Me Me Me

Get Carried away

2008-06-01T20:24:00.002+01:00

After we're done counting the increasing number of statues that have their nipples on show in the shopping centre that may or may not be near my house, my Canadian Girlfriend and I go to Subway.

I am not especially hungry and do not really need a sandwich but it is tea time and if I ever turn down a work, they call me gay. So pavlovian-ly, I head towards Subway. It is probably a good idea that my Canadian Girlfriend doesn't know that she can make me do stuff by simply calling me gay, not that there's anything etc.....

We order our sandwiches. I have the same one I always eat - chicken and bacon. Maybe I'm just used to ordering my fast food from squeaky voiced teens or simply walking into the Shell garage and having my sandwich made without me saying anything but when I get to the end, the rather burly and swarthy looking gentleman barks out in a Russian accent "You want cookie or crisps."

I shake my head unsure if I have been asked a question or been given an order. I am tempted to add a "No Comrade" but that would set back relations with Russia further than Indiana Jones' latest film.

We sit and eat our lunch, only be interrupted by a couple fighting behind us. She threw a drink at him and hit a girl on another table, who threw a drink at the original drink thrower. The original drink thrower's Boyfriend then throws a drink at the thrower of the drink that hit the original thrower of the drink. And then there's some swearing. I apologise if this sounds a bit vague but in my defence I had my back to the action and my front to a twelve inch sandwich. Quite what Sergei would've made of this beacuse in Soviet Russia, drink throws you.

The queue for the cinema is quite short, however there are some who simply can't wait. Three women push past us, teetering on their ankle breaking sky high heels. They walk towards the person in front of us who seems to be their friend. There is no "Excuse Me "or even something fake sounding to acknowledge their friend and make sure that everyone knows that their simply rude and not ignorant and rude.

Judging by their attire, there is only one film that four cougar aged women who think they're 20 can be going to see.

"Did you see how rude they were?" I say to my Canadian Girlfriend "do you mind if I get them back?" I get a not of acceptance.

"I see Sex and the City Movie is out this week. I can't believe what I read on the Internet about it. Apparently they kill off Big on the way to the wedding." I have no idea if this is true or not. I do know that there's a Sex and the City movie in it and that there's a wedding and a charater called Big - who is about as convincing as a black character in a Harold Ramis film - but it seems plausible and could possibly ruin their night.

We are actually in the queue for tickets to go and see Sex and the City, however I have been lucky enough to escape watching it. I have swapped that pleasure with my Little Sister who will be watching it while I copy information from her old computer to her new one.

The plan is simple. Network the two computers and drag and drop the folders from old computer to new computer. Finish in time to watch some TV.

At 2am, I have proven that the network card in her old computer is both broken and functional. I have taken old the drive out and put it inside my Dad's comptuer spending an age getting boot-order and masters and slaves sorted. I have worked on the permissions making sure that the drives are visible from one machine to another.

I feel that my perseverance is to be commended but also foolish. I get a flashback to sitting in the same chair in the same room until the same time as teenager trying to get an essay spell checked. It took me ages to learn never to ask my dad to do anything after 3pm because it guaranteed that you'd be up until gone midnight but every word would be looked over with a fine toothed comb. But the one thing about history is that we are prone to repeat it, or inherit it.

Finally, I begin copying the 40GB drive.

Hang on? It's only 40GB. I could've copied it all on to my iPod and still had room for all my music. I have 4 x 160GB USB drives on my desk at work, I could've replicated it 16 times and built in some resiliance. Fuck me, I think they even give bigger drives away in Cornflakes.

No tools are kept in this van overnight

2008-05-24T08:20:00.000+01:00

"don't like calling them KK donuts, coz that's only a typo away from being racist"

Centre button double press. "Sending Message"

Today has been a good day so far, I have managed to get through another day of work without having to put my tie on and it appears My Canadian Girlfriend is bringing donuts home for tea. I walk towards my car which is parked on the street outside work. The reason why it is parked on the street is complicated. Firstly, I had to go to the post office this morning so I couldn't get the tram in. Secondly, work have decided to charge me for the privilege of leaving my car at work, so I have taken to parking on what is known locally as "Cheap Bastard Ave."

I freeze as I approach my car. The passenger window is missing and there is glass on the floor.

The world moves slower. The ten metres to the car go slower than Simon Cowell making "the hardest decision ever" over who to eliminate from X-Factor. I travel those ten metres but I don't remember walking. I seem to have floated. It's a very surreal experience. The only other time I have felt like this was when I thought Amy, my first Nissan Micra, had been stolen. It turned out I was just stood on the second floor of the car park but my car was on the third.

Normally, if you take a right wing, anti-abortion, homophobe, racist, nut job and give them a gay son, who needs stem cell research to help with his Alzheimer's, with a black boyfriend - then their attitude tends to soften slightly. The same seems to happen to woolly criminal hugging liberals. One broken car window and you are Boris Johnson, calling for the death penalty.

It doesn't seem like they've taken anything. It’s a simple sat-nav smash and grab. The tell-tale rings on the window where I've licked all the way round the rim of the sticky end of the shaft act like a giant neon sign asking for the window to be smashed. The Scouse Bastards have opened the glove-box, thrown out everything looking for the sat-nav which is sitting on my Coco Shell Pedestal, from the Pier, at home. They left empty handed - but let's have a look at what you could've won!
On the back seat is the package I picked up from the post office containing a Denver Broncos Jersey costing around £20 off ebay.
In the glove box but over-looked - a plastic money bag containing a pound coin, normally used for shopping carts at Sainsburys.
A five year old monochrome screened iPod. I can't even get this stolen it's so bad!!!! The battery lasts for about 10 seconds without the charger and it only has 1/4 of my music collection on because I haven't been able to synch it with my computer since 2005 - making it only useful as a pirate radio station broadcasting on 108.0FM to my car radio
A cuddly toy
My emergency tenner from under the passenger's seat. Although there is a good chance that I used this about a month ago when I pulled up at Starbucks without any money in my wallet. I'm pretty sure I used it but I can't remember if I replaced it.
My Oakley's in the driver's door. These actually cost more than a sat-nav.
And of course the speed boat.

It's amazing the way your brain works when you're in a situation like this. Mine goes blank, all I can think of is that the cheeky twats have left their brick on the passenger's seat - at least they could've taken that. I am stuck and don't know what to do. I call the one person who knows everything.

"Dad - my car window has been broken - what do I do?"

My Dad is great. So far this week he's been asked to help fix a canvass tent, sense check my sister's personal statement for a job interview, stay with one of his "home-workers", while he was delivering to her, because she was worried she was miscarrying and now I'm piling this on top of him.

"Have you rung your insurance? I'd do that first. Ring me back when you've spoken to them". See, he knows everything.

I ring the insurance. A nice girl called Karen is on the other end of the phone and may be recording the call for training purposes.

"I've had my passenger window broken" I say into the phone.
"Oh No! That's terrible. Are you ok?" she says seeming concerned.

This is a very nice calming response and it makes me feel very cared for. Just like when you write off to TVAM and ask Roland Rat for an autograph and he sends you one back stating that you're his number one "rat fan". Of course there is a good chance that this phrase is simply part of their scripted customer care and they show this sort of faux-concern for everyone. Just like when you write off to TVAM and ask Roland Rat for an autograph for your sister and it turns out that she is also his number one "rat fan".

Karen suggests I drive home if I feel confident enough and wait for the on-call glazier, who I insist on calling a window fitter, arrives at 7pm. After making several calls to interested parties - My Canadian Girlfriend, My Little Sister and My Colleague parked two spots behind me, using these calls to perfect the jokes about being broken into - I drive home.

I vacuum the car lady-macbethly. I must get the stench of crime out of the car. I clean and I clean. 19:00 becomes 20:00 and then 21:00. I call the glass people and don't get Karen. "Yeah sorry, we've been really busy. We've got a guy from Liverpool coming on shift at 10 and you're his second job so he'll be over at midnight." And with that, all the good feelings I had towards the company has evaporated, losing them the opportunity of a free plug on my internet weblog. My window will not become more broken overnight so I cancel and re-book them for the next day when it will be a more appropriate time. And done by a Mancunian.

Rush Hour

2008-03-21T07:26:00.003Z

I wander lonely as a cloud, around Tesco.

I don't think I've ever stood back and admired the beauty of this oligarchy. The green baskets and colouring of the fruit shelves reminding you of someone else childhood spent scrumping apples from Mr Robinson's garden. That constant reminder of the beautiful fields and rolling dales that these intensively market-farmed vegetables have never seen. The brains behind the supermarket need applauding for the superfluous plastic tray under the corn on the cob and the fact that you can't just buy a handful of green beans - you either have to buy a tray with enough beans on to feed an army or buy one with the right amount of beans but then be saddled with some strange bed-fellow like an artichoke.

Then there are the eggs. Easter eggs - piled everywhere. Eggs on top of eggs, with more eggs on top of them. But obviously the only egg they don't have is the one I'm looking for. The Baileys egg seems to have proved popular with the 25-40 female demographic who like their alcohol to taste of anything but alcohol. I have to settle for a plain Easter Egg, a bottle of Baileys and three days to hatch a plan on how to deal with a very drunk Canadian Girlfriend.

