Where’s Jessica Fletcher when you need her?

First of all, I’ll concede the title for this blog is a little misleading. Unfortunately there hasn't been a murder. It’s far less interesting than that. However, it is still very definitely a mystery. But one that I hesitate to investigate.

It all started when I went to an old colleagues birthday shin-dig at her house on Friday. It was destined to be fairly messy from the outset. The array of spirits available on the dining table put paid to any thoughts of this being a sensible evening. We started on the rum and then moved on to pina coladas and finally, jagerbombs. Classy as ever.

The evening was fun and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves ­– myself included. However, I draw a bit of a blank after about 1am and that is where the real mystery begins…

I awoke on Saturday morning on the sofa, still at my friend’s house. It had always been my intention to stay over so there was nothing strange about this. I left with another friend for the tube station (still a bit drunk) when I began to realise the extent of what had happened.

As we walked and the fresh air began to sober my stupor, a bizarre series of injuries became more and more apparent. Here’s a list:

·      A whopping great bruise was forming nicely just above my wrist.

·      A small cut just on the inside of my ear had congealed beautifully.

·      My cheek was showing signs of slight swelling.

·      There was another small cut under my hair near my ear.

·      And finally I had another bruise on my hip.

Independently, none of these things were at all major. But in conjunction with each other they did provoke some intrigue. Upon realising my state, my friend remembered that I had disappeared for an hour or so at one stage. He said that I insisted on going home, despite the tubes obviously being closed. Standard. But that I must have realised my error and returned.

What had happened in that hour?

No-one who was there recollects me falling over in the house or anything like that. So I can only conclude it happened while I was on my own. I certainly didn’t get beaten up because the injuries were too minor. And, none of my things were missing. But, despite them being minor for a beating, they seemed a little too major for just falling over…

My mind then went into overdrive with possible scenarios to explain the mystery. In all honesty, they did mainly revolve around me falling over. My imagination clearly isn’t capable of coming up with anything more exciting.

But, if you have any suggestions for how you think I may have achieved these injuries then I’d love to hear them.

So far, the favourite is that I got into a brawl with a small – but deceptively strong – cat.

The plot thickens…

So that’s where I’ve been going wrong!

I don’t know if any of you were unfortunate enough to have caught ‘Money’ on BBC2 last night. I was.

Basically, we’re all idiots for pursuing any sort of further education. What we should have done was drop out of school, rub our earlobes in front of a mirror for a bit and hey presto, we’d all be millionaires. After all, why study when you can train your brain to earn a “passive income” from the comfort of your own fat arse?

That was the over-arching theme of the programme. The narrator gave us an insight into the aspiring millionaire wannabees and those who had already achieved it. A nice equal balance of smug and desperate.

I can’t decide which people featured were my favourite. There was the 18-year-old couple who had already decided that work wasn’t for them. The girl’s opening gambit being:

“When you think about it, working for someone else seems completely ridiculous. Why should you have to do it? I’m more interested in an unlimited income stream.”

I can’t even begin to verbalise my thoughts on that statement. I fear the profanities might cause my computer to explode. But these people are complete victims of their own stupidity. They obviously don’t realise how ridiculous they sound and as a result fall victim to the various ‘Wealth Trainers’ only too eager to take their money. The boyfriend was even worse. He didn’t like working, he didn’t like reading and he didn’t like smiling. The only things that he did like seemed to be eating and sitting on park benches looking retarded.

Then there was Janice. The thirty-something nursery nurse. Every morning, she’d wake up early to perform her millionaire exercises. These involved earlobe rubbing, erratic jiggling and self-affirmation.

“I am a millionaire, I am a millionaire, I am a millionaire.” She protested over and over and over again.

No.

You’re not.

And spending £6000 on wealth mentors isn’t going to get you any closer you fuckwit.

However, when we were then confronted with the folk who had achieved their ambition, I couldn’t see the appeal. They all looked dead behind the eyes. Had the money really solved all their problems? Of course, what they all kept fairly quiet was that the majority of the money they had acquired was from training hapless morons how to be millionaires. Not in fact from their own enterprises. That would spoil the illusion after all.

But, if all this still appeals to you, you now know what to do. Set your alarm half an hour early tomorrow morning, put on that power suit and give yourself a hardcore affirmation until the money comes pouring in.

When that fails, best head down the job centre though eh?

‘Tis the season to be a miserable bastard

Just in case you didn’t notice, Christmas is coming. And with it are the usual array of annoyances that insist on being.

First of all, Jamie Oliver. I know he isn’t limited to Christmas but I feel like I’ve seen far too much of his spluttering gob lately. His ‘cheeky-chappy’ persona that seems to charm the nation year after year after year is lost on me. As a 23 year old man, I suppose I’m not exactly the target audience. He’s no Nigella sucking on a chocolate covered wooden spoon after all. 

