Poppy Power

Remember remember the 11th of November. It's hard to forget when there are so many poppies knocking around at this time of year. And rightly so. However, I have one irksome gripe about the situation.

You wear your poppy with pride don't you? Well if you don't, you should. And every year we buy another same-old same-old traditional paper and plastic poppy and donate for a worthy cause, even though you've probably got 10 or so knocking about at the bottom of your wardrobe. Because that's what's done, that's traditional. It's not fashion, it's not cool, it's not value for money, but we do it.

But there are some people, SOME PEOPLE prancing around sporting a big-old fat-old fuck-off uber-mahoosive super-posh fancy-designer poppy. And this annoys me. A lot. Are our paper poppies not good enough for you? Not swish enough for you?

I am trying to fathom why some people decide to go to such ostentatious efforts for Remembrance Day, and this is what I've come up with:

1. So that everyone else with a normal poppy feels morally inferior.

2. So that everyone else with a normal poppy gets posh poppy envy.

3. So that everyone else with a normal poppy feels like a cheapskate.

4. So that everyone else with a normal poppy feels like they're not remembering enough.

5. So that it matches their outfit.

5a. So it not only matches their outfit, but makes an attractive yet topical focal point.

6. So they don't have to bother donating each year, their one off contribution was clearly sufficient.

7. So they're 'saving the trees' by not using that little bit of paper each year.

Well I say screw you and your ginormous poppies. They might be big, but they are not clever. I'm perfectly happy with my small modest effort thank you very much, as I'm sure the other 99% of the population are.

So on Remembrance day, wear your poppy with pride. Because it's not the size that counts, it's the sentiment. So remember those poor opium farmers. Thanks for everything. We'll never forget you.

Vagina Dentata

I owe this little parody to one ropey comedian, and one very misunderstood heckle.

Why, when I was a young mam'selle,
I weren't no normal damsel!
I found my downstairs lacked a certain appeal,
I would have to brush twice after every meal.
I'm a sensitive soul, but my boyfriend was mean,
When instead of KY he applied Listerine...
And oh, the shame!
What this issue became!
But he got a real shock,
When it bit off his...
(Sorry, not in front of the kids!)

Vagina Dentata!
What a terrible phrase
Vagina Dentata!
It's a frightful malaise
It means no coitus
For the rest of my days
It's not problem-free.
No bonks for me!
Vagina Dentata!

Vagina Dentata!
Trapped in the oral phase
Vagina Dentata!
Woe betide it decays.
When I try flossing,
It can take me three days.
Cos I got dentistry,
Gynaecologically,
Vagina Dentata!

I say "Vagina"
You say "Dentata"

Mika Makeover

At a recent festival, I had the displeasure of catching part of an utterly ear-and-eyeball-aching set by curly king of camp and cringe, Mika, namely his aural abomination 'Grace Kelly'. Some might say I'm doing this musical mucusoid a certain disservice, and maybe I am. So before this turns into a thoroughly libellous character assassination in the first degree, I pondered how could I provide some 'constructive criticism' on how I might make his music better / beneficial / bearable. And my conclusion was subject matter. Take Grace Kelly for example. Yes she was an icon, yes she was an idol. But she parted this mortal coil 27 years ago, so methinkst our Mika need pick someone more contemporary: a modern day hero, someone aspirational, someone to inspire the youth of today to great things. So I have decided to try my most unmusical and lyrically-challenged hand at rewriting 'Grace Kelly' with a greater idol in mind. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give to you: 'Bruce Parry'.

BRUCE PARRY
Do I attract you?
Do I repulse you with my talk of the Nile?
Am I too skinny?
For Papua New Guinea?
Ever eaten crocodile?

I could be rugged
Not to be buggered
Guess I'm a pretty fit guy
Why don't you like me?
Cannibals like me,
Without making me into pie

Hello, my name is Bruce Parry
I turn my knob inside out
Find a wee tribe lass to marry
I am a big bad boy scout

Swim in a bog
Suck juice from a frog
And make me high as a kite
I'm always green
I'm ex marine
And I could win in any fight
Got beaten black
Been painted blue
Holes in my face like a Zulu
Why don't you like me?
Witch doctors like me,
When their potions make me spew.
(Using voodoo doesn't solve anything)

How can I help it
How can I help it
How can I help what you think?
Hello Swahili
Hello Somali
Give me some ox blood to drink.
If don't you like me
Why don't you bite me
Like a vampire bat on heat
Scantily clad,
Should I feel bad just because I ate zebra meat?

You could be just like Bruce Parry
Give tribal life a whirl
I make Ray Mears look like Aunt Sally
And Bear Grylls like a girl!

I punch piranhas
I thump hyenas
I'll poke a lioness with glee
Wedgy gorillas
I've met Godzilla
Candiru do not scare me!
Gotta be tough
Walk round in the buff
With just a nut for modesty
How can you fake it,
Stark bollock naked
When you're hiding in a tree?

Say what you want to satisfy yourself
But you only want to be like me because I'm a fucking hero

Encephalitis
Gastroenteritis
I caught the plague in Peru
I've had ebola
And variola
Laugh in the face of Swine flu
Been to Bhutan
Stayed in Sudan
Travelled to far Timbuktu
If you don't you like me?
Don't try to spite me
Cos I'll set my tribe on you!

Play Me, I'm Yours

Having discovered one of these pianos at Liverpool Street as I was wending my tipsy way home last night, and played it in front of a crowd of drunken McDonalds munchers, I can confirm that this is one of the best ideas ever:

http://www.streetpianos.com/

Thank you Luke Jerram, you made my childhood dreams of becoming a concert pianist true for 15 minutes, even though my audience was half-inebriated, half-hamburger.

Give me an A

As proud as I am of my initials, I'm sadly bereft of a middle name (contrary to popular belief that my parents clearly had some sort of grudge against me, and wanted to call me Travers). This has been troubling me for some time now and I've been thinking how life-affirmingly delightful it might be to have a middle initial so my initials actually spelt something. As there's only the 5 possible vowels to squeeze between the C and the TS, I reckon A is probably the one to plump for. So I've been doing a straw poll to find what middle name I should adopt to turn CTS into CATS. These have been the suggestions so far, and I'm welcoming as many as I can until someone comes up with a right royal stonker, and I shall potter along to the Deed Poll office faster than you can say Princess Consuela Banana Hammock:

Athena
Almond
Albino
Axminster
Axel
Anthrax
Annia
Argos
Alonso
Alberta
Ariadne
Antipodea
Archipelago
Aspidestra
Amelie
Ardingly

Votes / suggestions / sympathies all open-armedly welcome.