It's easy to get lost in a massive Tesco store, I think to myself while admiring their cheap and cheerful loungewear. I suppose it's probably time I left, I should be getting to the football soon. At which point, I check my "watch" (when I say watch I mean clock on my mobile - really - who still wears watches?)

It's already five past. That means I have approximately minus five minutes to do a 15 minute drive, if I am going to get there on time. But I have a 30 minute contingency built into that timing schedule - which is just a posh way of saying that I have 25 minutes before kick off. I hurry to the checkout.

This Johnny-No-Stars on the checkout is taking forever. The items are hitting the belt at a ridiculously slow speed - the Local Council could have made a decision on a planning application during the time it's taken for the items to scan. I bag up, keeping to my three shopping bag rule. I leave the self checkout.

I jump in the car and now only have 15 minutes to do a 15 minute drive and to get changed. If only there was someway I could combine them both.....

I fling my tie to the passenger's seat and undo the top button of my shirt. I get on to the M60. I slowly begin undoing the remaining buttons of my shirt. I delve into my bag for my Under Armour. The logistics of this idea is starting to hit home. While Superman may be able to change in a phone box, he didn't have to deal with a Danzas lorry that doesn't know where it's going. The clutch, gas, brake, clutch scenario that typifies the M60 between the hours of 1am and midnight mean it is almost impossible to get changed whilst driving.

I hit an area that does not have much traffic. Harry the Yaris gets up to 86. It's foot down - Damn the fuel efficiency. I have about 5 minutes to get from the motorway junction to the pitch and get changed.

I pull up in the car and note that the games have not started. I throw off my shirt and fling on my kit, I am in such a rush that my knee brace which is meant to protect my injured knee turns into more of a shin pad. I jog along to the back gate which is sometimes open. It is closed and there is a queue to get over. Two guys spring over the fence with minimal effort and jump down in a manner that says that they have no reason not to trust their knees. The young kid in front of me struggles to get up to the top of the 7 foot gate. I walk forward, place my hands on his bottom and give him a shove up.

His father on the other side of the gate stares at me like I am a paedophile.

Seriously, have we got to the stage where a fellow human being can't help a slightly smaller fellow human being over a fence without having aspersions cast on his character? Has the Daily Mail turned us into such paranoid and untrusting people that we mistake the good Samaritan for a pervert who's only after one thing?

Admittedly I did have my other hand down the front of my tracksuit bottoms adjusting my testicles.

In the rush to get changed Lefty had slipped out.

I rush to the pitch, missing the first three minutes and until the next stoppage with my Under Armour on and my laces untied. I suit up properly while someone chases the ball across the car park.

We lose 22-2 - the low-light of which is them taking pot-shots at their own goal keeper.

World of Sport

2008-03-09T11:16:00.002Z

I need a new sport.

This is a very important decision to make. This not a simple decision like "Do you want a coffee?" (Yes!) - it is much more involved and requires careful consideration and deep thought, kind of like "What shall I have as a Text tone?"

I had decided that for my text tone I'd have that dramatic organ music - you know "dum dum dummmmmm!" - that would be beneficial at work too when people start making mountains out of their molehills. But you try and figure out what you're googling to find that tune... Because I can't. I'd go down to my Church and ask the organist to play it so I could record it but since she's about 85, I'd expect it to be "dum.... dum.... (I can get this, hang on) .. .. .. .. dummmmmmm).

But choosing a sport is important, I don't want to just play any old sport. There are requirements:

I have to be able to train all day every day for it. I don't necessarily have to be training for this sport all the time but I just need the freedom to go to the gym when I want. Hell, "going to work out" would even be part of my job. So breaking down what I need to do to achieve this, I need a guaranteed income of around £40,000 a year. This, coupled with some "self employed" tax fiddles, would not only give me enough to live on but a nice healthy pay rise too!
So that rules out anything with the word "Amateur" in the title.

I want to be world class with the minimum effort. The inspiration for this post comes from watching "Simply Sumo Wrestlers" on some random Sky channel. The testosterone was already pumping after 'normal Sunday morning activities' and then I caught this show. It followed some British girls wanting to become international Sumo Wrestlers. They went to the World Championships and got medals and shit. "World Champion at …" would be very nice to put on a CV although I would probably settle for being "Britain's Number 1"
So that rules out the popular sports like "Football" and "Cricket".

"Look at Eddie the Eagle, that girl who laid down on a tea tray and that bird that looked like David Bowie who won the gold medal for pushing stones on ice", you say, "You should take up something like that!"
Hmmm, a slight problem with that. My long term aspirations in this sport mean it has to be future proof. So with a Canadian Girlfriend - it has to be something that I can also be world class at if we happened to move to Canada at some point in this lifetime.
"Yes, I'm Britain's #1 Ice Hockey Player. I was the reason we qualified for the preliminary rounds of the World Championships."
"You have to qualify? There are preliminary rounds? I thought it was just a matter of how many goals you beat the USA by in the final, eh."
And then I'd get on the ice and barely be able to skate and, if I'm lucky turn out on the "3rd line" in a pick up game in Dog River, Saskatchewan.
So that rules out anything with "ice", "snow" or "lumberjacks"

And the flip side to that last requirement is that I don't really want to have to move. It would be very easy to emigrate to Sri Lanka and start turning out for their football team, or go to the Isles of Scilly and play international tennis for them, or go to Australia and captain their cricket team. I need to be able to, at least for the initial period, stay in Manchester.
So that rules out anything requiring "sun"

I want some physical contact. I was a bit of a girlie-man at school. Once, during Rugby practice, I was sent to play for the "First team" because in the words of the teacher we so affectionately nicknamed "Satan", I needed "toughening up". That didn't work and I remained a bit of a nancy-boy through most of my teens and early twenties.
But now that I'm a bit older I can see that with the tragic shortness of life and the gloomy, looming, inevitability of death - I really want to push myself and try to prove that I am a real man.
So this rules out the soft sports like "Badminton" and "Rugby League"

I don't want to get seriously hurt. This goes without saying. I am very pretty and I don't want to lose my boyish good looks because of a stray elbow, boot or steel chair.
I also have a dodgy knee and have had to wear a brace on it for sports since I was 13. I've been one "big hit" away from needing knee surgery since then. It all happened when I was fielding at deep mid wicket and was running around to my right. I planted my knee in the grass, forming a perfect long-barrier and whilst my knee stuck into the grass - my body continued moving, there was a crack and I tumbled over. I stopped the ball, which when you're 13 is all that matters - even though adults watching from the other side of the pitch say the sound made them think that I'd broken my leg.
So that rules out "Pro Wrestling" and most martial arts.

While I want to push my boundaries, I am far too old to try and face any major fears. I only have the normal male fears of:

Swimming
Spiders
Intimacy
Commitment
Giant Godzilla-like monsters attacking New York City

So that pretty much only rules out "Swimming", "Diving" and "Giant Lizzard Wrestling"

I don't want to have to take drugs to be a success.
So that rules out "Athletics" and "Baseball"

Ah, well. Looks like I'll have to become a Gladiator then.

While the cats away

2008-03-01T21:10:00.001Z

My Canadian Girlfriend is away and I am on the verge of doing something I shouldn't.

"I completely understood the reasons why you wanted to wait until after Christmas…… I was a bit unsure myself back then but these feelings I have just won't go away. Every week for the past couple of months I've looked forward to 'accidentally' seeing you on a weekend…."

"I don't think now is the time to beat around the bush. I've been in love with you ever since I first saw you. I don't mind admitting that some Saturday mornings, when I woke up before My Canadian Girlfriend, I'd sit at the PC and just stare at your picture…. I'm not one to use hyperbole but it was the closest thing I've ever experiences to love at first sight.... And everything's just fallen into place perfectly to make this the right time to act on those feelings - what with My Canadian Girlfriend being away."

"Ok… I totally respect your point of view. If you don't think it's time then it's not time. But believe me, I'm not taking no for an answer. You know we'd be perfect together. I will wait for you. I've been waiting for 6 months now. I am in no hurry. I just can't wait for the time when it's OK to take you home, go on holiday with you, show you off to my parents and just have you as part of my life."

"I'm not going to rush this but just so long as you know that when you're ready and the time is right, I'll be waiting for you."

I walk out of the changing rooms, put the Superdry Leather Jacket back on the rack and walk away before anyone calls the authorities about a middle aged man talking to a leather jacket in the changing rooms at the Arndale Centre.

That is not the only thing that was strange thing going on today. Hotel Chocolat were having a sale. Well it wasn't so much a sale as the price of their chocolate had gone down by a pound. So I stocked up. When My Canadian Girlfriend gets back she'll be surprised by a fridge full of chocolate. Well she won't be very surprised because
a) I've had to send this blog to her for proof-reading to make sure that me making a joke about pretending that I'm having an affair is funny rather than upsetting
b) There isn't much of it left.

And then I head up the escalator towards the Fruit Man and the Fish Man. As I reach the top of the escalator, I notice a commotion. I look over to where the crowd is gathered. There is a brunette stood there with sunglasses on, despite it not being sunny, and a cap on, despite it not being windy. Her cap is pulled down in that "I'm famous and trying not to be recognised. Ah well, go on - I'll sign your autographs".