Ahhh Nigella. Your Christmas ‘specials’ are so shamelessly decadent and slutty. I wonder how much cream you’ll dribble on your chin this year accompanied with a wry smile and a cry of, "Mmmmm, I like it warm and gooey."

Anyway…

What the hell is the incessantly re-edited Marks & Spencer’s ad about? Don’t get me wrong, I’m a big X-Factor fan. Granted this year has been particularly weak, but whoever thought that teaming M&S with X-Factor should be shot – in the face. I see no correlation whatsoever between the two. And the advert which was spawned from this baffling union is unsurprisingly dull, cheesy (but not in a good way), unfunny, pretentious (but equally moronic) and cheap. It reflects on neither party particularly well. Especially considering every week there seems to be some new sordid revelation about one of the contestants. Eventually it’ll be edited down to just fat Craig, sitting on some stairs crying over an M&S turkey wrap under a spotlight. I imagine.

The John Lewis ad isn’t much better. I hate the anticipation that surrounds these new mini-movies. I hate that there are now adverts for adverts! Inevitably, the hype creates an anti-climax, and yet every year it’s the same. Stuff the ad with as much schmaltz as possible and you’re on to a winner. Apparently.

Thank God for the Coca Cola lorries.

Never, ever change.

My name's Alex and I’m an alcoholic.

It’s been 17 days.

17 days!

Seriously, 17 fucking days!

Since my last alcoholic drink – not that I’m counting.

I’m reformed!

Nah…

Although, I am surprised at how easy it’s been so far. When I told people that this was my plan a couple of weeks ago, I was met with a choir of naysayers.

“That’s stupid, why would you do that? I bet you don’t make it.”

Was what they said. Well fuck you naysayers. I’m on a roll – on the wagon, so to speak.

There haven’t been many situations where it’s been a particular problem either. Obviously there are times where normally I would have a pint or whatever but I've abstained. Drinking a pint of coke in the pub isn’t the same of course. I used to hate people who ordered soft drinks when I worked behind a bar. Order a proper drink or get out. We have a coffee machine but it’s just for show. It’s beer or nothing.

But, now I’m one of them.

However, so far, I’ve lost half a stone! Half a stone! Sorry, I realise this blog is full of me repeating myself but this is a big deal! It’s inspired me to make more of an effort in the gym and eat less shit.

Wait.

What the fuck?

What have I become?

                       

I need a beer…

Pick it up you lazy bitch!

Today’s blog is commuting related. It’s been a while since I’ve done one so I thought hey, what the hell. There’s nothing else going on in my life and if you don’t like it you can do one.

Anyway.

Tiny suitcases.

Is there really any need?

Every morning I walk through the hideous rat run underneath Clapham Junction station to get to my platform. Inevitably it’s heaving with miserable commuters wearily trudging through. Nobody enjoys it but unfortunately it's a necessary evil. However, it’s not made any easier by the fuckwits who insist on dragging the most miniscule suitcase behind them and tripping everyone up. They have absolutely no clue.

This morning I saw a woman (and I’m afraid it is always a woman) doing exactly that. She tripped up 3 people within the 50 metres or so that I was following her. And it’s not a case of people not looking where they’re going. When the corridor is cramped, you can barely see the floor as it is. In situations like that surely it makes sense to pick up your bag. Especially if it is the size of a shoebox.

But no.

These women are utterly oblivious to how annoying they’re being. They look over their shoulder with furrowed brow at the ‘imbecile’ who has just disrupted the path of their precious cargo. Of course, they never say sorry. They don’t have anything to apologise for. They’re just minding their own business after all.

NO YOU’RE NOT!

YOU’RE BEING A FUCKWIT!

I don’t have a problem with ‘draggable’ suitcases per se, but only if they’re relatively big. I’ve got one that I take on holiday. That’s fine. It’s just the tiny, pointless ones. They weigh nothing. They’re not cumbersome. They have handles. PICK THEM UP!

What made it particularly irritating this morning was that after following the woman on her tripping rampage, she began climbing the same steps as me up to the platform. She stopped at the bottom, pushed in the ridiculously long handle and lifted the bag like it was made of nothing but air. I swear there was nothing in it. Maybe one shoe.

I overtook her on the steps and briefly considered giving her a taste of her own medicine.

“I’m sorry. Did my foot get in the way of your face?”

However, I reconsidered. My new plan is to buy an even tinier suitcase and insist on walking right in front of her every single morning. I might even stop sporadically to check the time.

That’ll teach her.

Lazy bitch.

Free stuff is good

So we have this game at work. It doesn’t have a name but essentially it involves begging for free stuff. You send an email to a carefully selected eatery, food producer or food retailer and ask for something free.

Now this can’t just be any old email. It has to be carefully crafted in order to evoke the intended response. Different people have very different approaches. Some like to go down the angry complaint route. They rant and rave about a particular product in the hope that it will be read by a feeble wimp who will dutifully grant their wish.

You’ll probably be surprised to hear that this is not my chosen approach. I find the ‘kill them with kindness’ method works much better.