Claire, Queen of Condiments

They say you can tell an awful lot about someone from the contents of their refridgerator (although I might need further clarification on exactly who the bejesus 'they' are, fridge facists maybe?). Well if is so, what might they make of mine? Instead of cleaning the kitchen (if you're an avid follower of the School of Procrastination manifesto as I am, you'll understand that this is a rather appealing past time), I have decided to do an itinerary of my sauces, salsas, chutneys et cetera; a sort of condimental roll call. Bearing in mind I am the sole occupant (?) of this fridge the results speak for themselves:

HP Sauce (normal shaped bottle)
Mrs Balls' Chilli Chutney
Heinz Tomato Ketchup (industrial size bottle, bottom squeezing)
Levi Roots Reggae Reggae Sauce
Pizza Express House Salad Dressing
Branston Pickle (smooth, squeezy bottle)
Kikkoman Teriyaki Marinade
Mint Sauce (supermarket's own)
Fresh French Dressing
Hellmanns Mayonnaise (full fat, squeezy bottle)
Hellmanns Mayonnaise (light version, bottom squeezy bottle)
Nando's Hot Marinade
Thousand Island Dressing (light version)
Sweet Chilli Dipping Sauce
Roasted Garlic Deli Mayo
Dijon Mustard (supermarket's own)
Tahini
Yellow Piccallili
Thai Green Curry Paste
That Red Curry Paste
Lovingly Homemade 'Orange You Sexy' Marmalade
Tomato Puree (jar)
Sharwood's Mango Chutney (jar)
Mango Chutney (supermarket's own, squeezy bottle)
Branston Hot Chilli and Jalapeno Relish
Heinz Sandwich Spread
HP sauce (yes, another bottle...this time bottom squeezy)
Old El Paso Hot Salsa
Old El Paso Mild Salsa
Apple Sauce (supermarket's own)
Maple Syrup
Sharwood's Dark Soy Sauce
Worcester Sauce
Professor Phardtpounder's Colon Cleaner Hot Sauce

Verdict? I clearly need to get me some proper food! Bridget Jones would be proud. Does anyone really need that many sauces in their life? I do, clearly. Anyone fancy coming over for a Ready Steady Chutney?

Stars

I might not be the brightest star in the galaxy,

But when night falls, if you're afraid of the dark,

You'll be pleased to see me.

Word to your Malt Loaf

Here's a little tribute to two of my favourite things:

Stop, collaborate and listen,

I gotta hop with a brand new addiction.

Something, a-sweeter than green jelly,

Come a'honey eat me, dee-light your belly.

Gonna have a chew? Boo! I dare you.

Try take a chomp, chump, it's like glue.

To the extreme, it's like a dream when it get me,

Butter it up and get a cup for my Tetley.

Use that tongue and let your tastebuds roam,

Filling your gut like expandable wall foam.

Tasty - when your teatime is heavenly,

Anything less for your guests is a felony.

Love it or leave it, you'll never gain weight ,

Raisins hell-raising, don't hate, underrate.

If there was a problem, yo, I'll solve it,

Gimme a loaf and ensure you malt it!

CHORUS

So- So- Soreen, delicious

So- So- Soreen, capricious

So- So- Soreen, it's vicious

So- So- Soreen, nutritious

Yo man, let's go to Tesco

(Word to your malt loaf)

Ode to a Night Bus

When the night is dark and cold,
And I am all alone,
There's no-one there to hold my hand,
You'll always guide me home.

At any time, be dawn or dusk,
I know you will be here.
So long as I've prepaid my fare,
I'll travel with no fear.

From Oxford Street to Stepney Green,
My love for you has grown.
You are the bestest bendy bus,
That I have ever known.

Oh twenty five, oh twenty five,
Because of you I'm still alive,
I call your name, then you arrive,
My darling, twenty five.

My world is now my Oyster card,
I swipe it with such joy.
My love for all your bendy bits,
No-one can e'er destroy.

Your body is a haven safe,
For passengers inside.
You give the hobos all a home,
And let them freely ride.

Everyone to see you pass,
All wave you down with glee.
They cram and crush and clamber on,
To ride your majesty.

Oh twenty five, my twenty five,
It's thanks to you that I've survived,
Those drunken nights in dingy dives,
My dearest, twenty five.

That smell you have, that noise you make,
The way you so incline,
To accommodate those wheely chairs,
Just makes you so divine.

The London Lite, the smell of shite,
A pocket freely picked.
Someone's kicking up a ruck,
Some boozy bint is sick.

The driver shouts at lager louts,
A drunken punch is thrown.
But none of it will matter now,
We're on our way back home.

Oh twenty five, sweet twenty five,
No other bus I'd rather drive,
No finer bus I could contrive,
My favourite, twenty five.

When I grow up...

When I were a children, my dearest mama and papa oft asked what would I be. In truth, I wanted to be all of the following:

A waitress
A brain surgeon
A lollipop lady
A stand up comedian
A princess

Now, under the 'guise' of 'grown up', I work in television - bonafide media whoreybaggage; TV, she is a fickle, fankless beastie that uncontented with flogging the (pond)life and soul(man) out of me, leaves me with a consistant cumulonimbus of doubt above my heed as to how to keep the proverbial wolves of Whitechapel away from my door. This has left me a-pondering another career choice. So before pop-a-lopping off to some over-priced, under-whelming careers counsellor, I have decided to re-evaluate my first ever choices of occupation to debate their feasibility. After all, they say your first instinct is often the right one. Right? Wrong...

Waitressing: Given that I have the co-ordination of a dyspraxic with Parkinson's on a power plate, this has to be ruled out at the first hurdle. No-one wants Penne a la Hairdo, nor Lasagne A La Lap, so for this reason alone (and a hefty one at that), I shall have to leave my meal-serving services reserved for close friends and family only. Well, just the ones who don't mind wearing it before eating.

Brain surgeon: Herein lies the irony - how can I fix that which I lack, or at least have declined working function of…I also refer you to the co-ordination metaphor of 'Waitressing', and would ask you the question, would you trust me putting scalpel to your scalp? Thought not. Well I say 'thought', although it's sometimes difficult to tell…

Lollipop lady: This has potential. I do, even if I must say so myself, look rather fetching in hi-vis. And I reckon I could work a 'pop with all the flair and finesse of a mediaeval knight on horseback, raising his lance aloft and commanding the crowd. However, not sure what Health and Safety would make of my jousting mid-road, and the fact that the job probably would only use a maximum 2 hours of my entire day (plus school hols off - I could still work, but it'd be for the love rather than the pay) probably would not be enough to cover running costs of keeping my 'pop polished.

Stand up comedian: Distinct disadvantage - girls just aren't funny. At least, tis a rarity in the stand up world. For some reason, pop a chick onstage and no-one chortles. But stick a embollocked sort onstage, and it's humour a-go-go. I mean, why is mirth anti-mammary, and pro-prostate? Is our funny bone only tickled by testicles? It's a synechdoche for the sexes in general: everyone loves a funny bloke, but a laughable lass is a leper. Why is that? 'Funny'' is just one arena that us lady-folks just can't crack. And given the tumble-weedy, groan-worthy successless efforts of my public speaking to date, I would rather die a thousand deaths in private than one gargantuan effort in public.

A princess: If ever a job was to have apparent perks, it's being a monarch (unless you ask one particular royal, without whom the Daily Express would have nothing to print - although there might be a small technical hitch in trying to contact her, so might not be worth trying). All you need do is bag yourself a royal (and I understand there are a few doing the rounds at the moment) and Prince Andrew's yer uncle, it's tiara's a-hoy. Not a problem. However, given the fact that my language can be colourful at times (to be kind) and tourettic at others (to be truthful), I can't foresee being invited to (m)any official (or unofficial) birthdays when "shit the bed, Lizzie, that corgi crapped on my Converse" could involuntarily make a guest appearance at any moment. For me, thrones will quite simply never be on the cards. Except my very own at home, genuine porcelain.