Not being fully conversant in celeb-spotting, I take note and remember to ask someone who watches Coronation Street. As two hoodied young men fly past her with fist-a-flying, I realise that the crowd probably isn't queuing for an autograph. All this is missing is a chant of "Fight! Fight!" and we'd be back in the playground. Just before I can start that, the "Head Teacher" appears in the form of a Security Guard. He drags his 'not-quite-fit-enough-to-get-into-the police' body after them.

I head towards the Fruit Man. The Fish Man decided that answering a mobile phone call was more important than having my money. I will buy the fish from Tesco and put up with my liberal guilt about putting small traders out of business.

I then head home. That evening I went to see "The Bucket List" at the cinema. Imagine the premise for some of the best comedy movies of all times:
· Foul mouthed kids tackle censorship
· Bungling cop tries to save the Queen from Ozzie Smith
· Man gets mistaken for the Messiah
· Aircraft has to be landed by a drunk ex-army pilot
So my question is - at what point did "Hollywood" decide that a movie about two likeable old men dying of cancer would be the basis for a comedy?

Wookie

2008-02-20T21:11:00.001Z

I have a beard.

But - I have not grown a beard.

I don't like the idea of growing a beard; it makes it sound like I'm doing something positive. Instead I have simply stopped shaving.

This is not a decision I took lightly. It took me all of 3 seconds to decide to stop. I stepped out of the shower and went to get a new blade for my razor from the cupboard. Finding the cupboard bare of razor blades but full of soaps stolen from hotels and bottles of Night Nurse, I decided the easiest thing was to just stop shaving.

I have even continued to "not shave" despite My Canadian Girlfriend having bought all the constituent parts required for me to have a shave and having arranged them nicely in places around the house where I can't fail to see them. Not even my Mum and my Little Sister pleading with me to remove "that thing" have had any affect. Getting facial hair is not unusual, every couple of years I like to grow some until I see a photo of myself and realise I look like a twat.

It has been a few weeks now, I must be getting better at avoiding cameras, and I'm growing to like my beard. It gives me something to play with during long boring work meetings and also gives me an extra line of defence when it comes to dribbling toothpaste from my mouth and dropping it on my shirt.

And despite being on the losing side, I have played well at football since I stopped shaving. I am a very superstitious person. I always wear the same kit if I played well the week before, I get dressed in exactly the same order, I always take the end away from the hill in the first half and I like to put my water bottle inside the left hand post.

And since its bad luck not to be superstitious - I'm afraid to shave. I played poorly when I was well shaven and now I am unkempt and homeless looking I am playing well. This is a surprise, because it's almost impossible to name a bearded footballer that was any good. Gary Birtles had a beard and he was, until Kleberson arrived, one of United's worst signings. Gerd Muller, Socrates and occasionally George Best are the only players of any note who had beards.

I enjoy bearded life. I have managed to walk past an old friend in the Arndale Centre without being recognised. And this wasn't a celebrity "I've got a cap on so you don't recognise me - go on then I'll sign a couple of autographs" attempt at not being spotted either. It was like wearing a Next suit - I became invisible.

The days pass. My Canadian Girlfriend turns towards me as Masterchef finishes and takes both my hands in her hands. I fear that I am facing some form of beard intervention.

"Look about your beard," she says "I don't want you to take this the wrong way but you know I don't like facial hair. And this is getting beyond a joke. It's not even a real beard. I've seen better ones on 12 year olds. It's just side burns, a bad 70s 'tache and some fluff on your chin. If you could grow a real beard I'm sure I'd like it but this is just wrong."

"Happy Valentines to you too." I say.

I'm not one to admit it out loud but she is right.
Once puberty kicks in this is going to look really cool.

Sicko

2008-02-11T20:17:00.000Z

"See you all Monday!" I say to my co-workers, at the place that if I named I would have to kill you, as I head off into the setting sun on Friday afternoon. I let out a little evil cackle inside knowing full well that I don't intend on being in on Monday. It's Superbowl Monday and normally that means that I'll take a day off and watch the game over breakfast. But since I have run out of Holidays this year, I am planning on taking a sickie!

I have yet to decide just how naughty I am going to be. If I am going to be very naughty then I am off all day Monday with something that has kept me up all night. If I am only going to be slightly naughty then it's an emergency optician's appointment and I'm in work after lunch. Both of which are credible lies. The first does not require me to sound ill when I call in, just disorientated and tired. The second is completely understandable because a) my optician is hot and b) I wear contact lenses.

My plan is hatched with extreme deviousness.

It seems much less devious when I'm running from the tram stop back to my flat on Sunday because I need the toilet. This would make visit number 3 in a little under two hours.

"I can't believe I'm ill! There's no point taking a sickie when I'm ill." I say to My Canadian Girlfriend as I try and mask the smell with multiple flushes and a squirt of Glade Fresh. "I'm being punished!"

"It's probably just psychosomatic." she replies.

We head over to my parents for Sunday Dinner. Their toilets are notoriously difficult to flush, I am not sure how I will cope if the pills I have taken don't stop my psychopathic illness. The meal is a pretty normal affair - soup to start, followed by roast chicken, apple crumble as desert with coffee, cheese and biscuits served by the computer as I run Spybot to try and untangle the mess my dad has managed to get himself into. During this time, my Canadian Girlfriend wraps herself up in a blanket and parks herself with all the Saturday and Sunday Magazines my parent's haven't bothered to recycle - they claim that they simply keep them just for her to read but I know that they're just far too lazy to walk to carry them out to the recycling.

Thankfully, due to the number of "MySearchBarWeb" tools and cookies from websites I wish I didn't know my parents had looked at - I have plenty of time to spend trying to figure out how to flush their toilet. I take advantage of this break in proceedings because coupled with the fact that the Diacalm is wearing off I need to head upstairs to leave behind most of the meal I have just enjoyed.

If I was one of my colleagues I would find it very hard to believe that I was really ill the day after the Superbowl. So to prove that I was ill, even if it was psychotropic, I take a time stamped photo of my anal expulsions and using my Parent's patented pump-flush action on the toilet to get rid of the evidence.

My anti-Semitic illness is getting worse. I am home and have just expunged the apple crumble. I am sure I am being punished for thinking about faking illness. One of the things I had planned to do on Monday afternoon when I was fake-sick, before going to the gym, was to clean my en-suite because it needed cleaning. Now it REALLY needs cleaning. It looks like I'm going to have to clean it in between using the toilet in the bathroom my Canadian Girlfriend uses, which will also need cleaning by mid-morning.

The night passes off without incident, thankfully. I ring work trying not to be too graphic but also making sure that they knew something serious was up and it was not a semantic illness. I take my Canadian Girlfriend off to work avoiding the result of the Superbowl by not turning anything but her on.

I arrive home and have my normal post-breakfast poo. The only non-normal characteristic of which is the fact that I do it before breakfast. I sit down and turn on the DVD recorder. The Superbowl has not recorded. I am being punished.

Somehow, using a mix between covering the computer screen with my hand and not being able to see anything without my glasses on, I find out that an edited version of the Superbowl is on Sky Sports at 1pm. I take my Diacalm and plot a return to my parents to borrow their cable.

MB has added the new blog post application

2008-01-31T20:07:00.000Z

Ah Facebook.

What a wonderful idea it is. It's a great idea and you can tell it is because it's such a simple idea, like Toilet Duck, that everyone thinks that they could've invented it. And it's so novel to. Who'd have thought that revealing little titbits of your personal life across the Internet would've been so popular?

One line of text does limit my ability to fully psychoanalyse the minutiae of my life. If only there was some way that I could write more than 255 characters to dissect every detail of my life? I wonder if I could come up with an idea to solve this. I'm thinking something on-line where people could type random things in about their lives and not be limited to one line of text……

Until I do that here are some of my favourite status updates from Facebook.

MB really needs the loo but thanks to some dodgy plumbing he has to walk to another building. Crossed legs it is.
MB is legend
MB is America and so can you
MB is watching football at 3pm on Saturday and not working for Sky Sports anymore
MB can't quite put his finger on where that smell is coming from
MB cannot see out of one eye. Time for new contact lenses.
MB wants one of Vince Noir's Silver Jump-suits
MB feels like he's about to pass out on the keyboard. rupppppppppppppppppppppppps\n djkafsr
MB is Jenny Hope
MB is embarrassed that he's just mixed up the search box and the update box on Facebook Mobile
MB is on the tram approaching a tun…..
MB is the confuser. Is he a man? Is he a woman? Does he care?
MB nearly slipped on the wet floor while trying to avoid the "Caution Wet Floor" sign.
MB needs a shave as he is only day from being declared a wookie
MB is cooking quality food - under pressure!
MB is thinking. That Facebook needs more Haikus. Do you think that too?
MB is looking for a Gold Benfica Third Strip
MB likes making phone calls while walking to the way to the tram because that way he has an excuse to hang up
MB is now on the toilet
MB is currently leaping from life to life striving to put right what once went wrong

Sleepmaster

2008-01-23T22:06:00.000Z

Beep! Beep! Beep!

I hit the off button. Sixteen minutes past. That's two snoozes and it's time to get up. I jump up and head towards the shower. My showering has become pretty mechanical - I can even do it in my sleep. I start by standing back to the shower head and begin by twisting my back from side to side and pushing each shoulder back like I was doing a Manual Dexterity test on the Krypton Factor. The water flows over each shoulder.