You send them an email riddled with praise to lull them into a false sense of security. Then, you introduce a problematic factor as a result of the deliciousness of their product. This adds the element of sympathy on your part. You then add another simple compliment. It’s a compliment sandwich.

And finally ­– and most importantly – you ask for the freebie. I made the error of not asking out rightly a couple of times. I got perfectly polite responses, but no freebie = fail.

Here’s an example of a successful email I sent to Pret.

Hi,

I'm writing to congratulate you on your fantastic duck wraps. They really are delicious. However, their sheer deliciousness is causing me all manner of problems. Primarily financial. You see, your fare is repeatedly draining my bank account. And yet, I am powerless to resist. I've tried to wean myself off them but I am a confirmed addict. Nothing else brings a smile to face on a rainy lunchtime like a Pret a Manger duck wrap.

So please, spare a thought for this struggling addict and send me a free wrap voucher.

It will undoubtedly brighten my autumnal mood.

Kind regards,

Alex

The following week I received a £5 voucher in the post along with a hand written note hoping I enjoy my wrap.

However, I can't stress enough how imperative it is that you do your research beforehand. After successfully receiving my voucher I got cocky. I thought:

“These people are idiots. I’m so good at manipulating people. I’m gonna do more and stick it to our consumerist society.”

The last bit is a lie. But I was careless. I just used the same template and changed the retailer name… not actually checking that they sell the product I was raving about.

As a result, I got a very knowing, sarcastic email response from Starbucks that put me right back in my place.

But why not try it for yourself? It can be immensely satisfying when it works out.

Especially if you’ve never actually bought the product that you’re talking about.

Clip-fucking-clop

There’s a particular type of person who really gets on my nerves. Well, obviously there are lots of ‘particular types of people’. But for the sake of this blog I’m going to focus on just one.

Small, angry girls.

You know the type I mean? Every office seems to have at least one. They march around in their noisy shoes making a drama out of everything. I guess they must suffer from the female equivalent of ‘small-man syndrome’. But somehow it seems less justified. It’s ok for girls to be small. There’s no need to feel inferior – not that I’m suggesting small men are inferior (although they blates are – LOLZ).

But it’s the angriness that’s particularly annoying. They’re always flustered and they’re always in a rush. Although, I guess their short legs have to work a lot harder than mine. There was a girl who I worked with on my ski season (yah) who completely epitomised this brand of person. She could find drama in the most mundane activity and marched around like she owned the place. Sometimes it could be quite entertaining. Other times I wanted to push her off a cliff.

And as the season progressed tempers inevitably started to fray. When you first start everyone makes a real effort to be friendly. After all, you have to live with these people in a confined space for 6 months so there’s no point in making enemies from the get-go. However, I remember one particular argument we had towards the end that got rather out of hand. I won’t go into the reasons behind it. Suffice to say they were stupid and she was being a moron. I was completely innocent of course! The argument concluded with her threatening to leave the resort early. Like that was a threat!? She was all talk and I knew she wouldn’t do it so I offered to pack her bags for her. She cried and it was all very dramatic/funny. Eventually we pretend made-up for the sake of having to work together for another month. But there was no doubt that we were enemies for life. I’m just about over it.

Now I appreciate that’s an extreme example. She was particularly annoying. I don’t want to tarnish all of them with that brush.

However, there really is no need. Embrace your smallness. Don’t resent it. You never know, you might get a job at a chocolate factory one day.

You’re ruining it for everyone

You know when you see someone and you can just tell that they’re a nasty person? They have a certain look ­– which is often difficult to pinpoint – but you just know.

On Saturday I was stood in a queue behind a group of about 20 people who looked like that. I was going to London Dungeons (yeh, whatever) and had to endure one and half hours of eye-gougingly tedious waiting. This wasn’t helped by the incredibly obnoxious group of teenagers stood directly in front of me. If I have to hear someone mindlessly say ‘blud’ again, I will not be held responsible for my violent actions. And on that note, if I see some 15 year old bitch with a major attitude problem ‘kiss her teef’ at a stranger then I will push her in front of a bus. I’ll be doing the world a favour.

Fortunately, once we got to the front, we were put in a different group for the tour itself. The thought of following them around for another two hours filled me with utter dread. And with so many dark corners, the temptation to pick them off one by one might have been too much to resist. I could have dressed up as Jack the Ripper and pretended I was part of the act.

Hmm… maybe I’ll invite some people I hate next time…

Anyway, the tour itself was actually quite good. A bit long for my liking. And I kind of wished I was a bit drunk as it would have been much more entertaining. But on the whole it was enjoyable. One of the highlights for me was when this kid looked like he was about to have a breakdown at the prospect of going on the gallows ride (it’s like the old Pepsi drop at the Trocadero). It wasn’t really laugh-out-loud funny – he was about 10 so that would’ve been a bit harsh. But it was funny seeing the adults – who clearly weren’t his parents (I think it was a birthday) – struggle to calm him down. He really looked like he was about to start having palpitations or something. The solution was fairly simple, he just didn’t go on it. And in all fairness, it was surprisingly scary so he probably would have died.