So what is left for me now? Working at the bar or propping up a bar? Handing out jobs or handjobs? Lord only knows. So for now, the callous cruel fiend, the evil mistress Television has me remotely under her thumb, whilst everyone else has their thumbs on their remotes. But t'will not be forever. Mark my words, one day I'll be a grown up, with a grown up job. A professional grown up.

Commuterrorism

For most people, work is the daily grind. You work for 'the man' to pay the bills and then you die. I don't mind work, work is fine, and 'the man', whoever he may be, leaves me to my own devices. But what really can make or break my day is the commute. And I'm not just talking about the delays, because let's face it, if you live in London, you should be well conditioned to the fact that TFL couldn't organise a piss up in a brewery, and your ETA anywhere is going to be a lottery.

As 'very British' commuters, we don't talk to each other, and keep ourselves to ourselves. But even with this ridiculously impersonal and unfriendly social stigma, why is it you get some co-commuters that can just spoil your trip, the rest of my day, and could in the future (if I see them every day) ruin my life just by being themselves. Okay, so I'm prone to a touch of the old hyperbole, but you catch my proverbial. So here, for my list-making sanity, are some of the common offenders to crap on the clean windscreen of my journey into work:

'The Lovers' - So you have just spent the last 12 hours rutting like something from the Trials of Life, and fortunately for the rest of us you both happen to share the same route into work. How delightful. But can you not keep your paws to yourself for 15 sodding minutes? What doesn't help is that the carriage is packed so tightly, the only thing preventing your girlfriend from conceiving is my handbag! You'd better hope you get off the tube before I do or things will definitely get messy. Get a room, or I'll start fitting my Mulberry with mantraps!

'The Hunter Gatherer' - Normally a construction worker or well-dressed businessman who clearly forgot to eat breakfast, due to the urgency and zeal with which they forage around their nostrils, before sampling the fruits of their labours. Your average bogey contains 5 calories and about a squillion bacteria. You'll never eat enough to fill you up without dying a thousand nasty deaths first so don't even try it. It's minging.

'Pit of Death' - Speaking on behalf of my fellow under-five-foursians, a common problem is getting trapped under the 'pit of death', a toxic armpit in need of ventilation, not immediate contact with someone else's face. Do you not wash? Do you not spray? Do you not have a sense of fucking smell? You honk! If I held a lighter under those you'd rue the day you poopooed antiperspirant. Note: these offenders often suffer with the associated 'Breath of Death': an odour of equal toxicity, originating from the mouth.

'The Diver' - So you're squashed nipple to nipple with complete strangers as it is. The train pulls in at the station, and there's no more room at the inn. Most people would wait for the next tube. But no, not 'the Diver'. This particular breed of commuter waits for the doors-closing beep, slides briefcase in between ankles, and propels themselves headlong into the packed carriage so that gravity can find them standing room. If you've ever been flattened by a flying 40 year old merchant banker, you'll know what I mean.

'The Scoffer' - There's always someone in the vicinity eating something particularly smelly. Given that the maximum duration on any tube line is an hour, surely you're not in such a life and death situation through starvation that you have to pong out the entire Piccadilly line. If you're diabetic, have one of those nice, sugary and scentless sweeties. They'll not only save your life, but the noses of your fellow passengers. But it's never plain crisps, a cream cracker or a breadstick. Oh no. It's Subways' infamous Stink'o'sarnie: seven layers of pepperami, stilton, onion, olive and gherkin stuck together with garlic glue on a cheesy ciabatta. Please sir, can I have somewhere to vom?

'The Teeterer' - I'm sure we've all done this, but when I spot the signs in someone right next to me, I get instant Teeterphobia. The cold sweats, pink eyes, the unsteady stance and the pervading perfume of noxious booze. This person is standing at the top of the White Cliffs of Nausea, and it'll only take a glimpse of 'the Hunter-Gatherer's' spoils or a whiff of 'the Scoffer's' fodder that will push them over the edge. I beg of you, please don't paint me puke. Choose 'the Lovers' instead - that'll ruin the moment.

At the moment I am content to blog about my commuting misgivings. But it is only a matter of time before reach the end of my tether. I can see it now: driven to distraction by the tube-induced OCD that has compelled me to hate the entire human race. Drastic measures are in the offing, something must be done. I look around me at a packed carriage full of offenders. I reach towards my carefully-packed and fully-loaded rucksack. I am about to unleash hell and make you all pay, pay for the mornings of misery and evenings of evil you've all put me through. Oh yes. Today I fight fire with fire, all guns blazing. Today, revenge will be mine. Today, I eat my tuna sandwich on the tube. With cheese and onion crisps.

Screw you Central Line, I'm a commuterrorist.

Dilemma of the Day 3

Would you rather:


1. Spend the rest of your life looking as you are, and smelling absolutely amazing.

Or

2. Spend the rest of your life looking like the world's hottest model, but with the breath of Satan's anus?

Birds vs Babies

Recently I have been weighing up the pros of cons of birds versus babies. The reason being, I already have two, and am currently contemplating a third. Parrot that is, not child. I have come to the conclusion that for years now I have been unconsciously channeling my maternal instincts bird-ward, and have, in fact, been a mother for the last 6 years without my knowing. Given that sprog-dropping is not on my current agenda, I have decided to put forward my case as to why avians beat infants, in some vague and vain attempt to justify my current position as a sad and lonely bird-mother.

1. You can play football with parrots without having to go out in the rain. Just with a very small ball.
2. Parrots cost considerably less money to keep.
3. You know any backchat you get from a parrot, is something you've had to repeat to it, so if you get it back, it's your own silly fault.
4. You don't get called into school because your parrot nicked another parrot's Wotsits at lunchtime.
5. Parrot poo is smaller, easier and less smelly to clean.
6. Parrots will never grow up to resent you.
7. You don't have to worry about your parrot taking drugs.
8. Parrots sleep throughout the night, and don't wet the bed.
9. You never have to take your parrot to the doctor to get the morning after pill.
10. Parrots always think you're cool.
11. You can call your parrot a ridiculous name without it getting the shit beaten out of it at school
12. Parrots don't need new clothes buying every week.
13. Getting a parrot does not involve anything remotely as painful as childbirth.
14. You can teach your parrots to ring like the telephone.
15. You can win a parrot's heart by giving it a biscuit.
16. You can wear parrots as an accessory to pirate parties.
17. You can train then to savagely attack intruders. Either that or just tell them to fuck off.
18. You can use their moulted feathers to re-stuff flattened pillows.
19. Parrots don't appreciate Christmas and the ever-increasing need for the newest toys shown on the television.
20. Parrots can fly. Babies can't.

Coming soon, 'why parrots are better than partners'. Shortly followed by 'why oh why does no-one want to go out with me?'

Wrong but Right

Ironic as it seems, there are just some things in life that on paper are just not meant to work. And yet very occasionally, they turn out to be something really rather super. Here are some examples, the first of which I made today, and initiated this whole wrong-but-rightness:

Beetroot Brownies. I am the first to shirk the earthy purple stuff because anything that tastes like mud and turns your pee pink has got to be a wrong 'un. But when baked with walnuts, dark chocolate and other cakey staples, it makes nothing short of brownie magic.