I reach for my shampoo and pick up the conditioner. I wash and rinse my hair. I reach for the conditioner and pick up the shampoo. I condition my hair using a massage technique I learnt from a 16 year old girl. I suppose I should come up with some form of system to identify which bottle is which. I could stop taking two bottles into the shower although technically I don't "take" them into the shower as they are already there. I resolve to keep the conditioner on the left hand side.

I turn to face the shower head. I later up my left pec first. I don't know how I got into that habit but that's what I do. I wash. While washing, I consider my schedule for the day. I am seeing Becci who seems to have got lost on her way to California and spells her name with an "i" and a heart above it. Then I have to see the woman with tiny little shrimp eyes and sit there while she tells me how to do my job. I rinse and use my face scrub because today is shaving day.

Shaving has been my bete noir ever since I hit puberty, turned 28 and had to start shaving. As my father has had his beard since he was 3 he was never a source of much help. Everything I have learnt about shaving has been through trail and error. Mostly error. However, I would recommend using a face scrub before shaving as it has dramatically reduced the number of 999 calls I've had to make because of shaving accidents.

Suitted, booted and freshly shaven I head to the lounge and turn the computer on. I take my bagel from my bagel butler, cut my bagel using my bagel slicer and put it into toaster choosing the bagel setting. Oy vey!

I go to check the computer time, today I think I am running a little bit behind schedule. My Canadian Girlfriend still sleeps. I am never quite sure what to do. If my Canadian Girlfriend doesn't get enough sleep then she gets grouchy in the mornings. If my Canadian Girlfriend gets too much sleep then she's late for work and grouchy in the mornings. But on the plus side Grouchy Canadian Girlfriend is better than when she has the exact amount of sleep and is Hyperactive Canadian Girlfriend.

It's twenty to one. 00:40. Fourty minutes past midnight.
What the fudge?

I stumble back into the bedroom and pick up the alarm clock. Sure enough, at some point during the day yesterday, my alarm clock has decided to reboot itself. The time is OK because its radio controlled but the alarms have reset themselves to midnight. I turn the light on and set the alarm to 6AM.

My Canadian Girlfriend sits up and is neither grouchy nor hyperactive. She enquires as to what I am doing. I explain. She laughs and falls back to sleep. I get undressed. Lay my suit out on the floor and recline in bed.

I spend the next three hours trying to get back to sleep whilst thinking about what a twat I am.

Post Script: Everyone I have told this story to finds it hilarious. I do not.

Loadsamoney

2008-01-16T09:26:00.000Z

Everyone has a plan for winning the lottery. Most people would quit work immediately and start buying a car-a-day. Not me, I'd stay around for a bit, although I would start buying cars. I'd mainly stay to see how much money it would take to get the other two guys in my office to kiss each other and do some crazy Jackass style stunts.

Of course, the long term plan would be to open some sort of fitness / sports / football centre, for the kids. I'd love to be able to give something back to the people of Manchester and this would be the best way to do it. I'd like to give people something to aspire to and take inspiration from. Is there a better way to touch kids than through sport?

In fact, you give me any amount of lottery money and I know exactly what I'd do with it. £500,000 - still carry on working but live in a big house mortgage free, buy a new car for all the family, have a big party and take all my friends and family on holiday. £200,000 - I'm probably moving, living mortgage free and buying a new car. £10,000 - I'm buying a car. Hell, I reckon I'd even know what to do if you gave me £250.

So this Christmas I was bought a table top dish washer by my parents. A very thoughtful gift that they'd co-ordinated with My Canadian Girlfriend on and something I was surprised to get but really needed. There was a big problem or to be more exact a 2cm problem. It didn't fit in the space that I had reserved should anyone read my thoughts (or my letter to Santa) and buy me a table top dishwasher.

A quick exchange for a smaller one and we're fine. Except the brand new plates I have been bought My Canadian Girlfriend (see I told you it was co-ordinated) are too big for the dish washer that was too big. As strange as it seems I would prefer to keep the plates than the dishwasher - partly because of the sentimental value that I'll always attach to the plates and partly because I had already started eating off them.

The next step of course is to try and think of things that I would prefer instead. I'm getting tired of having to spend 30 minutes a day trying to put the left lens back into my glasses so a new pair would be nice. I could maybe get a new leather jacket? I hate having to think of things I want or need. It's hard enough when I have the pre-Christmas TV adverts telling me exactly what to buy.

24 hours after leaving the dishwasher with my Dad, I get a phone call.

"I've got a gift card for you to pick up." My Dad says.
"Cool, that's very kind of you" I say.
"It's for Comet - we returned the dishwasher and got a gift card instead. We've also rounded it up!"
"Wow, I don't know what to say!"
"Well we thought you could use it to get a big screen TV"

While I already have a big screen TV, a bigger screen TV is always an option. But then that saddles me with the problem of finding an extra few hundred pounds to make sure that I get a really big screen. Shortly after I hang up to my Dad, my mobile phone rings again. I have now had more phone calls in 2008 than I did during all of 2007.

"Hi" says my little sister "What's up?"
"I'm OK - I'm just out shopping in Tompan"
"Have you spoken to Dad?" she asks leadingly.
"Yes I have - they've exchanged the dishwasher and got a gift card."
"Great! Now you can buy that big screen TV you've always wanted."

The cogs begin to tick over in my head.

"When you get your new TV" she asks building up to a four-question-mark question, "what are you going to do with the old one????"

I see. So this is who is responsible for hatching this diabolical scheme. So just to spite her I need something else to spend the money on.

Laptop / Computer - Like this TV, this gift card would simply be a down payment on the laptop and leave me with a massive shortfall. Plus if I got a new Laptop or Computer it would probably be an Apple. Don't ask me why because I don't know but it would.

Xbox 360 - I can already feel My Canadian Girlfriend's icy stare hitting me on the back of the neck as I type. And she isn't even in the same post code as me.

Wii - I could appease her and get the woman's version of an Xbox 360 but the lack of Halo 3 wouldn't really sell it to me.

Slingbox AKA the watch your TV over the Internet thing - This would be good but to make it work I'd really need Sky. And if I'm getting Sky, I'd need Sky Sports. And if I'm getting Sky Sports then I'd need a friend who lived abroad to chip in so he could watch the Premier League matches. But since my friend is tighter than Wayne Rooney's NikePro under-shirt, this isn't going to happen.

We'll call this the "Comet Conundrum".

Friendsreunited

2008-01-09T06:33:00.001Z

I need more friends.

And not Facebook friends either. Real, live, in the flesh friends - people who I can talk to, buy overpriced coffee with and who can give me the justification for buying a Wii. I should get out more and meet new people. I should talk to those people who nod at me in the gym. I should make more of an effort to turn my work friends into every day friends. And I should see more of the friends I do have.

Depressed at these thoughts, I slump further in my seat as the tram approaches Crumpsall.

I wonder if the Calabrian doctor Aloysius Lilius who created the Georgian Calendar in 1582 and the astronomer Sosigenes of Alexandria in 45BC knew that in creating a calendar where there was a distinct point where a new year would begin, that it would eventually lead to so much angst and naval gazing while travelling through North Manchester.

I shake it off, reminding myself that I don't believe in New Year. I will not be a slave to consumerism and will not let these new fangled things rule my life. No random set of numbers that seem to have no grounding in reality will ever dictate my mood, apart from my body fat monitor.

I always tend to lose my grip on reality when I'm forced to go further north than Victoria Station. Being this far north and travelling through an area where they still eat their first born and own a Betamax has always made me uncomfortable and plays with my mind.

I do not like New Year's Resolutions, I don't like the idea of setting myself annual goals - it will only lead to disappointment. If I did do New Year's Resolutions, "Writing a Book" would still be up there, as it has been for the past three years. The farthest I normally like to plan ahead is what I am going to eat for tea tonight. (Defrosted Jerk Chicken if you must know) Despite this, my internal devil and angel begin arguing as they try and decide what my plan should be:

"We could quit carbs and only eat protein!" the devil says.

"Yeah I'd agree to that but I'm not sure I could persuade the kidneys." the angel replies.

"I want something wild. How about adventure racing? It's like running but with maps. That way the brain will get to use its Geography degree."

"Sounds dangerous," the angel says. "Plus all the brain can remember from the Geography degree is something about the social construction of space and that the Urban Geography lecturer looked like Dr Marvin Monroe. What if we got lost in the moors? We'd probably just have Matt to keep us company and he worries more than a Limo driver after picking up a rowdy hen night."

"C'mon, we'd get to wear Under Armour. I want a challenge - something to shake us up from the dreary trudge of day to day life!"

"We could learn ASP.Net 3.0"

"Let's start hacking! We can even pretend we're doing it to learn more about 'computer security'."

"How about we just agree to blog more often." says the angel looking for a compromise.

There is much laughter.

Laying the pipe

2007-10-04T06:57:00.000+01:00

The phone rings before Saturday Kitchen has even started.

It must be important because everyone I know understands that I don't like to do anything on a Saturday until after the "Omelette Challenge" and that includes answering the phone. Normally I'd ignore it but the tinny, Sega-MegaDrive-like notes of the Imperial March from Star Wars inform me that it's my dad. Worried that something serious has happened, or that he's about to go to the Cash and Carry and needs me to place an order, I pick up the phone.

"Remember back when you moved out of your old place and you had all that water coming down through the ceiling…." He says.