But as the tour continued, it became more and more obvious that I’m missing my true calling in life. The actors are encouraged to be horrible to everyone and make crude double-entendres. I’m already typecast as having both of those traits anyway, and I’d get paid for it! How great is that!?

So, I’m going to head back there with my CV in a week or so. Fancy coming with me?

I’d watch out for the dark corners though…

Please don’t make me look like a Polish immigrant

One day I’ll get a haircut I like.

One day I’ll walk out of the barbers and think – yeh I look good. That probably won’t be until they offer face-transplants as well though… * sob *

I just hate the pressure that getting one involves. I know that I’m a guy, so if the worst comes to the worst, I can just shave my head. But I don’t want to look like a Polish immigrant. I’m already lumbered with a Passport photo, until 2015, that makes me look like a member of the BNP and it’s not a look I want to repeat. It seemed like a good idea at the time ­– but it definitely wasn’t.

And now my hair is rapidly approaching the ‘slight mullet’ stage and I can’t wait any longer. It has been a while since I had my last one. Certainly longer than usual. I think I hoped that one day I’d wake up and my hair would miraculously be this perfect length and look awesome and I would go, “Wow, why did I never just leave it before?” Unsurprisingly that hasn’t happened.

I’m also tiring of the, "Have you had your hair highlighted?" comments. NO I FUCKING HAVEN’T! It’s been sunny and I haven’t had it cut in a while so it’s gone blonder. Of course, no one believes me when I protest. I even had a ginger person comment on it the other day. I don’t mean to perpetuate prejudices but criticising other people’s hair is definitely a topic gingers should avoid.

On top of that, the added length is now creating the same problem I have when I wear hats. When my face is encased in something bulky (like hair or a woolly hat) I tend to look like a fat kid stuck in a lift door. My face is already quite round so adding extra width to it almost makes it spherical. It doesn’t look great as you can imagine. And using half a tub of wax in the morning to make it look vaguely presentable is getting boring and expensive.

So I’ve finally bitten the bullet. I’m going to a hairdresser rather than a barber. It will be a bit more expensive but my friend Jamie has assured me that it will be worth every penny. He’s always getting some sort of beauty treatment so I’ll trust his judgement.

However, my concern with going to a hairdresser is that they give me a trendy, edgy haircut that I definitely won’t be able to pull off. Just like skinny jeans – but on my head.

So if you see me on Wednesday (post haircut) and I’m wearing a big woolly hat, don’t laugh at me. It may look stupid but it will very definitely be the better of two evils.

Stop laughing!

It’s Monday! Partaaaaay time!

Oh no wait…

Anyway, I went to Live at the Apollo last Thursday. I got a couple of tickets off of one of my mum’s friends who couldn’t go. My first thought was - bargain! But I didn’t realise that they were free to any old pleb. We did have special ‘Priority’ tickets but couldn’t really work out how we were being prioritised. We were just stood in an equally long queue with slightly less chavs in. Maybe that was it.

After spending £24 on 4 drinks we moved into the theatre. I’m no meteorologist but it must have been 1000 degrees in there. No exaggeration.

The first compere to come on was Andy Parsons…

I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of a description (I’m certain he reads this – and if he doesn’t, he should) but suffice to say – he’s not funny.

However, if you were to look at the girl in front of me (with your ears covered mind) you would have been fooled into thinking he was possibly, the funniest man to have ever existed on the planet.

The girl – let’s call her Hysterical Twat – was having the time of her life. I had to check she wasn’t special needs – I didn’t want to be harsh or anything. She categorically wasn’t special needs, so it's ok for me to slag her off. She spent the entire performance sat forward in her chair leaning on the chair in front. If I was sat in front of her or next to her I would have found this extremely annoying. Seats have backs, for your back. But no, she wanted to be that extra 30cm nearer the acts. Maybe she thought that if she sat that little bit nearer, she’d hear the ‘joke’ that little bit earlier and could prepare her aggressive, over-head clap that she seemed so fond of. Her friends around her seemed fairly normal. They weren’t carers or anything. If they were, it all would have made a lot more sense.

Now I know this sounds very cynical (Shock!). I’m all for people having a good time. It was a comedy show so of course people were laughing (although I was a little confused as to why sometimes) but all I ask is that it's in proportion to the ability of the comedian.

If you humour them, how will they learn?!

By laughing at them, it makes them think they’re good and Andy Parsons isn’t good. He’s terrible. Everything about him is terrible.

So please, I beg of you. Be more discerning in your choice of comedian. The only way we can root out the poison that dilutes those who are genuinely funny is by boycotting them. I suggest you stop watching 8 Out of 10 Cats to start with.

Bruce Forsyth on the other hand…

It's Fate. Part II.