Microwaves. Now I'm no scientist, but these bad boys employ some kind of nuclear technology that has to be dangerous if something small goes wrong. The theory that things keep cooking for a certain time afterwards surely means that you could potentially barbecue your innards if you're a little impatient? However, you can reheat, defrost, nuke and warm your tea in minutes if not seconds, and still have time to do the washing up. Genius.

Hollyoaks. This show on paper has no redeemable features. Bad acting, girls that are so attractive they provide the unrealistic benchmark for 99% of the male race, impossibly implausible plots, a disgusting token box-ticking of every cultural, racial and sexual stereotype, and, most disturbingly, a cameo by Andrew Lloyd Webber. Yet the two and a half hours spent watching the omnibus is often the best spent time of my weekend, and the cure all of my hungover woes.

Hairless cats. They look like something from a Jim Henson film, are way too sensitive, need some kind of knitwear to stop them developing hypothermia and are, quite frankly, the ugliest thing on the planet. But they are just so goddamn cool, for no reason other than they look like Mother Nature fucked up and left them live for an in- joke.

Coca Cola. We all know it rots your teeth and insides, and contains no discernible ingredients other than sugar and 'vegetable extracts' (incidentally what vegetables are the exactly? Beetroot perchance?). But when you've got a poorly tummy, it makes you better. If you're tired, it makes you better. If you're hungover, it makes you better. I'll wager I'll risk the odd dentists bill in favour of a magical medicine that will cure most of my anatomical woes. Plus, at least it wasn't invented by the Nazis, like Fanta. Fact.

Alcohol. It rots your liver, makes you sick, gives you headaches, can make you pee/poo yourself, makes you make inappropriate comments / confessions of love / declarations of hatred, causes memory loss / paranoia / arguments, is a highly addictive substance and costs a bloody fortune. Yet, it's brilliant stuff. i just don't get it.

Now, where's my vodka and coke?

.

Dilemma of the Day 2

Would you rather:

1. Spend the rest of your life surrounded by a large flock of sheep, 24/7

or

2. Spend the rest of your life with a small tree growing out of the top of your head.

Sense and Sensitivities

I'd like to use this blog to say thank you. Thank you to the few people I have encountered recently going about my daily business who have made me feel a little bit (and unnecessarily) awkward, embarrassed or downright ridiculous. Thank you to those who have reduced me to the size of an ant just from being a little bit unsubtle and thoughtless. This is my verbal equivalent to the Oscars, BAFTAS or Grammys. Only not as prestigious. Not even remotely so. So here's to you, insensitive bastards.

Thanks to the deaf receptionist at my doctor's surgery. Picture the scene. A nervous lady (moi) approaches the desk in a heavingly busy reception. Dialogue ensues. Very quiet dialogue at that...
'I'd like a nurse's appointment please'
'What is it for?'
Like I need to explain myself to the receptionist. Do you care? Does it make any difference? No. All appointments take 15 minutes no matter what you're looking at /poking at / tittering at so bog off nosy bitch.
'Erm...I need to book a test with the nurse'
'What sort of tests'
'Tests...you know'
Come on woman, can't you see I don't want to tell you in front of seven ailing pensioners, two child-clad mums, a handful of coughing, spluttering locals and a dodgy-looking guy with cock rot.
'Sorry, what test?'
Go on, take a wild one: my driving test? An AS level in quantum physics? A Jungian personality test?
'I was told to come and book a test with the nurse'
'I didn't hear you, what test would you like?'
I didn't tell you as you don't need to know.
'A SMEAR TEST!!!!'
If there was a record playing, it would have scratched off at this point. Certainly everyone in the room decided to stop talking to listen at that point.
'Oh', replied the receptionist. Clearly she didn't need to know. Shame, because now she did. As did at least 15 others. Thanks.

Thanks to the young shop assistant at Sainsbury's, who on putting my shopping through, decided to inspect and comment on the contents of my basket, like she was Gillian fucking McKeith or Trinny and sodding Susannah.
'Clearasil face wash isn't as good as Neutrogena you know, really sorts out your spots'
Thanks for that. I take it you don't think my current cleansing regime isn't up to scratch. Thanks Dr Spot.
'Thick black woolly tights - my mum always gets hers from here, she gets really cold legs in the winter'
Brilliant, I have the same taste in hosiery as your mother: a fashion revelation I could possibly / probably live without.
'Multipack of Doritos. Are you going to eat them all yourself?'
Erm, yes, I live alone, so probably will do. But not all at once. But the fact you've taken one look at me and reckoned I'm that the sort to sit and scoff 9 bags of crisps in one sitting, thanks. I may as well eat the whole goddamn lot now to cheer me up.

And thanks to the nurse who during the aforementioned arranged 'intimate' examination asked me 'what size' I am. Like I regularly go shopping for internal accessories. Yet I felt astonishingly awful for not knowing my own internal vital statistics. As if small talk whilst semi-clad and akimbo wasn't awkward enough. My response? 'Errrr.....God knows! Take a wild punt'. And punt she did. And wrong she guessed. And for some reason her miscalculation led me to feel even worse for not meeting her precise expectations. Thanks.

These are just a few examples. But there have been many more and probably will be. until I cease to leave the house and integrate with the general public. But the moral of the story is: stick to discussing the weather. Not implied food habits or vaginas. Thanks.

1 Way to Love Your Liver

1. Don't drink. Simple.

50 Ways to Leave your Lover

As that old song goes, breaking up is hard to do. But according to that other old song, there are 50 ways to do it. But quite frankly, Mr Paul Simon, your song is rubbish. You promise 50 ways to leave your lover but only actually list 5. And 5 rubbish ones at that, hop on the bus Gus? Give me a break! So I have taken it upon myself to amass the definitive 50 ways to leave your lover (or get them to leave you), which I hope you will find useful in your time of romantic need. This will be a work in progress, and if there are any tried and tested techniques I have missed out, do let me know.

1. Fake your own death
2. Text message reading 'Welcome to Dumpsville, population you'
3. Graffiti a bridge they pass on their way to work with the word '[insert dumpee's name], you're dumped. From [insert your name here]
4. Write, record and release a song naming them and listing all their bad habits, and promise the proceeds to charity to guarantee radio plays and media coverage
5. Hire the Red Arrows to write a short, sharp dumping message in the sky above their work
6. Take them to a romantic spot eg. the Eiffel Tower, get down on one knee, pull a ring box out of your pocket and open it to reveal the words 'you're dumped'
7. Emigrate without telling them
8. Get your mother to do dump them for you
9. Murder them
10. Wait til they're due home from work, take off all your clothes and let them catch you in a compromising pose with their cat / dog / hamster / parrot / gerbil / iguana
11. Start wearing their clothes instead of yours
12. Change your name by Deed Poll to something inappropriate like Ivor Luffovkidz so they're too embarrassed to introduce you to any of their friends
13. Draft a doctors letter telling them they have raging syphilis, and be there when they open it
14. Make inappropriate passes at their grandmother / grandfather over Sunday lunch in front of them
15. Return from a holiday in Las Vegas wearing a wedding ring and tell them you got drunk one night and got married to a complete stranger, but you want to try and 'make your marriage work'
16. Change your Facebook status to '[insert your name here] dumps [insert dumpee's name here] for being a [ad lib petty insults about sexual prowess]'
17. Have 'you're dumped' waxed into your nether regions
18. Train your pet parrot to say 'you're dumped' to them when they come round
19. Take a restraining order out on them
20. Change your Facebook profile from 'in a relationship with...' to 'single' without telling them
21. Hijack the Goodyear Blimp and doctor the writing to say 'Goodbye xxxx'
22. Write 'you're dumped' on the inside of the toilet seat lid and feed them some dodgy chicken
23. Send a strippergram to their workplace with a customised G-string sporting the words 'you're dumped'.

