my orange hairdresser had a thing for me - and just like then I will probably spend the whole time getting panicky and worked up until I decide to do absolutely nothing, allowing some smarmy egotistical fuckcicle who's happened upon said lady and has no issues of low self-esteem to slot his fetid, overworked tool where my desperate appendage could've gone had I been more of a man and just flirted back.

Christ. I'm absolutely pathetic.

Thursday, November 06, 2008

OCD's and Written Warnings

All this Obama excitement has prevented me from sleeping, or rather the excitement hasn't, but the endless late-nights searching for clips of speeches on youtube has.

And it doesn't help that I'm developing some strange kind of OCD trying to locate artwork for every piece of music on my new iPod. I've been at it for nearly a week and have managed to get about 900 pictures thus far. I've over 200 left to get.

It's ridiculous. It changes nothing about my life, where smoking with a vengeance has made dieting and cycling slightly boring to continue with, where my heart is tingling worryingly and making it harder for me to commute through traffic at speed.
Receipts are building up on my desk.
My very detailed Excel weight loss spreadsheet is going unfilled.
I can't be arsed anymore.

Consequently, I have tubed it in to work more times than I've cycled this week, listening to music and reading John Kennedy Toole's Confederacy of Dunces on the recommendation of a friend, which has left me devastated as it turns out it's about a 30-something loser living with his mother, exactly the same as my work of drivel.

And of course it's superb; far better written, more tightly plotted, and vastly more interesting.

So discovering that has been fun.

And at work today, my boss confronted me. I knew trouble was looming when I heard him on the phone;
'Yes... yes... I'm sorry.... He's not had much sleep... I'm sure he didn't mean it.'

Turns out the easily-offended person on the other end was easily offended by my earlier conversation. I had answered the phone (in monotone), sighed (frequently), and was insulting to boot. But then they failed to appreciate that the phone never stops ringing in our office, and it always rings when I am in the middle of something important, which is all the time.

Her offence was to ask for cakeboxes, of which we do around twenty.
'What size would you like?' I was forced to ask as I stared forlornly at my monitor and the work I now had to stop concentrating on.
'One big enough for our small cakes, and one a bit bigger to fit a couple of muffins.'

It was at this point that I grimaced. I have no idea how big one of their small cakes are, and that goes double for their fucking muffins. I wasn't in the mood for this. What I really wanted to say was, 'How am I supposed to know what size your cakes are?'

So I did.

Apparently, that's extremely rude.

I've been pretty bad lately. I've been making Basil Fawlty look like he's won a customer care award. I watch Curb Your Enthusiasm and see Larry David getting angry, and it's like watching a documentary about me, albeit with more money and talent. And balder.

Last week, I actually threw a customer out. Admittedly he was blind drunk (this was about 10am) and swore and refused to leave. I fucking loved it, opening the door and yelling, 'Right, OUT!'

A few days earlier, another customer slammed the phone down on me. Again, in my defence, I had a mouthful of food. I like to answer the phone when having my lunch with a mouthful of food, because it sends out the message, 'Hey! Listen to me. I've got a mouthful of food. That's because I'm having my lunch and for the last three years I only get 10 minutes every day to eat the fucker. That's my lunchbreak, and you're ruining it. Now what do you want?'

For some reason, answering with the muffled phrase, 'I'm sorry, I'm having my lunch' was enough to inspire a full-on phone slamming.

Earlier today, a customer walked in and asked for boxes. I had to drop everything.
'Sorry,' I said brusquely, 'We're sold out.'
'Really?' he said.
He didn't leave.
'Yes,' I sighed.
He still didn't leave.
'You don't have any?'
'I just need one,' he added, as if his small requirement would make them magically appear.
'But we don't have any!' I yelled. 'I can't sell you any because there are none left to sell.' I tried smiling the last few words out, if only to soften my tone of murderous intent.
Then he left.

And thus, my boss decided to give me a written warning. I am, apparently, aggressive. Recently, he informed me, I'd inspired him to call his wife when I'd left the office, so he could inform his beloved that I'm 'doing his bloody head in.'

I replied that being a salesman is not one of my strengths, because I hate the general public.

All things considered, he was very nice about the whole affair.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the Atlantic, my mate Jimmy is holidaying in the States. Apparently, while I was lying catatonic in fitful slumber and ill prepared to answer the world's dumbest questions later that morning, he'd been stood in Chicago's Grant Park watching history being made.