I knew it couldn't possibly last. Sod's law has counteracted fate in the form of me dropping my phone on the floor last night and breaking the screen. Apparently I'm not allowed to have more than one nice thing at any one time.

Looks like I'm going to have to make one of those gay 'I've lost my phone' Facebook groups. Watch this space.

Balance has been restored.

It’s Fate.

Tomorrow, I will take delivery of a Macbook. It’s a second hand black one. Remember the one I mean? It’s awesome. It is about 5 years old so it’s hardly cutting edge, but I don’t mind – for finally I will achieve closure on one of the most harrowing experiences of my life.

Some of you might remember that I used to have the exact same Macbook. I spent almost my entire overdraft on it right at the start of uni and it was fantastic. People laughed at me for spending with such reckless abandon but I didn’t care, for I had a thing of beauty – while they had a thing of poo.

I cherished it and cleaned it meticulously – right up until the day I accidentally smashed it to pieces.

It was Christmas 2009 and I was back home from uni. I had just started my dissertation and was doing the standard procrastinating. Whenever I had a deadline or exam it would always seem like a really good idea to move all the furniture around in my room. It would take a really long time (which was good) and be vaguely satisfying – even if it actually looked better before. And this day was no different.

I decided to move my bed first of all. I started to heave the mattress off the frame (not particularly gracefully) and then it happened. I still remember the crunch. I had managed to knock my TV – which was on a bracket – off the bracket and directly onto my open laptop on the desk below. I couldn’t see exactly what had happened because the stupid fucking mattress was in the way, but I knew. As I pushed the mattress away a feeling of sheer dread hit me. Had I seriously just done that? Why the fuck did I think it was a good idea to move my bed? 

WHY ISN'T THERE ANYONE ELSE WHO I CAN BLAME?!

The Macbook was in bits. The TV had landed directly on the hard-drive so I lost everything. My music. My photos. And a couple of thousand words of my dissertation. I guess it was a bit retarded that I didn’t have an external hard-drive but I just didn’t think about it. And now it was too late. I didn’t cry, but it was touch and go.

I attempted to get it fixed at an approved Mac shop but it started getting too expensive and I gave up. But I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. It was completely useless but I was too attached.

HOWEVER.

Now, fate has reunited us. A friend from work advertised on Facebook that he was selling his old, black Macbook. However, the battery could do with being replaced and it needs a new charger cable. This is why it must be fate for the only two things that survived my destruction were the battery and the charger cable!

So very soon I will have my new (old) Macbook up and running and I will be a happy man.

Time to shift some furniture perhaps?

If I knew you better, I’d tell you to shut the fuck up.

For those of you who don’t know, my new thing is rowing – or sculling to be precise. Yeh that’s right, I know the lingo. I joined a club a few months ago and consequently added a second barrel to my surname – I’m now called Alexander Huntington – Cuff. Sounds good doesn’t it? I’m also considering buying a peerage. Sir Alexander Huntington – Cuff. I should be on Downton Abbey. Wooo the new series started last night!

 I don’t get it…

Anyway, my dreams of period drama acting aside, I actually really enjoy rowing and would thoroughly recommend it to anyone who hates the gym as much as I do. Basically anyone who would rather watch Deal Or No Deal on repeat than get on a cross-trainer. Noel Edmonds is such a weirdo, but preferable to spinning… just.

On Saturday, I faced my biggest challenge yet. I took part in the Great Thames River Race. (No I hadn’t heard of it either.) You start in Canary Wharf and row all the way through central London to Ham near Richmond. It works out at about 22 miles so it’s pretty hardcore. I think about 350 crews took part ranging from brick shit-house Norwegian Vikings to thoroughly unimpressed 14 year old girls. You won’t be surprised to hear our ability erred more on the 14 year old girl side. But it was still really good fun and satisfying to finish – without sinking.

We only had one pile up but we did manage to involve 3 other boats! After all, if you’re going to fuck up, you might as well do it properly. And this is where the theme of this week's blog stems from – believe it or not I do have a point.

Stressful situations with strangers.

It’s a minefield. I only knew one person in my crew and the others were all colleagues so knew each other relatively well. But as the weather turned and the novelty began to wear off, tempers inevitably frayed. I was at the front so it was my responsibility to set the rhythm for the people behind me. I can do this. It’s not difficult. I do it twice a week. But unfortunately some of the people behind me seemed to find copying a bit too complicated. However, rather than just sort it out, I would get cries of;

‘Alex, you’re not in rhythm!’

‘Erm, I’m setting the rhythm. If we’re not going at the same rate then that’s because you’re not in fucking rhythm!’

…was what I wanted to say. But these people were strangers. I don’t know the etiquette. They were perfectly nice when we were on dry land but became aggravated bastards on the water. So I had to suck it up. It was galling but what could I do? I was the outsider. As much as they clearly didn’t share the view, I didn’t want them to hate me immediately. I'm used to it normally taking a couple of days at least.