My Least Favourite Things

Right Maria Von Whats-Your-Face, I'm sick and tired of your permanent cheer. The hills might well be alive with the sound of music where you come from, but my ears are totally and utterly bored of your eternal optimism. Who really likes copper kettles, other than tedious antiques experts? Who on earth enjoys watching geese flying at night? Apple strudels and schnitzels will only make you fat, and brown ponies are far superior to cream ones. I think it's time you heard a few home truths...

My Least Favourite Things
Free London papers and charity muggers,
Really slow walkers and loud-talking buggers,
Hangovers hurting and waxing that stings,
These are a few of my least favorite things.

The chavs on the corner that beat up each other,
People that say I sound just like my mother,
When Jeremy Kyle speaks and Bedingfield sings,
These are a few of my least favorite things.

When I'm cold-called,
When the bank rings,
A smear with a male nurse,
I simply remember my least favorite things,
And then I feel even worse.

The fatty that sits on my lap on the train,
The hair cut that’s far too much work to maintain,
The chafing you get from La Senza G-strings,
These are a few of my least favourite things.

People that laugh at the late Joey Deacon,
The pimple that glows on my nose like a beacon,
King prawns and cream horns and those Kraft cheese strings,
These are a few of my least favorite things.

When there's tube strikes,
When the milk mings,
When I've lost my purse ,
I simply remember my least favorite things,
And then I feel even worse.

Dilemma of the Day 1

Would you rather:

1. Wear a pair of trousers made from Shredded Wheat

or

2. Wear a shirt made from honey-roasted ham

Barack is the New Black

In celebration of the momentous historical event of the USA choosing a President that is infinitely less likely to blow up the world by pressing the wrong red button, and a President who bears a striking resemblance to the one in 24, I have decided to create a mix tape of tunes to pay tribute to this pivotal occasion.

A-Side
Barry Manilow - Copa Cobama
Take That - I want you Barack
Shaggy - O Carobama
Run DMC ft. Jason Nevins - It's Like Democrat (But That's The Way It Is)
Girls Aloud - I'llanois Stand By You
My Chemical Romance - Welcome to the Barack Parade
Michael Jackson - Black or White House
Culture Club - Obama Chameleon
Peter Kaye - Is This The Way To Amarillanois?
N-Sync - Bye Bye Bush
Gina G - Ooh Ah-bama (Just A Little Bit)

B-Side
Rednex - Cotton Eye John
Snap - Republican Is A Dancer

Carl Douglas - McCain Fu Fighter
Mint Royale - Singin' In The McCain
Kylie - Republican't Get You Outta My Head
Wyclef Jean - John Til November
Lynard Skynard - Sweet Home Arizona
Fatboy Slim - Right Wing, Right Now
Britney Spears - Oops I Did It McCain
Beck - Loser

Important Safety Information

Thanks Sainsburys. I clearly owe you my life.
.

An Addict's Confession

I have been wrestling with something very dark and very personal to me for some time now, and I have now turned a corner. I can now say three words. And we all know admission is the first step to cure, right?

I am an addict.

And because I am taking this big brave step towards resolution, I will say it again, - for affirmation - this time in not just italics, but bold as well.

I am an addict.

Fuck it, once more with feeling (and CAPS LOCK), in case anyone in the back row didn't hear.

I AM AN ADDICT.

This is something that has been building for a couple of years now and now it's at it's zenith. I can't go on anymore. I can't keep feeding this need, this curse, this addiction. What started off as a small dalliance, a playful titillation soon spiralled out of control.

First it was a rush, a small burst of adrenaline. But then the next time, it took more to slake my lust. Ever more insatiable, nothing was ever enough. Then the cravings started. Then the sheer pleasure, ecstasy and thrill. But then there were the comedowns, the burning fire in my gut, the crippling cramps, the hot flushes, the tears - oh so many tears. Then came the guilt that soon, when these horrific feelings had passed I would soon enough be hankering for another fix.

It has to stop, and today is the day. I am renouncing my addiction. Tomorrow, I start again. I will no longer be dependant. I will no longer be enslaved to my addiction. Tomorrow, I will be free.

I am, of course, talking about jalapenos. Those devilish little beasts that light up your taste buds, rouse a fire in your belly and even worse on their exit. I just can't get enough. But this habit is out of hand. It's expensive and it's painful. When you get through a jar a week, your bowels growl at you on a daily basis, and your shopping list reads like a Mexican guest list, it's time to give up. It's going to be a slow process, but it has to be done. For my sanity and my digestive tract.

Scoville, I am no longer your slave. Just say no, jalapeno.

Lost Lunch

The remains of someone's lunch I found on a bench on the Southbank. The food was untouched but the brandy had gone.

Hats for Hutton

I have a mission. The mission is to find my dear friend Hutton a hat. To the naked eye, this might seem like a ridiculously simple task, as her head doesn't look abnormally large or small, nor has any awkward lumps, bumps, nooks, nubbins or nobbles. But as you will see, this mission is considerably harder than you would first think. But until then, dear friends, our search goes on to find a cap that fits.

What To Watch This Halloween

For the Eyes of Top Deckers Only

View of a bus stop from the top deck of the 205.

Fuck Tanning

Fake tanning. Now here's one elusive boat I've been missing. To be honest, I've never been brown in my entire life. In fact rarely ever had I been a shade over 'Paler Shade of White' in the Dulux colour chart. And apparently the English Rose / Caspar the Friendly Ghost look is not particularly foxy. So, for once in my life I decided to remedy my eternal whiteness. And the real sun stuff we all know isn't good for you (especially when you only have to close your eyes and think of sunshine and your skin turns a fetching shade of lobster thermidor), but in retrospect, I have discovered, fake-tanning is a burden!

So, UV aside, what were my options? I'm not of the financial persuasion to opt to have my chassis fully resprayed by some pram-faced beautician. Nor, more importantly, do I want said stranger spraying my china white keyster whilst I'm sporting nowt but a pair of paper pants. I also am loathe to fork out £40 for a DIY rub / mousse / spray job that will only result in me tanning my surroundings, whilst missing the majority of my personage, with the exception of a few mysterious ginger patches only visible in broad daylight when I'm already halfway to work. Oh no. The sensible plan to me was to plump for a certain brand of tinted moisturiser to up my shading one iota at a time. How could that possibly go wrong?

The thing is, the results aren't instant, which can lead to one being a tad over-zealous. with their applications. Especially after a night out on the lash, bowling home and being rather slapdash in low light conditions. And even more so from a girl whose portion control is errant at the best of times. This, my tan-worshipping friends, can only spell disaster. I woke up the other morning looking like the bastard child of Chris Evans and the Tango Man, who hadn't washed for two months. Sexy? No no no. In an effort to remedy the situation, I persisted with further lashings of the aforementioned lotion, but to no avail. Even grubbier and even gingerer. Bugger.