"Ssssshhhhhh!!!!! I told all my blog readers that it wasn't me and pinned the story on someone else!" I hiss.

"Well it's happing at our place. I've managed to stop the water flowing but I need your help to….."

By this point I have zoned out. All I am thinking of is how I now have to haul my ass out of the house before I've showered and before I've even had time to run some product through my hair. Not only has my "Saturday Timetable" gone completely up the spout but now I'm going out like one of them unkempt scruffians from the Foo Patrol or the Snow Fighters or some other similar band full of people who haven't washed since Noah was a lad and spent 3 years at University stoned.

I put my Maple Leafs cap on.

I get to my parent's after speeding down the back streets of Manchester. I can only assume that if I was stopped by a Policeman "Driving to your parent's house to prevent it from flooding" would be one of those excuses that at first they wouldn't believe but then they'd come round and end up giving you a "Blues an Twos" escort to save the day. I arrive and open the door. I see an ominous sign. The Extension Chord is out and his Inspection Light is illuminating the Loft, which is once place that I've never really liked going - along with Leeds.

I take the "eating chocolate ice cream" approach to going into the loft. I shut my eyes; pretend I don't have a problem with it and just dive straight in. Before I know it I'm stood up in the loft looking at the water tank. It hasn't even crossed my mind that the dark recesses of the loft are a perfect breeding ground for spiders.

The spiders seem to have given up for the year at my place. Maybe it's because I've left the vacuum out in the middle of the living room - The vacuum is the spider's natural enemy. Of course they could've just been scared away by the ants. Ants vs Spiders! It would be like the movie Aliens vs Predator but entertaining and interesting.

"The water tank was overflowing but I've fixed that by bending the ball cock back." my Dad says as I try not to snigger. "But the reason it's been spewing water out is because this pipe has been disconnected for ages. So what I need you to do is go round there and join those two pipes up. I'd do it but I can't get round there. This loft isn't made for the slightly larger gentleman."

It isn't made for the slightly smaller gentleman either. This job is ideally suited to a dwarf plumber. There has to be one somewhere on the Internet.

I twist and contort to get under the water tank. I hold on to beams and avoid stepping on the lagging. I tread carefully making sure I stay balanced on the joists. I feel like a contestant on the Crystal Maze not wanting the ignominy of getting locked in. I get round to the two ends of the pipe and try to reconnect them.

Thud.

The only end of the pipe that is where it should be has fallen out of the tank. After threading my way back to the tank and reattaching the pipe to the tank, I get back to the main task.

After kneeling on pointy bits of wood for the past half hour, my knees are starting to hurt. My dad hands me a sheepskin rug to balance on. It must've been up here since the mid 80s. I start to pull on the errant pipe that is sticking out of the roof. I pull and I pull and it won't budge. Like a white-shirt-wearing, teenage boy soaked in cheap aftershave, I am trying my hardest to pull. And then all of a sudden like a tramp-stamped, fuck-me-boot wearing teenage girl - pulling becomes easy. With a twist and a tweak, I'm done. To relieve some of the pressure, I loosely tie the pipe to a beam to with a knot I learnt through some casual bondage and head towards the ladder.

Everything has gone surprisingly well until I nearly miss the ladder on the way down. If it weren't for my supreme upper body strength, I would've been eating ladder-en-skull served on a bed of floor and wilted carpet.

Quite pleased with my morning's work, I stand by the sink washing my hands. My hat and shirt are covered with bits of fluff, lagging and dirt. "Pass your clothes over here," my Dad says "I'll give them a vacuum." Not wanting to pass up the unusual opportunity of seeing my Dad with a vacuum, I hand them over. He's vacs away. I am glad that my freshly product-ed hair isn't covered in this stuff - that would've required a lot more effort and be much more painful when vacuumed.

I stand there topless. There's something quite disturbing about mulling around nearly naked in front of a member of your direct family. Let me tell you, it's a lot easier if you're only 10, it's your uncle and he's using you and your cousin to film a remake of Spartacus.

I get my clothes back and take a packet of Oreos from the big cupboard as payment for my work. I head out and sit down in the car with a roll of duck tape and a handful of bin-bags legitimately placed on the passenger's seat. I drive towards my second task of the day.

(I'm not going to the Conservative party conference)

Our friends from the north

2007-09-22T14:51:00.001+01:00

You can cut the tension with a knife.

I don't know where to look. My Canadian Girlfriend and I have never been in this situation before. I'm nervous. I'm scared to open my eyes, I'm scared to close them. This sort of situation is not something they prepare you for when you're growing up. I try to make eye contact with her. Her normally warm and comforting eyes don't glint at me. They are cold and empty. Her knees tucked up to her chest and she picks at the skin by her thumb nail, her "tell" that she is on edge. This is worse than when I took the last caramel chocolate shortbread. I look down at the floor.

It's spider season. We've had three so far. Neither of us dare move.

The first one appeared on Tuesday morning after I got out of the shower. I know it was a Tuesday because I didn't have any clean "Tuesday" socks. I sat down on the bed and turned the toe part of the sock inside out and bent down to slip it over my foot. And then something moved. I jumped up, screaming like a grown man who'd seen a spider. I landed cat like on my feet on the bed, forgetting that My Canadian Girlfriend was there. I lose balance due to the conical calf that I am trying to stand on.

My Canadian Girlfriend wakes up and screams like someone who has just been woken up by having their toyboy fall on them. "Spider!" I say. She gets up, strides to the bathroom, picks up toilet paper, wraps up the spider, throws it into the toilet, flushes and is back asleep in bed before my heart beat goes below 100.

Of course when i re-tell this part to friends and family, who still like to believe that we don't sleep together let alone spend 'school nights' together, i miss out the 'falling over her' bit

Later that week we sit watching the television. A spider scuttles behind the TV. Calmly, I say "A spider's just scuttled behind the TV". I have decided to try and not panic over spiders now. I do not want to show them any emotion. We stare at the cheap Argos TV stand, my face fixed and free of emotion like Jimmy Carr's.

The spider pops out and settles near my Canadian Girlfriend's slippers. 'Aren't you going to squash it?' I say. She seems reluctant.

I pick the slipper up and squash the arachnid. 'Do you want to get rid of it?' I say, lifting up the slipper and feeling impressed at my bravery.

'Put that back! I hate dead bugs and spiders they're gross. In fact, can you throw those slippers away'

'But it's dead and only on the sole of them. I can just give them a wash'

'They only cost £2. I can get another pair. I just can't think about wearing them again.'

So with that I scoop the dead spider up in a handful of tissues and deposit it in the toilet.

'I can't believe how brave you were with that spider' she says.

And so it came to pass that the third spider appeared. I run out of the room screaming 'There's a live spider in there!'. I hear a crunch followed by My Canadian Girlfriend running out saying 'There's a dead spider in there.' At which point I run in with the vacuum.

I suppose this is one way that we are good for each other. She likes the top half of the bagel, I like the bottom half. I hate spiders when they're alive - she hates them when they're dead. She says "to-may-toe" and I say "chicken and bacon with sweet chilli sauce".

Txt spk

2007-09-16T10:19:00.000+01:00

You wouldn't have thought that one hundred and something characters would have been enough space to generate comedy - but you'd be wrong. While thumbing through my sent items on my phone, I found the following that I thought I should share with you.

Sent to My Canadian Girlfriend
Dog? You've got to ask your bro to get an autograph. He's like my second favourite bounty hunter.
---
Boba Fett of course!
---
No seriously. Get an autograph. My sister loves him plus I don't believe he can sign his own name.

Sent to My Little Sister
Steriods? Does this mean that your dream of appearing in the Olympics is over?
---
So you'll be fat, unemployed and living in Hull? Next stop Trisha.
---
You'll be safe, just don't put your hair in a pony tail on the side of your head.

Set to My Canadian Girlfriend
That bit of chicken stuck between my teeth has gone. Although I think it's been replaced by a bit of toothpick.

Sent to My Mate Matt
Just what you want to hear when you get into the car - "And for the final period of this game, I hand you over to Alan Green"

Sent to My Canadian Girlfriend
Have you seen that Five are running a show about what the Famous Five did after they grew up?
---
I know it was my idea! I just wish I'd sent it to myself in a recorded delviery envelope when I first thought of it.

Sent to My Dad
I've managed to fix the zapper that opens the gate to the car park at my flats.
---
Yeah I put them shelves up and fixed something electrical without help - I feel like a proper man now.
---
It's stopped working. Can I drop it round for you to have a look at?

Sent to My Mum
Can you ring me when you get this message. It's 10:30 now. On Tuesday. The 11th. Of September. 2007.

A little bit of Politics

2007-09-03T19:25:00.001+01:00

"But I really really want to win…." I say to my Canadian Girlfriend.

"You don't stand a chance of winning. You're blog's not political enough. It's not a blog about blogs. You never use the phrase "According to some people" and make it a hyperlink to someone whose character you're about to assassinate. You don't write about literature or your endless struggle to find yourself and ultimate futility of life. Your one is just a bunch of stuff that happens."

"And fart jokes." I reply helpfully. "You can't discount the knob gags either. Or the stuff I write about poo. Yeah-ha-ha poo. Maybe we should talk about something political then."

"Well the congestion charging is quite topical at the moment. What do you think of that?" she says Paxman-ly.