So be warned. If you ever agree to take part in an event with a bunch of strangers that could prove stressful, mentally prepare yourself beforehand.

Don’t intentionally steer your boat into 3 other boats in the hope that some of your crew might fall overboard…

I know you’re just doing your job but…

What are the chances?

I’m not the most sensible person in the world when it comes to money, but I’ve never been hounded by debt collectors before. And yet, I currently have two debt collection companies hounding me for entirely separate claims. That’s right – two!

One of them is for some lapsed AOL payments (I didn’t know they were still in existence either) since March 2011 for an address that I haven’t lived at for over 5 years. I’ve so far received some lovely threatening letters and had some delightful conversations with Dave in the Woking office. Now Dave is either just having a laugh or he is actually a certified retard. My gut instinct says retard. No matter what I say or how much I simplify my language he doesn’t understand. So far, the highlight has been when he asked;

“Do you know a Harvey Cuff?”

To which I replied;

“Yes, that was my dog's name. He’s dead.”

Now, at this point, you would expect there to be some sort of muffled laughter at the ridiculousness of the error or maybe an apology, but no – I was met with this response;

“Why did you open an AOL account in your dead dog's name?”

Are you fucking kidding me…?

I was so baffled by this question that I genuinely didn’t know what to say and put the phone down.

The other claim I’m currently battling is from the gym in Cheam that I used to be a member of. We're in dispute over the final months payment but I won’t bore you with the details. I’ll just get upset again.

However, the claims company did put something on one of their equally threatening letters that made me smile. They’re called S.R.J Debt Recoveries Ltd and at the bottom of their lovely letters, they sign them off with the company name.

See below;

How can a company have a signature? Are they like Skynet? Should I expect some sort of Terminator to come over to my house demanding payment under the orders of its evil computer overlord – SRJ?

Idiots.

So now I have to deal with the hassle of two separate moronic debt collection companies. The novelty of patronising idiots on the phone has long since worn off and now all I’m left with is this hollow sense disdain for anyone who works in the industry.

I know they’re only doing their job but….. FUCK OFF!

The merits of doing nothing

Ok, ok. So I’m writing another blog within two days of the last one. But I did go to Rome last week so you were deprived of one of my pearls in all fairness.

It was lovely by the way. Thanks for asking…

It gave me a wonderful opportunity to do absolutely nothing. Which was awesome. Seriously awesome. I think some stupid people confuse doing nothing with boredom.

They’re not the same.

Boredom is imposed upon you by forces beyond your control. Boredom is not a choice that you can opt-out of. Boredom is why I write these blogs.

On the other hand, doing nothing can be magnificent. It’s a decision, not an imposition. Think of the endless possibilities that doing nothing enables. Think of the bountiful array of cat videos on Youtube waiting to be watched (they’re my new thing). The freedom to catch up on whatever crap programmes you’ve missed over the week while you’ve been forced to do ‘something’. The infinite opportunities to talk absolute shit without consequence. It’s beautiful. I love talking shit so much.

On Sunday, I watched 6 hours of 30 Rock. That was it. Nothing else happened and it was great. I laughed. I cried. I didn’t have to speak to anyone annoying. I worked out that by the time it gets to 7pm it’s just like a normal weekday – that was a mistake. But overall I loved it. I’m not the kind of person who feels the need to jam-pack my weekend with activities. I don’t travel across the country to catch up with old friends and I make a point of not going to London unless it's absolutely essential.

I sit.

Doing nothing is so underrated.

………….bored now.

Must try harder

I hate meeting new people.

It’s so stressful. And I’m crap at it as many of my prior blogs will attest. I find it hard to remember the names of people I’ve known for years, let alone the name of some weirdo who I’ve no intention of seeing again. I don’t like people who are overly friendly either. It makes me uncomfortable and always leads me to the conclusion that they’re planning on murdering me – in my sleep.

Apparently meeting new people is supposed to be an enriching life experience. You can learn from them and develop as a human being. You can broaden your cultural awareness and revitalise your attitude towards life. Bollocks. Most people I meet are entirely incompatible with me due to a combination of personality disorders (theirs and mine), speech impediments, stupidity and weird mouths. They have dull names and dull interests – like the weather and their favourite type of bean (I’ve actually had that conversation). Unfortunately it can take some time do discover this incompatibility and quash the stillborn relationship which makes the whole trauma even more depressing.

I would love to be more honest with new people and for it to be acceptable. If I could skip the false pleasantries and move directly to witty repartee (or not) then I would be a happy man. But no - ‘society’ says that’s rude. How is not wanting to waste yours and someone else’s time rude? I’m not suggesting you tell them to fuck off but surely your time is better spent cultivating existing relationships that you know to be worthwhile rather than flogging a dead horse?

However, sometimes I think that maybe I should make more of an effort. Occasionally I wonder if I've deprived myself of some wonderful relationships simply by killing them off too soon. But then I go on Youtube and watch a cat video and forget about it.