For those who haven't seen me in the flesh recently, now you know why. I am currently enduring a rough de-tan / re-pale period that has left me with a rather patchy personage. So much so, a passing GP suggested I got treatment for my raging vitilligo. i did have to tell them I had no discernible fear of heights, but thank you anyway.

Anyway, this is one lesson learnt. Unless I can come up with a cost-effective, fool-proof, ginger-less, cancer-free, booze-friendly was of tanning my ass, I'll be glowing in the dark until the day I die. So fuck tanning.

Caught Kipping - Work in Progress

The moral of the story is: never fall asleep on public transport

The Trials and Tribulations of a Not-So-Domestic Goddess

I awoke today with a hangover and an overwhelming urge to clean every square inch of my flat. this feeling doesn't come along all that often, so I decided to embrace it with both arms, don the Marigolds and get stuck in.The trouble is, I ended up falling at the first hurdle, prey to a controversial trap known to domestic engineers as 'sheepskin rug-gate'. Let me explain.

in an attempt to pimp up my boudoir, and to cover carpets which can only have been thrown out of hell for being, quite frankly, vile, 3 months ago I bought myself a lovely sheepskin rug. The trouble is, it was cheap. And I'm now not entirely convinced it's 100% sheep's wool either, for the simple reason it smells rather like off goat.
And it sheds. Like a woolly mammoth in Marbella in fact. Within hours of being in my flat it was spreading it's fluffy offspring into every room like the red weed from War Of The Worlds. And now I can't fucking get rid of the damn stuff! But I digress...

As i was going about my usual cleaning routine (which is usually 15% cleaning, 30% watching the Hollyoaks omnibus, 10% snoozing and 55% Facebooking), on encountering the rug, my precise thoughts weer 'Fuck me, What-A-Mess has died on my floor'. Without giving it a second thought, I bundled the corpse into the bath, filled it with water and a variety of Barry Scott-endorsed cleaning products, and scrubbed the bejesus out of it. Retrospectively, a schoolboy error.

Because as we all know (at least some of us know NOW), wool is very absorbent. And it was only once the sousing and scrubbing was open, I discovered I couldn't lift the bloody thing. It had single-handedly soaked up enough water to bathe a Geldof-ful of African children (Geldof-ful I believe is the proper collective noun). Now, I can't even lift it up to dry it out.
So, I now have this soggy shedding goat carcass occupying my bathtub and I'm grimly facing the prospect of having to shower with it until the end of my tenancy.

And it creeps me out...because I'm sure it's got eyes (in the same way you know Old English Sheepdogs have eyes, you just can see them) and it's eagerly awaiting me lathering away. So Mrs Beeton, wherever you are, HELP! Unless their are some burly weight-lifters around.

Travers 'Taches - Work in Progress

I have always had a strange fascination with moustaches. This is probably because my father has one, and is some deep-rooted pseudo-oedipal condition.


As a result, I have spent most of my life trying to find the ultimate facial creation. I am yet to find 'the one', but my quest is far from over.

The Cost of Modern Dying

Hands up if you’ve had your day ruined by someone throwing themselves in front of a train? I appreciate life must be pretty darn awful to want to do that but come on, you ruin thousands of other people’s days too! Anyway, since then I’ve been wondering how best to dispose of oneself in the cheapest and most selfless way. Here is my current top 15 of ways to pop one’s clogs voluntarily. Note – all costs are ball park.

15 Jumping in front of a train

Single travel fare - £2.30

Disturbance to others – Anywhere between £100,000 and £250,000

Clean up - £5,000

18 months therapy to driver and sick leave - £15,000

TOTAL – At least £120,002.30.

14 The bad exam technique

2 x HB pencils (H or B will also do, but are less common) – 24p. For those who have not heard this urban myth, one pencil is inserted into each nostril, and the head is banged enthusiastically on the desk to propel said pencils up into the brain. Nice.

Disturbance to others – In an average class of 30 people at £750 per head for consequent therapy comes to £21,750. (If you thought it should be £22,500, you would be wrong. Naturally, there will be one less pupil to need therapy)

Clean up - £250

TOTAL - £22,000.24. Although if you choose to do this in circumstances outside an exam, this would be a rather thrifty £250.24.

13 Feeding oneself to a tiger

Entry to zoo - £16.50 (£12.00 with OAP or student concession)

A pair of sturdy shoes with good grip to facilitate the climbing over of cage bars - £29.99

Disruption to others - £1000 for the poor members of the public witnessing the feed.

Clean up - £400

Subsequent vets bills to cover a tiger with a dodgy gut - £2750

TOTAL – £4196.49

12 Overdosing

At least 50 tablets – min £2.50 for cheapo aspirin types, max £20.95 for the more advanced caffeine-inclusive Neurofen types. Note – as you will have no further need to stay awake, best to opt for a cheaper caffeine-free option.

Disturbance to others – Potentially £500. This is not a rapid death so chances of someone interrupting the process are greatly increased.

Clean up - £1750

TOTAL - £2270.95

11 Electrocuting oneself

One bath full of hot water – £1.17

Toaster / Hairdryer / Heater – Minimum of £19.99

Disturbance to others – 0

Clean up - £250

Cost of rewiring the entire property afterwards - £900

TOTAL - £1171.16

10 Shooting oneself

A suitable firearm - £500

Disturbance to others - £0. Note, if for some reason you miss the first time, be warned the cost of disturbance could go up to £750 when the neighbours call the police and/or local council to report the noise.

Clean up - £200. Note – this includes partial redecoration of a room ie. One wall and carpet.

TOTAL - £700

9 Setting oneself on fire

One can of petrol / lighter fluid - £3.50

One box of matches – 37p

Note – the above costs can be avoided by dressing up as a guy on bonfire night and having yourself thrown on the pre-made fire.

Disturbance to others - £500

Clean up (if done inside) – see ‘slitting one’s wrists without water’

Clean up (if done outside) - £150

TOTAL – Between £653.87 and £5503.87

8 Putting one’s head in an oven

Cost of electricity / gas for the duration of the suicide - £5 - £10. Note - Electricity is cheaper but takes longer to warm up.

Replacement oven - £500

Disturbance to others - £0

Clean up – £50

TOTAL - £560.

7 Poison oneself

One bottle of household bleach – 76p. No need to splash out on anything with Oxy action, stupid names including the word ‘bang’ or anything with combination sink and plughole unblocker. You’re not cleaning the bathroom for fuck’s sake.

Disturbance to others - £0

Clean up - £500

TOTAL - £500.76

6 Gassing oneself in a car

Car – Anywhere between £250 and £250,000. Note – if you have shelled out for a car at the top end price bracket, you might want to rethink your strategy – surely nothing can be that bad if you can fork out a quarter of a million for a set of wheels.

Hose pipe - £14.99

Gaffer tape - £10

Cost of petrol / diesel for the duration – Up to £10

Disruption to others - £0

Clean up - £150

TOTAL – Anywhere between £434.99 and £250, 184.99

5 Cutting one’s own head off

Chainsaw - £100. Note – these can be hired for £17 per day but there will undoubtedly be further incurred rental costs from the time of rental, and the time it takes for the police to release the chainsaw. Probably, best to buy, in hindsight.