"I think it's going to be great. All that money going towards new trams is going to be soooooo cool. When the new lines open, I'm gonna book the day it opens off work and be the first person to ride the entire line. Maybe they'll make a blue tram or a red one and maybe I'll get to name one. That'd be so amazing. Terry the Tram I think. Or maybe I'd try and do something with a double entendre like Betty Swollocks."

"Ok…. Not exactly what I thought we'd talk about but what the heck. Ok how about the creeping privatisation of the NHS. Ever since Labour opened up the NHS to private companies they've put themselves on a slippy slope."

It’s about now that I can feel a rumbling in my tummy. This doesn't feel good. It's too low to be a burp. It feels more like a trump. I lean in to listen intently to my Canadian Girlfriend's monologue, while simultaneously trying to let a sneaky one go.

".. they say that as long as it's free at the point of care…"

Stop! This one is going to be noisy. I better lean back let the sofa absorb noise. I shift uneasily in my seat trying to find a position where enough of my buttock is in contact with the seat so as not to look suspicious and yet there is enough room for the intestinal gas to escape. I plan on using the foamy consistency of the cushion to absorb the shockwaves.

"… but look at the money they've spent on Connecting for Health, the private sector didn't do a very good job with that did they…"

Potential follow through! Close that sphincter straight up! Yes I can feel it pushing against my bladder now. How could I be so foolish and think that this was a simple bottom burp? It has snuck up on me. Normally I can ignore this for about 20 minutes before I really have to go. I guess I must've been so busy thinking about Tram names that I missed the cues.

"… like Orwell's Animal Farm. Private Companies Good, Public Sector Bad…"

She doesn't seem like she's stopping any time soon. I nod in agreement. This is getting desperate. I'm pretty sure this is going to pebble dash the back of the toilet. It feels explosive.

"… and it's not like private companies are perfect is it? What about Enron? …"

There isn't even a turtle's head I can squeeze back in - just a growing feeling of fullness. I can remember more and more times over the past few months when I've been caught short and in the need of the toilet. I even had to break shopping rule number one and walk back on myself when I was at the very large shopping mall that may or may not be near my house. I was so desperate I couldn't even wait until I got the next toilets. There was the big black log too. I really don't remember ingesting that tree trunk.

"So what do you think?" she says.

"I'm going for a shit." I reply, picking up the Argos catalogue.

Walking the Streets

2007-08-27T13:59:00.000+01:00

I look down on my Kingdom from my Canadian Girlfriend's flat.

MB The First King of Manchester……. It has a certain ring about it. Apart from the fact that if we leave the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, it will be to form the People's Republic of Manchester. And I'm not sure if the People's Republic has a King. I will settle for Overlord or Grand Wizard or Lord Protector.

The lay of the land looks good. The weather is fine and sunny. The buildings that were there the night before are still there. The scaffolding is no higher. The cranes are pointing in a slightly different direction but they are still present. And there's a traffic warden stood by my car.

It's is one whole minute after 8am and I am getting a parking ticket. This is just not cricket! I open the window and watch. The guy in the car behind me runs from the flats and jumps in his car.

"I'm not too late am I?" he says.

"No, you've got a couple of minutes. I'm just booking this one" the traffic warden says.

I stand there incredulous, that not only am I getting a parking ticket but also that I can use the word incredulous in the correct context. "I'm getting a parking ticket!!" I scream towards my Canadian Girlfriend, probably loud enough to be heard downstairs.

"Well rush down there and get your car straight away. I'll flash him these and distract him long enough so you can drive off."

"Yes… they're… nice… and… perky… and… nubile… and… I think it's a woman so the Girls won't have any effect. But it could be a bloke. No, wait I think it's a very butch woman, so they could work. But nothing distracts a Traffic Warden. They're like some form of heartless machine."

Resigned to my £30 fate, I head down the stairs and out to the car. There is no ticket! I run over to the car and open the boot.

"I'm not too late am I?" I say with the laces of my shoes still undone and my tie hanging out of my pocket.

"Well you are but I got halfway through typing the ticket in and then I got this text message so I stopped to read it. I'll let you off this time."

Fancy that, of all the traffic wardens in all the world - I get the one with a friend.

What’s the story Morning Glory?

2007-08-20T20:21:00.000+01:00

I wake.

Big Jim’s “alertness” leads me to think it must nearly be time to get up. The past couple of weeks he’s been working better than an alarm clock. I check the alarm clock and its five minutes before the beeps go off. My alarm cock is right.

I had been in the middle of a very strange dream and one that seems to be recurring more and more. I am walking around Tesco and am greeted by friends I haven’t seen in ages. They are always in pairs too. I see so many people I’m no longer in touch with – maybe I should check Facebook. Oh my God, that blasted website has learnt how to infiltrate my dreams!!! At least this is better than the other day when I woke in a panic when I realised that wearing a hat in the sun is no longer optional and now has to be done to protect my ever increasing forehead.

As my dream fades into a distant memory, I lie in bed thinking of ways I’m going to spend the seven and half hours at work and stay in one piece so that I can make it home in the evening. And then I feel a sudden disturbance in the force.

As the dark and mysterious world of sleep is leaving my body and I am becoming more self aware, I have noticed that I am not wearing any trousers. I remember putting them on after I came back from the gym. I’m sure I would’ve noticed if I had spent the entire evening walking around without any pants on.

I look down by the side of the bed and sure enough there are my pants. They were on my legs last night and now they are on the floor. I do not remember waking up in the middle of the night, feeling hot and taking them off. I can’t have taken up sleep-stripping because I still have my vest on.

Hmmm, the story of the man and who lost his pants. It’s like that musical about that guy Joseph who loses his Technicolor Dreamcoat but this time it’s with pants. And there’s less singing. And even less attempted Fratricide.

Beep Beep Beep! The alarm goes off and I rise and move towards the shower. I vow not to rest until the mystery of the self removing pants is solved.

Mascot Race

2007-08-08T14:03:00.000+01:00

The weekend has been terrible.

I suppose I expected more when I won £20 on the first scratch card I have bought in about 10 years and the drive down to Edgebaston and the Twenty20 finals day was smooth. The relative luxury of my dad's cruise controlled and air conditioned Volvo had obviously lulled me into a false sense of security. Arriving in Edgebaston 45 minutes before the start of the game and then still missing the first delivery was the first sign of deterioration. Matt, who had left an hour and a half before us, had been there for the best part of two hours.

We had parked for free in a nature park over the road from the ground and walked towards the gate. We stood in line patiently and reached the front in 15 minutes. I handed the tickets over and we moved towards the turnstile.

"I'm the Nottinghamshire mascot and I need to get in immediately." says a man carrying a very large bag as he pushes past us and ignores the queue. The security guard, obviously thinking a man carrying a giant foam head is legitimate; lets him through. However, despite me looking "normal" and non-threatening, he decides that he must search my bag including opening my flask to check I have brought in coffee and not semtex or worse – alcohol!!! This is more stringent than at passport control.

The nice man decides that I can go into the ground and I do not pose a threat to national security. He also decides to punish me for being so handsome, tall, thin and muscular and doesn't screw the top on my flask correctly, causing it to almost empty it's entire contents over my food, my grapes, my sweater, my cargos and my t-shirt. Which am I more upset about? Losing almost all my coffee or having my favourite cargos ruined? You decide.

We get to the seats. There was no Mal Loye. We should've turned round, packed up and left then. I'm not saying that Lancashire are a one man team but without the Mr Twenty20, there's not much point. And the team seemed to feel the same too. I would like to single one or two players out and blame them as it would make everything a lot easier but it's actually simpler to name the players that didn't bring shame on themselves.

And on to the mascot race. Lanky the Giraffe, the 9/2 favourite and former champion, may represent the clubs last chance of getting some silverware this year. The race is hotly contested. Lanky is leading all the way through the race and is finally pipped in a photo finish at the line by a man wearing a Spitfire.

It wasn't even a real mascot costume. It's a man with two big foam wings on his arms, a Biggles helmet and a big foam Spitfire body which fit him like a Bernie Cribbins ostrich. If they are going to start taking bets on the winner of these races then there should be a minimum standard of mascot costume. Otherwise, I'm going to redesign the Lancashire Mascot to become a long distance runner - and then put all my money on it to win.

Of course I'm not bitter that I had a bet the entire scrachcard winnings on Lanky and he could've won if only he'd ducked his big Giraffe head for the line.

The afternoon does nothing to lift the depression. I simply sit there reading the paper and getting slightly crispier. We avoid the traffic and head home during the final. We reach Manchester and I go to park near my Canadian Girlfriend's flat. The only available spot is outside a pub, you can tell it's a pub by the number of smokers loitering on the street. I switch off my targeting computer and begin to reverse-parallel-park. A few turns of the wheel and I'm in the spot. I step out of the car and receive a round of applause from the gathered throng for my parking skill.

I gain a slightly better outlook on life.

Day of Rest

2007-08-01T08:13:00.000+01:00

Aren’t knees brilliant? I mean when you look at them doing what they do, bending, kicking, pushing and shock-absorbing, they truly are a brilliant act of Creationism / Evolution / Intelligent Design. I watch the ligaments on my knee take the shock as my foot hits the treadmill. They’re superb.

I returned to the gym after deciding to take a week off from exercising because it had been a while since I last had a rest and, like a mother with a pram on the first day of the next sale, I thought this was a good idea. I was also starting to get a few too many niggly injuries so this would give them all time to heal.