I’m sure that there are some great people out there who, due to my intolerance, I am destined to drop too soon. I must try harder. Meeting new people will improve my social skills and general attitude towards humanity as well I’m sure. But I wont enjoy it. It will be a struggle that I will have to endure.

And anyway, I don’t want too many friends. I may have to drop some of you if I meet anyone new who I like.

I wouldn’t fret about it too much though...

My youthful days are numbered…

Don’t panic!

I’m not terminal. Actually I suppose a part of me is. The young part. I haven’t consulted my GP but I would probably give my youth about a year before it packs up and all I’m left with is a hollow, bitter carcass. These blogs alone prove that I’m headed in that direction. I’m destined to live a life festering in my own disdain for all that surrounds me. It does seem that my tolerance for people gets a little lower everyday. Maybe one day I’ll bring an automatic rifle to work…

Anyway. Sorry, I got a little carried away there. I’ve spent a fair amount of the morning reading about Fred West on Wikipedia and my brain is a buzz with treachery.

But, I do have an actual point that doesn’t involve killing. Aside from my ever-decreasing tolerance for morons (of which there seem to be so many!) I do feel that I am not the man I once was. My attitude towards going on a night out seems to have taken a particularly big hit, as well as my resilience to alcohol.

Take this weekend for example. I went out on both Friday and Saturday night which is quite unusual for me these days. I already don’t go to clubs that often anymore. Mainly because I find the music too loud (I’m actually not joking) and everyone around me far too young.  The thought of people who were born in 1993 being legally allowed into the club just makes me feel like a bit of a paedophile for some reason.

It didn’t help on Saturday night when I was queuing up with some friends to get into Infernos in Clapham (the shame) and I realised I had forgotten my ID. I needn’t have worried. I got to the front and quickly explained my mistake, to which I got the response;

“Don’t worry mate, you look about 35”.

I felt it as well…

Of course, I’m not blind. Some of you may be surprised to hear that I do have a mirror in my room and no it’s not cracked. I’ve always looked old for my age and for a time it was a bonus. I would always get served in bars when I was under age and was moderately popular in the 6^th form with those who couldn’t get served themselves. Even if they were using me it still made me feel special. But now, looking old isn’t a good thing. It simply perpetuates the belief that I shouldn’t be in ‘young people’s’ clubs anymore.

I’m not looking for sympathy, which I imagine is fortunate. In fact I don’t even know what I’m particularly complaining about. Young people can have their sticky-carpeted clubs.

With X Factor back in my life, my Saturdays are booked out from here till Christmas anyway!

No good deed goes unpunished

Helping people is rubbish.

It’s just a hassle. And most of the time, particularly if it’s a stranger, the recipient isn’t even grateful! And yet we continue to do it because the thought of not helping fills us with fear that Karma will catch up with us, and we’ll get hit by a bus. It’s all lies. Guilt riddled lies.

The other night I performed two acts of selfless kindness and resented both of them. Like you, I don’t help people purely to bask in their praise afterwards, but some recognition is expected. It’s just polite. But both my pointless attempts at assuaging the path of Karma resulted in nothing but bitterness.

The first occurred as I got on the train at Balham late on Wednesday evening. Believe it or not, I was completely sober and just wanted to get home as quickly as possible. As I manoeuvred my way through the carriage to an empty seat, I was swiftly barged out of the way by the previous inhabitant as she got off. Clearly shitfaced. I went to sit down and spotted an abandoned purse on the seat. Her purse. My immediate thought was ‘oh great, all you fuckers definitely saw the purse sitting there but now it’s my responsibility’. And as I picked it up I got helpful suggestions like;

‘Oh no. You could take it to the police station?’

Erm, how about you take it to the police station? I don’t have time to go to the police station. It’s 11pm. I just want to go home. Fuck off.

So now I was lumbered with this stupid purse and the responsibility of at least attempting to get it back to its owner. Which I resented anyway because she’d already barged me. Bitch. I hoped that Cheam station might still be open and I could just give it in there. It was quite late but the guy that usually works there is a bit ‘care in the community’ and probably wouldn’t have realised the time.

And it was!

I gave it to the man and passed on the problem. He told me he was going to cut up the credit cards anyway which I thought was weird. Did he not trust himself not to use them? But I didn’t dwell on it. I just wanted to go home.

I headed for the underpass and the 5 minute walk home when I heard a cry of ‘Can you help me?’ in what I thought was quite an unnecessarily sharp tone. I turned around and there was an old lady carrying a million plastic bags. In my head I was thinking, enough now. I’ve done my bit this evening. Let me go home. But then the fear of Karma kicked in and I dutifully obliged. As I took the bags off her I of course looked at what was in them. At first glance she didn’t look like a tramp, but she certainly smelled like one. The bags just contained old newspapers which confirmed this.