Disturbance to others - £0

Clean up - £300

TOTAL - £400

4 Hanging oneself

Hardcore ceiling hook - £7.95

Heavy duty rope / sheet - £10.99

Small stool / chair - £27.50

Disturbance to others - £0

Clean Up - £75

TOTAL – £129.44

3 Slitting one’s wrists

Razor / razor blade – Anywhere between 15p and £9.99. Depending on how clean shaven you want to be for the mortician. If you’re happy with razor rash, stick with a Bic.

Warm water (optional) – 27p.

Disturbance to others - £50

Clean up with water option - £100

Clean up without water - £5,000. Note – this does cover the cost of totally redecorating one entire medium-sized room. Does not cover replacement of electrical items.

TOTAL – Minimum of £100.42, Maximum of £5,009.99

2 Drinking oneself to death

Booze – Anything between £16.99 to £150 depending on weapon of choice and body mass. Cheap spirits prove more effective.

Disturbance to others – Potentially £250 if done in social surroundings. Although it is difficult to put a price on verbal abuse to others, public humiliation and random acts of projectile vomiting. It is, therefore, much cheaper to do this one alone.

Clean up - £1000. Could be very messy indeed.

1 Drowning oneself

One bath full of hot water – See ‘electrocuting oneself’

Or…

Finding a local river – Average of £1.50 bus fare.

Disruption to others – Up to £2000 if the river has to be trawled.

Clean up – £0

TOTAL – Between £1.17 and £2001.50

So, in conclusion, drowning yourself in your own bath is by far the thriftiest and selfless way to top yourself. If only you could hold your head underwater long enough. So there you go. Have a nice day.

Travers Smith Wordsmith

I’m a bit of a geek when it comes to words, in that, I have favourite ones. My favourite words are generally funny sounding ones, and I was wondering what makes a word sound funny. It is not an exact science by any means, but here is a guide if you intend to brighten my day by concocting the next funniest word ever. This is what I came up with

First off, vowels are tricky humourously speaking. A isn’t amusing, nor is I (although I’d like to think I am…), and E is a bit of a waste of space (although without it that would have been wast of spac, which is just silly).

B is by nature a funny letter. Perhaps it’s because you can over-annunciate it and make it sound funnier. Some good examples of funny words including the second place candidate in the race towards the front of the alphabet: Bubble, bobbing and bazooka

C is alright. But I’d say it’s a bit average to be honest. There are a few C words that are mildly entertaining, but only because they generally incorporate one of our other top scorers. I can’t be bothered to list any. You can think of them for yourself

D…pants. Doubtful in the wicked world of comedy, except for filling in a few gaps in the previous clause

F is a classic example, and is one of the most versatile of the funny letter, with it’s ambilexterous ability to prefix and suffix most words to their comedic advantage. Fab F words include fart, fondle, and fruity, and anything along the lines of guff, muff and boff are also winners. Stick it at both ends and you have a sure-fire winner. Fluff. Nuff said

G, however, is a staple constituent of funny words, bringing us some choice words such as grubby, guppy and gumbo.

H is helpful in softening words – as if they’ve been stuck in the microwave for 10 seconds, and take on a slightly squidgier texture. Hush, thimble, swish

J is okay. As a letter it’s nothing to write home about. The J sound however is better, although it is deceptive as all good J-sounding words don’t have it at all. Todger, lodge and smudge

For K read C. I am feeling lazy.

The letter L is a bit of a silent partner when left to it’s own devices, but is a great team player. It can turn an average word into something much more entertaining. I illustrate. Pop to plop, bob to blob, muff to muffle…you get the point.

M is also quite a friendly partner, and is most content when grazing in packs with other pack animals. For example…mumble, plumber, and chump

N fannies around a bit in the middle of the alphabet and adds very little to funny words. Other that funny. And fanny. And perhaps ninny.

And O is pretty useful in the short and snappy ones – think pop, totty and cock. However, double it and you can get a plethora of other corkers: pootle, booty and snoop.

The letter P is also packed with alliterative potential, and is a crucial part of some of the English language’s best words. Puppet, pickle and parp.

Q is quite good because it makes words sound a little more Star Trekky than others = quin, quiver, quincunx

R is another letter of the people – it’s a bit of a chicken and likes to hide close to the maternal breast of letters like c, b and p. See cramp, brink and prop

S is talented son-on-a-bitch, a real all-rounder. It’s great at the 100m, cooks a mean goulash and if you stick it on the end of any (yes, that’s ANY folks…) word, you get more than one of it. Genius. Yes I’m sure there are a few exceptions – so email me

T generally only works when there is more of it. In either a Siamese twin kinda way (shitter and clutter) or in a slightly dodgy spit roast kinda way (tot and tit).

V is crap. Show me ONE funny V word. Other than volcano. And vulva

W is very funny. Full stop. Why? Because it gives us willy, wanker, wangle, wally, wildebeest…please, somebody stop me!

X is a rubbish letter. Nothing you can do with it. Thoroughly stubborn and useless. It likes to sit in the dole office of the alphabet drinking tea and occasionally popping into thoroughly useless words like inexorable and inexcusable to see if they need any part-time workers

Y is to description what S is to plural – priceless. You can add it to any word (and random nouns work better) to form your very own new adjectives. Wanky, shitty and motherfucky. Well, to be honest –ing works much much better…but that’s far too complicated to go into

Z is a little above average on the amusing scale, when we get the change to use this rare little creature. Fuzzy, buzz and twizzle.

So, in conclusion, from these brief and rather guidelines, the funniest words to date are whoopsy and bumpf. As in random paperworky-type stuff. Although if we’re being honest, it sounds like someone’s bottom with a little guff sneaking out the end. But I would say that. Because I’m childish. Deal with it.

Quest for CTS - Work in Progress

If you find a stray CTS on your path through life, please send it my way, it will be most gratefully received. I thank you.

Fan Club

Today I found my biggest fan.

Dear Tesco

***Disclaimer: This sandwich is displayed in it's entirety, and has not been doctored for comedy effect, and scale is represented with the presence of a 50p piece***

Dear Tesco,

This is by far the worst sandwich I have ever seen in my life. Fact. It might have been intention for consumption by a minor, but kids appreciate good sandwiches like the rest of us. In a world of Eats and Pret A Mangers and Marks and Sparks and even Greggs the Bakers, do you think this will cut it in the sandwich world? Do you? I think not. Thanks for ruining my lunch. And possibly my life.

Yours inconsolably,

Sainsburys' newest customer

Lasagne Revisited

If anyone was wondering about my lasagne experiment, the results are in and they are as follows:

Experiment aborted due to Sambucca-induced malco-ordination, resulting in control sample being 6% consumed by experimentor, and 92% being consumed by the lino on her kitchen floor. I do not know where the remaining 2% went.

So much for science.