It is nearly 10 o'clock, and I'm shattered. Time to find a few more album covers on Google images, methinks...

Wednesday, November 05, 2008

Holy Shit!

Ever been extremely happy from beyond the fug of bugger all sleep and slight rattiness? I got to sleep around 2am having forced myself from the addictive BBC election coverage with Christopher Hitchens among others, certain that I should probably go to bed.

The Fox News website, I noted before crashing for the night, was being vague and seemed rather reluctant to paint a true picture of the results coming in, and I've just checked to read their slightly muted headline AMERICAN HISTORY, which made me think of the race related film, American History X.

I can't think of a better tonic to eight years of ineptitude, war, debt, election theft and outrageous nepotism, where any American can become president as long as they're the fucknut son of an ex-president oil billionaire. And I can't think of a more astonishing way of making amends for America's dodgy past of slavery and segregation than voting in a black guy with the middle name Hussein. It is remarkable on every level, and just goes to prove what a total moron the current incumbent is.

Thankfully, American voters saw through the cynicism of nominating a female running mate to snatch the reins of history from a more worthy and statesmanlike candidate; an unqualified MILF who has the worldview and political nous of a small-minded moose-murdering salad.

I could go on. I want to go on. But I am completely dazed and have to cycle through rush-hour traffic in the cold.

Thank god for Barry.

New Prez?

Holy shit, this is exciting. Results are just starting to come in just gone midnight London time, and McCain's winning by 8 whatsits to Obama's 3, whatever the hell that means - and now I have to go to bloody bed.

Sodding time difference.

This means I'll be waking up - possibly - to news that will either greatly cheer me up, or thoroughly piss me off beyond utter, total belief.


Monday, November 03, 2008


Oh the irony of ending my last post on a music-orientated high. It is now Monday, nearly 1am. I have spent the remainder of my weekend sticking more album artwork on my lovely new iPod.

I thought I'd charge it up before going to bed, and now that fucker's blown up too ~ Nothing's happening. It's dead and I killed it.

I think my old power supply must be doing all the damage. Now I have to get the tube to work listening to bloody reality - but not before facing a restless night wishing I hadn't messed about with it in the first place - then go back to that heaving bastard Apple store.

Fuck their booking-in policy. I'm just going to slam my receipt down on the table and demand a replacement. And a new power supply, for that matter.

FUCK life.

Sunday, November 02, 2008

Not Healthy

I'll tell you what's not healthy; looking forward to seeing some old chums you haven't seen in years, and getting pretty blitzed. I can remember us all leaving at the end of the night, but the specifics are hazy. I hate to think I ran off saying, 'Well, seeya', because it'll probably take us a year or two to arrange it again, if we're lucky.

It also wasn't healthy to have melted my credit card with overuse, and buying rounds I knew I wouldn't get back.

It's also not healthy to have woken up on Saturday (afternoon) feeling like a pornstar's back passage, and deciding to do nothing that day other than go directly to the supermarket and returning home immediately laden with yellow shit, viz; crisps, pizza, and caramel squares.

It was equally unhealthy to decide to not bother going in to work to collect my bike this weekend, on the grounds that it was raining briefly. Ok, it rained constantly throughout Saturday, but I could've done it today. Moving would've been a nice idea.

And it doesn't help that, thanks to one of the commentators on PDEWYMO, I've discovered this bloody site with its hundreds of movies and tv shows, many of which not airing in the UK yet, all just sitting there waiting for people with hopes and dreams and aspirations to fuck them up by watching crap for free instead.

And it was all-encompassingly unhealthy to have virtually locked myself in my room all weekend, because I have made it my life's mission to chainsmoke whilst filling my Brand New iPod with album artwork for all 1,086 songs on there. It has so far taken me about 18 hours and I'm still not half way.

I took my dead iPod in to the Apple store on Regent's Street on Friday. Repair cost: £106, new cost: £109. This is what I believe our American cousins call a No-Brainer, like voting for a young, dynamic and intelligent statesman over a doddery, cantankerous, same-old-shit old fart and his moose-killing MILF sidekick.

Anyhoo, I did get through October with a 100% clean-sheet of cycling in every day, and swimming. Shame November will start with me having to get the tube, but on the plus side, I'll be doing it to a soundtrack with lots of nice pictures on it. Yay life.

Vote Obama.