So there I was, walking through Cheam underpass at 12pm, completely sober and carrying a tramps plastic bags full of newspapers. I got to the other side of the underpass and the hobo said ‘Are you going to Cheam Village?’ to which I said I wasn’t. Because I wasn't. She tutted and looked at me like I was lying. Like I was going to hide and wait for her to struggle away with her bags of crap while I sat on the platform laughing at the thought. Of course she didn’t say thank you.

It was at that point when I decided to stop helping people. I returned a drunk girl’s purse and got rewarded with the judgement of a miserable old tramp.

Fuck Karma.

Now, would anyone like a cup of tea?

Enough now.

The resentment is already building up inside me.

Why am I giving this topic an ounce of my time? Seriously. Why? I know I’m the only one who can control it but I feel that this is a painful issue I can’t put off any longer. The mere word sends a shiver down my spine…

Hollyoaks.

I actually shuddered when I wrote that.

First of all, let’s get this straight. I am NOT an avid Hollyoaks fan. I know you’re probably thinking ‘yeh, yeh whatever’, but trust me. I will admit that I have been partial to the odd omnibus on Sunday mornings. But mainly because I’m either hungover or my brain function at that moment of the week is roughly on a par with the intended audience, ie; spastics.

BUT.

Yesterday, despite having a fairly low brain function, it wasn’t low enough for the ridiculousness that is the current storyline. And I’m annoyed with myself for persevering with it. They should use enforced Hollyoaks watching in Guantanamo Bay. I have no doubt that suspected terrorists would cave within minutes.

Basically, there’s a murderer on the loose in Hollyoaks (snore) and the least popular girls from the annual calendar are being picked off one by one. No one has noticed that, purely by coincidence of course, a creepy old man, who seems to have unlimited access to all of the crime scenes, appeared on the scene at the time of the first murder. As I say, it’s just a coincidence though. Of course, it wouldn’t be a true crap murder storyline if there wasn’t another character who knew exactly who the murderer was. But, predictably, as she professes the guilt of the killer to anyone who’ll listen she’s met with; “I’m really worried about you. I think you need to speak to someone”.

How dull.

As I watched this story progress (at a snail’s pace I might add) I actually got exhausted with the sheer laziness of the writing. I found myself shouting at the characters for the stupidity they were each, in turn, employing. Of course, I have no one to blame but myself. I could have turned over. And undoubtedly I will watch the omnibus next Sunday morning and have the exact same experience.

And then I’ll moan about it.

Oh…

…I’ve just worked out why I watch it.

I love moaning.

I love Hollyoaks.

Kitchen Politics

I’ve debated whether or not to write a blog on this topic for a little while now. I’m always very aware that writing anything work related, no matter how tenuous, can be a risky business. However, I shall throw caution to the wind – and just change everyone’s names.

Let’s begin.

If you work in an office, like me, I’m sure you’re also acutely aware of what a hazardous place the kitchen can be. Not because of the boiling water and knives and occasional broken glass. But because of the distinct possibility that you’ll get stuck in there and have to make awkward small-talk with someone you hate.

This happens fairly regularly to me. Although I think it might be because I tend to hate more people than average…

Anyway, the key problem with the whole process is that, usually a trip to the kitchen isn’t a particularly quick affair. You’re either making tea or using the microwave or maybe making some toast. All these things take at least 3 minutes. That means that you could potentially have to spend 3 uncomfortable minutes with someone you don’t want to - literally trapped in a small confined space.

Of course, the problem isn’t just limited to kitchens. Lifts are also perilously risky, although tend to take less time.

But, my absolute nightmare is getting on a bus and accidentally sitting near or, worse case scenario, opposite a colleague I dislike. This happened to me about two months ago. I was getting the bus from Putney and sat at the back on the bottom deck where the seats face each other. I was just quietly enjoying the Bizarre pages of the Metro when this cow from work came and sat opposite me. She worked in the department that I had since moved from but we had nothing to say to each other even when I did work there.

I’ll give you a brief description of her. Must be pushing 40, was probably quite attractive – once. Unfortunately still thinks she is. Wears really inappropriate clothes and talks like a horse. That’s probably as much detail as I dare go into. She sat opposite me and we definitely made eye contact, although obviously we would both deny that if we had to. I buried my head in the paper and she looked at her phone. I imagine checking her account on Cougar.com. The journey took an extra 20 minutes that day because of road works but I daren’t lift my head from the paper. I must have read an article about Cheryl Cole at least 10 times. I am now an expert.

I actually considered putting the paper down and saying:

“Look, you don’t particularly like me, I don’t like you. Let’s acknowledge each other but not speak again.”

But as much as that would have been immensely satisfying, the consequences weren’t really worth it. So we sat there for the entire time pretending not to notice each other. I listened to my voicemail over and over again. She did the same, until we got off and I walked at a snails pace to avoid catching up with her. I was so relieved to get to work. I swear awkward situations seek me out. Maybe I should be more tolerant.

Nah...

Phew. I’m knackered after writing that. I could really do with a coffee.

But is it worth the risk?