· Metatarsal – Actually it’s some muscles in the top of my foot but a metatarsal injury is more fashionable now-a-days. I think I did this at Football and it was certainly fixed by the Wednesday of my rest week; when I played football. (I can’t have a rest from Football because I have a team that relies on me.)
· Knee – This was caused by running home, or to be more precise, it was caused by me not cooling down properly after running. It was cured by the Thursday of my rest week, I know this because I ran home and it was ok. (I can’t rest from running home because my work colleagues would have laughed at me)
· Wrist – Caused or certainly agrevated when pushing open the wet outside door to my flats and my hand sort of slipped. I thought this was cured until the Saturday afternoon. My Canadian Girlfriend was out and I had a quick “shower” and the act of having a “shower” put on my wrist re-injured it. (I certainly can’t stop having a “shower”)

I also had some bad news before I took my week off. I managed to lose my little book where I write down all my exercises I do, the weight I lift and the reps I do. Before I lost this, I would have been able to tell you exactly what exercises I was doing on October 29th 2006. In fact I can tell you that without the book, it was a Sunday so I didn’t go to the gym.

Losing this book has hit me harder than I first thought. I wouldn’t mind but for about 6 weeks before that, I kept telling myself that I should photocopy / scan the entire book so I had a backup. Although on the plus side, it has allowed me to “forget” some exercises that I do which I’ve never really liked and lower the weight on some I’ve been struggling with.

Having a week off has not just been tough on me. It must be tough on all those people who mistake me for a gym instructor. Who will they have been asking their stupid questions to? And what about the fan club of women I have who stand around watching me through an intricate system of mirros so as not to incur the wrath of My Canadian Girlfriend who normally prowls behind me like a panther ready to pounce on anyone who get’s too close.

The hardest thing I have found on my return though is trying to work out the rules to the new Jasper Carrott game show on ITV, which is made harder since the gym doesn't have the sound on - or have subtitles. It seems to involve people opening large golden Kinder Eggs and then throwing them into some sort of Lottery Machine. They open some of them, close some of them, everyone looks intense then there's a winner.

My return also gives me the chance to wear one of the new sleeveless workout shirts I purchased from the sale at the Adidas shop. It has been mentioned to me by certain interested parties that I may have acquired too many sleeveless workout shirts. So after undertaking a short analysis of my wardrobe and how I spend my week, I have produced the following pictoral representation.

So in this analysis, it is easy to see that I actually have about the right amount of gym clothes – about 10% of my wardrobe – given that I spend about 10% of my week in the exercising. I have, however, noticed that I don’t really have enough sleepwear so I’m off for a spending spree.

But what is nice to know is that a week off really hasn’t affected my fitness or physique. Midway through the week off, I noticed those two little lines at the bottom of my six pack had finally appeared.

Web ‘n’ Walk

2007-07-25T11:48:00.000+01:00

“Do you want me to print off the sale of goods act?” screams an angry, seething, firebrand scotsman pleonasm-istcally.

“That doesn’t apply here” replies the sale assistant.

“So what you’re telling me is that you’re above the law.”

“ When did you buy it? Do you remember who sold it to you?”

“I don’t remember but I can get yesterdays timesheet because I came in on a skive and can tell from that when I was here.“

“It doesn’t really matter but we can’t exchange this because you’ve opened it.”

“Well how can I tell that it doesn’t work if I don’t open it. Do you expect me to look through the plastic and tell you that it isn’t going to work? I’m telling you, if I opened a TV and it didn’t work – I’d get an exchange.”

“Ok, just for you - I’ll do an exchange.”

After that argument, the O2 staff must be in the best mood to give me a good deal on a new mobile phone. I stand there looking as eager to part with my money as an idiot is to give their bank details to the third viscount of the Democratic Republic of Congo.

A young woman, possibly a mini driver and looking slightly like Minnie Driver, heads into the store room. Her boss, who has just finished arguing with the scotsman, orders her not to take her tea break but rather serve one of the customers waiting. She walks past the person who has been waiting longest and had to put up with standing behind an angry scotsman and comes to talk to me.

I lay out my desire to have the N95, a £30 tarrif and a £5 a month Mobile Internet . “That’s £35 a month isn’t it? And that means that I get the phone for £90? Right?” I say trying to use the pressure technique I once saw on Derren Brown’s show.

“Erm, yes” she replies. I know I am trying to pull a fast one here but let’s face it – these places make so much money, I don’t really feel any guilt. We sit down and she starts tapping in details, asking me for confusing things like my addresses for the past 3 years, my bank account and my name. And then she gets the phone out of the store and I can see it. The con is on.

“Erm, the computer is saying that the phone will cost £130.”

“But if I’m paying £35 per month, it says £90 in your book here. And you agreed with me before didn’t you?” I say pinching my finger and thumb together and moving them in a circular motion trying to synch my Jedi Mind trick.

“Well the computer doesn’t seem to agree, I don’t think they add in that £5 from the Internet bolt-on” she says.

She must be very strong minded, I switch my attack and try and play to the commission led salesperson in her. “Oooh, well if that’s the case, then I’ll have to go and have a think about it. I wasn’t really expecting that……” leaving a nice trailing silence waiting for her to interject.

“Ok then.” she says.

“Because that £40 extra is a lot more money than I expected to spend……..” I put on my thinking face. “Well I guess I’m going to have to go home and have a think about this.”

“Ok then.” she says.

I get up to walk out and I’m pissed off. What happened here? I wanted to buy the phone and I really would have paid £130 but I feel a bit upset that O2 weren’t even willing to fight for my custom. Do they not know anything about customer service? Compare this to Starbucks who send you a nice bag of coffee for using their card.

This has really pissed me off and they wouldn’t like me when I’m angry. I can really hold a grudge. I’m boycotting Vodaphone because of the whole Glazer thing, Orange pissed me off when they took away by 500 texts without anything more than a small print warning, I can’t use Virgin Mobile because of their extortionate WAP charges, even though I identify with their young hip anti-establishment image and the cool-best-mate’s-dad like owner. Now O2 have upset me.

Help me T-Mobile you’re my only hope.

The number 43 bus

2007-07-17T08:48:00.001+01:00

I walk towards the tram stop. I am quite happy to get the replacement bus. After all, I have already paid for it. I get my Tram season ticket out and check the date it expires. It finished yesterday. Ok so I haven’t paid for the bus, but I can get a ticket for it. I check my wallet and I have no money.

I head towards the nearest cash machine that charges me £1.50 to get to my money. After getting the money, I notice a regular bus coming towards the stop. I head towards the bus and step on. “Town please.” I say. It’s been so long since I had to pay for a bus trip to Manchester, I hope that the young hip kids are still referring Manchester as “Town”.

After successfully negotiating the bus journey, I decide to treat myself to a Coffee from Starbucks. My decision to do this didn’t really come as much of a surprise to me, and I don’t think it would come as a surprise to regular readers, but I decide to act excited about allowing myself to have a coffee.

I take the coffee and walk towards my second bus. After five minutes of standing and waiting for the bus, it arrives. Two buses and only five minutes of waiting – my bus luck is in. Maybe I should play the lottery .

“One to the place that I work at which if I named I’d have to kill you.”

“The place that you work at which if you named you’d have to kill me….. That’ll be £1.80.”

I pay, switching coffee to my left hand.

“You can’t come on here with that.” says the bus driver pointing at my coffee.

A look of paniced despiration comes across my face. I start to look crazier than a Glasweigan NHS Consultant. (After the recent bombs, the Police are going to arrest and search more Asians. Wouldn’t they be better off arresting all Consultants? And with them all in jail, us normal people may be able to get a tee-off time on a Friday afternoon.)
“Well ok, you can take it on but you can’t drink from it.”

I nod in acceptance and try to supress a smirk as I walk upstairs.

I draw strength from History’s greatest rebels who have stood up to injustice and righted wrongs - Rosa Parks, Ghandi, Donny Tourette – and sit down in my seat and drink my coffee. I place my feet on the shelf at the front of the bus, covering the sign that says “Do not put your feet here.”

I am feeling very rebelleous today. When I get to work, I’m going to spend all day dicking around rather than working.

Replacement Bus Service

2007-07-03T11:31:00.000+01:00

The trams are no more!!!

The Man in his White Ivory Towers has decided to shut down the trams for a few months to replace the track. Although the decision claims to have been made because the old track was causing the trams to breakdown and get poorly, it is much more likely that this decision has purely been made to spite me.

For the next two months I will be using a mixture of the Bus and the Car. I don’t so much mind the bus, I used to ride the bus to school every day. (Listen to me “ride the bus” it’s almost like I’ve been hanging around with a Canadian, eh?). I even had a chewed up Clippercard which never worked and gave me numerous free journeys. But the bus does allow me to have a relaxing journey into work so it is kind of like the tram but just for a lower social class. Or if I was setting an IQ test, I would put it:
Bus is to Tram as MySpace is to?
And the answer would be Facebook.

Harry the Yaris isn’t going to know what hit him. He’s used to driving to Football on a Wednesday and Sainsburys on a Saturday and then sitting around all week reading the paper. In fact I can already feel the stress of having to drive in every day and I’m sure the car must be picking up on it. One of the reasons I get the tram was to avoid the stress of driving. I hate having people cut you up, sitting in traffic jams, not being able to read, having to remember to stop at red traffic lights and having to recollect that if you hit a cyclist it’s likely to cause damage to the car.