Food for thought...and for the week

I'm considering an experiment – seeing how many consecutive meals of the same food it'll take to put me off something. I say this only because due to my total lack of portion control I baked enough lasagne last night to feed a small African country. But being the selfish sort (and given that my cooking ain't great – I don't wanna be hauled up on a count of genocide) I'm keeping it in my fridge to feed me for the week. So far today it served as lunch and dinner – I suspect breakfast might be tough, but in the name of science I'm willing to give it a go. Although I reckon because I won't be hungover tomorrow, I doubt I'll be able to stomach it. So much for every meal eh? I always was crap at science.

My Freeview Box has Tourettes

Dad's Carrot

My father, the gardener, has grown his first carrot. This is the fruit (or vegetable) of his labours. Please note, the scale here has not been doctored. It is, quite frankly, miniscule.

Dear Cupid...Fuck off...love, a Happy Singleton

Dear Cupid,

Now listen here, I've got a bone to pick with you. I've gone many long years without seeing your bare baby-arsed cheek about these parts, so why go meddling around now? I was more than happy bimbling along doing my own thing when all of a sudden I got that stabbing feeling in my torso.

At first I thought it was an aneurysm, so I took an aspirin. Nothing. Then I suspected indigestion, so I took a Rennie. Still nothing. I have since deduced you are to blame, with your poxy arrows. Which, incidentally, you seriously need to consider updating. It worked for Robin Hood and his merry men yonks ago, but in the age of sub machine guns, scud missiles and shoe bombs, you might want to rethink your artillery and bring it into the 21st century.

So ever since then I've been walking round with this pathetic excuse for weaponry embedded in my vital organ like one of those splinters you get when you're a kid that you think might grow into a tree inside you. Funnily enough, for a while it was a nice feeling, in fact delightful. But only briefly, while you had also accidentally stung someone else with your silly little target-practising antics. But now I seem to be the only one impaled with your mindless missile, and I've had enough. Either sort it out or take it out. Not even mum and her creative use of tweezers can remove the little prick.

It's not like I was wandering around around on your ethereal practise range and walked in the way. That I could accept part blame for. But no. You found me. And now I'm stuck with it.

So next time, I'll let you know when I'm good and ready to be shot. I'll be the one walking around with a target tattooed on my chest shouting 'ready, aim, fire'. But not until then. So hop off back to that cloud you share with those Philadelphia munching muppets and pick on some other lonely sucker. If this situation is not remedied quick smart and you remove the aforementioned item that is causing so much discomfort in my heart, I shall be taking matters up with your senior supervisor, Aphrodite.

Yours truly,

Disgruntled recipient or your thoughtlessly errant missiles

PS. You're just a short-sighted baby in a toga. Get over it and find another job.

The Travers Smith Theory of Devolution

Why is it that the most beautiful men in the world are gay? Fact. This is no coincidence, I am now convinced. Mother Nature has a plan. Eventually those left to breed will be the ones that fell from the ugly tree, hitting every branch on the way down, and landed in the gene pool whilst the life-guard wasn't looking.

I have seen the future, my friends. And it's ugly.

Family Photo Anyone?

If you do, you should go here - these guys know their stuff.

Random Hoarding

I have just had a major blitz on my flat and as a result have decided to make a small inventory of some of the bizarrities I possess – and their purpose (or lack of).

A bald dog. Nothing special, but he is my first ever toy. He is now bald. And his name is Dog. Not even as inventive as the children’s book where the toy dog was called Dogger. Even though that sounds like something sexual these days. No, as I said, he’s just called Dog.

A carabina. A rather large one. I am sure there’s no way in hell you’ll ever get me using it rock-climbing, I’m far too chicken for that, so how it made it's way into my possession is beyond me

A beginners guide to Pitman Shorthand. Once upon a time I thought it might be fun to learn. I read one page, thought it looked like double-fucking-Dutch and this little gem has been picking up dust on my bookshelf ever since.

A small knitted bee. This serves no purpose at all. Except occasionally Jemima the genderly-confused conure likes to chase it and swing it around her head. Incidentally she also likes to play football. And when she runs she looks like a velociraptor. Albeit a very small one.

A prolific supply of Tupperware. Don’t get me started, you can never have enough of the stuff. All shapes and sizes. If you’ve ever seen Conspiracy Theory, you will be aware that Mel Gibson, on seeing a copy of Catcher In The Rye was scarily compelled to buy it. This is what happens with me and Tupperware. Woolworths is a very dangerous place when you’re me. I would say it borders on unhealthy, but when you can store all your foodstuffs in neat, airtight containers, you tell me that’s unhealthy. FYI I also do this with chicken Caesar salad in restaurants and gastropubs

A Pair of Braces. No, not the sort on your teeth, although while we're on the subject I had a few of those during the twilight years of my face (between the ages of 12 and 18). No, these are white, and cheap, so they curl a bit. I thought I might be able to pioneer their return single-handedly. I tried them on once and realised I had neither the wardrobe nor the waistline to pull them off. They are under my bed somewhere. Along with scary things that I have to check for every night

A silver egg reading the word IGNORE. Once upon a time it had a similar ovoid sibling reading the word IMPORTANT. Evidently as time has gone on, I have lost it and as a result I have also lost all concept of things that are important, which is why I pretty much ignore everything these days. Amazing what power a set of paperweights can have on a person.

Two ironing boards. Not just one as do all other mere mortals, but two. God knows why, it’s not as if I do enough ironing to justify the presence of just the one. Perhaps it’s because one get used so rarely it needs to seek solace for it’s loneliness in one of it’s own kind. Either that, or the previous tenant left their’s behind. No, I think the former

One bag of red lentils. Yes I love to cook, Yes I’d love to think I’m healthy, Yes I’m easily influenced by nutritional Nazi Gillian McKeith, No I do not know what the fuck to do with them. I doubt I will ever use them. They look like they would taste like shite. That’s what happens when you shop hungover during a ‘You Are What You Eat’

Air Kiss

An Idiot's Syncracies

Here are some things that no-one knows about me.

I have one thumb significantly shorter than the other. No, I am not related to Jeremy Beadle.

My coughs sound like sneezes. People always say ‘bless you’ when I cough. I don’t bother correcting them anymore, and enjoy the politeness for what it is worth.

I have an irrational fear of sharks. This fear is so irrational, when swimming in swimming pools, I can’t help thinking one could sneak in through the drain, hell-bent on removing one of more of my extremities. I stick to the shallow end. Or paddling in the kid’s pool.

When sitting in the passenger’s seat on motorway car journeys, I can’t help imagining jumping over every lamp post.

I like it when, whilst listening to my iPod out and about, things happen in time with my music. It makes me feel like I’m in my own music video.

I once shaved my eyebrows.

When drinking from a polystyrene cup, I have to bite a big chunk out of it afterwards.

I have a morbid fascination of imagining weird ways I could die whilst going about my daily business in a Fish Called Wanda kind of way.

The theme tune to Emmerdale used to make me cry.

For my last supper, I would have mum’s lamb casserole.

My tummy button looks a little bit like a cat’s bottom.

Someone once told me I bored an uncanny resemblance to Sandy Toksvig. I had them shot, but the likeness still haunts me to this day.

I have never ridden a horse. They scare me.

I believe Jack Bauer is a real person.

My dad was a real Top Gun pilot.

I have a down-turned smile.

Making lists keeps me sane.

So now you know. Well done you.

Worst Christmas Present Ever

They have since been opened. Few were consumed. Very few.