And what will become of the ginger haired man in the trench coat? He has almost become family. I see him more often than I see my parents and the few words I spoke to him to ascertain if the seat next to him was free is more than I have spoken to my older sister in the last 12 months. I will miss his stoic glare and unswerving ability to get the front seat on the station side of the tram.

I will also be missing out my once a week treat of getting a Starbucks on the way in to work. I hope they don’t go bankrupt because of this loss of trade. It’s always tough for these small local retailers. Although I suppose this could be a blessing in disguise, the once a week treat was becoming slightly unmanagable on every day of the week. This will give me the chance to get some blood back into the coffee stream.

There has to be at least one advantage to me of the trams not running. I suppose it could be the refund I’ll get from my ticket. But they sent me a form to fill in so there’s no chance of getting a refund. I wonder if they’ve just sent the form out betting on the fact that 97.35% of people won’t complete it because they can’t be arsed.

And then it dawned on me, I know one thing I won’t miss about getting the tram. I won’t be getting a lift home off my Dad on a Friday evening anymore, so no more pretending to be interested in hearing about the new pill he’s had to start taking this week, no more faking interest in the latest goings on at the Church, no need to feign interest in his latest business deals and no need to make-up things that I’ll be doing on the weekend when the only thing I’ll be doing is picking up a little Canadian.

Cheapskates

2007-06-26T09:05:00.000+01:00

In a surprisingly upbeat mood, we drive towards Birkenhead. We sit in traffic putting the world to rights. It transpires that absolutely everything that makes my job shit has nothing to do with me and is the responsibility of every other employee at the place that if I named I'd have to kill you.

We arrive at Cheshire Oaks Outlet Village after about six months of trying to get there. My "Parking Space" luck continues as one appears as soon as we enter the car park. And what's more, it's about 2 yards from Starbucks. This day could not be going any better.

I am quite disappointed that the Starbucks is a normal Starbucks and not a "Factory Outlet". I was expecting to find already chewed Cinnamon Squares, squashed Lemon and Poppy Seed Muffins, pre-used Coffee and ex-display Cups but fortunately, everything is as it should be.

An hour later, we emerge from Starbucks and head towards the shops. I am not entirely sure what to expect from this place apart from being surrounded by lots of snot chewing, nauseating Scousers. I have already pre-warned my Canadian Girlfriend to be extra vigilant when it comes to looking after her bag.

The first shop we go into is the Calvin Klein one. I pick up a denim jacket. There seems to be a slight flaw with the jacket - it buttons up on the wrong side, like a ladies jacket and it seems to be sized like a men's jacket. So either it's had the buttons put on the wrong side or it's been cut at the wrong size. It costs £8 and for that price, I am willing to put up with people saying "You're wearing a women's coat!"

I spend an obscene amount of money in the adidas shop but since the whole point behind this trip was for me to spend an obscene amount of money in the adidas shop; I guess that is mission accomplished.

We have obviously come at the right time. The Merseyside time-warp, in which Shell Suits and Perms are still fashionable, has brought Easter to the Cadbury's Outlet. We stock up on past their sell by date Mini Eggs and dented boxes of Cream Eggs. We grab a bag of Mis-shapen Chocolates too.

The last thing I expect to find here is a small, lightweight "Runner's" rucksack but a quick and unexpected dodge into "North Face" and all of a sudden I'm the owner of a said rucksack for only £10. I run through the list of things that "I have been thinking of spending money on but am not sure if I should" and the only thing that is left on the list is a red Prestige "Deco" kettle and four slice toaster. And the only reason that that is still on the list is because the "Kitchen" shop had sold out of the 4 slice toasters.

My Canadian Girlfriend is also spending money, which is unusual. She is normally so thrifty that she sometimes refuses to buy a ticket on the Metrolink. She replaces all her make-up at "evlon" and is looking at luggage for her impending trip back to Canada. I decide that my Parents should buy her the luggage as her Birthday Present, which also makes sure that she buys the ones she wants and not the cheapest.

Mohammed comes to the mountain as I fetch the car from the other side of Village. We load all the bags and suitcases into the back of the car and buckle up about 3 hours after we expected to be heading out. We open the Mis-shapen Chocolates. I dip in and pull out a congealed mass of chocolate. I bite into an orangey, nutty, biscuity chocolate of unknown origin but that tastes kind of like the orange one of the Roses.

Parcelforce

2007-06-19T08:53:00.000+01:00

I go to collect a package!!!

I am awaiting two packages. One contains super secret things which are already too late for my Canadian Girlfriend’s Birthday and the other is a book which she has ordered from the USA which, since she has had problems with mail going missing, is coming to my house.

This is not the first package I have received this week either! The previous package, which I had mistaken for one of the packages I was expecting, contained my free gift for buying my Canadian Girlfriend a super secret subscription to a super secret magazine. I am half tempted to try and “get visibly longer legs” by using the tanning solution contained within the envelope but my fear of coming out like the tango man is too great.

Oh what fun it is to park up outside the post office and not know what to expect when the man hands you the envelope. I inspect the package and not wanting to give anything away to the watching postie, I retreat to the car to open the envelope. The excitement is intensified by the strong aroma of coffee permeating through the morning air.

I rip off the top of the envelope and locate the source of the strong coffee smell. It seems because I am a regular user of my Starbucks card and have been using it for x number of months and / or have spent more than £x on it and / or have managed not to have sex in their toilets for x days, I have been sent a gift of some coffee beans which will be ground to my liking by my local Starbucks.

What a surprise!!!

But this is simply a marketing ploy so that I will tell my friends about how great Starbucks are and what a good company they are and how they send such cool free gifts. They may even have sent it to me knowing that I would write about it in my weblog. Well as much as I like this promotion, I cannot be bought. I will not fall for such a cynical marketing ploy.

Hang on! Where are my parcels?

Price is Right

2007-06-12T16:41:00.000+01:00

“Look I have to go!” I say trying not to explain why I want to go shopping on my own the week before My Canadian Girlfriend’s birthday.

“Can’t you just stay here today and go shopping another time? I’d really like it if you could just stay here this afternoon.” She replies, not getting the subtle hint.

“I kind of have to go this week. I can’t go next weekend.” I say, emboldening my voice for added emphasis. There is a short delay while the penny drops like a Plinko token on the Price is Right.

“Oh….. I see. Well do you remember the rules for going out on your own?”

“Yes of course I do,” I reply, bullet-pointing my speech for ease of reading.

“I am not allowed to make eye contact with any other women.”
“If I have to ask a female shop assistant for advice, I have to start with ‘I am shopping for a gift for my Girlfriend’.”
“While I can stop at Starbucks and I will be allowed to consume a muffin and a coffee, I will not enjoy it”
“I will text at least every hour with an ETA on how long I’ll be”
“If all else fails I should fall into the foetal position and sound my rape alarm”

I go shopping for super secret things!!!

In particular, I am looking for one super secret thing. I have picked up that there are four main guidelines - listed in order of relevance - I have to work within:

It is white
It has a zip
It is big
It has pockets
It doesn’t cost too much

Personally, I am not too concerned with the last one as I am already so far over the pre-agreed limit on spending that it’s not really worth bothering about.

I manage to see lots of examples of examples of the super secret thing I am looking for but so far nothing that has caught my eye. There is one with tassles which hang down and, I imagine, get in the way of everything. Plus who’d want a super secret thing that looked like an unkempt buffalo.

Oh yuk! This super secret thing is so unbelievably cheap and nasty and chav-y. There are gold studs everywhere. Ever seam has little metal gold pyramids on it and there are gold chains hanging off every corner. It looks cheap, nasty and tacky. I would expect to see this super secret thing being rested on top of the fag machine at the King George in Eccles while Tracy hitches up her boob tube and tries to find some change as Sharon drones on about how she can have any man she wants. There is no way I can buy this. Don’t get me wrong, she’d love it. She’d absolutely love it. It is the most perfect super secret thing I’ve seen today. But there’s no way I can be seen with her while she has it.

And then I go into Aldo; a Canadian shop for a Canadian Girlfriend. If ever there was a perfect match this is it. I find a super secret thing that matches all five criteria – it is even on sale.

I punch in my PIN without making eye contact with the woman at the counter and head towards the car. Super secret shopping is over for six months.

Keep on truckin'

2007-05-31T16:06:00.001+01:00

I dodge in and out of shop owners who are shutting the shutters and sitting in the shop. For some reason, my mind wanders to what I would do if one of the people suddenly turned round and stabbed me with a knife. Would the blade slide in nice and clean or would it require some "umph"? Would I be able to feel anything initially or would it be like the last time I tore my flesh open where it took a good 30 minutes until I noticed that my grey sock was red?

I should really not be allowed time to myself to think.

"Hey boss!" says a trader from his doorway as I run past. "You look like the sporty type. You want some gear?" I slow down and turn. "I got some new Nike Ts in today and I need to dispose of 'em quick - you want some?"

"Thanks, I would have some but does it really look like I've got any money on me?" I say hoping he hasn't seen my Maestro card digging into my hip from the inside pocket of my shorts and the £35 emergency money in my sock. "Anyway, I don't think I'd be able to carry it."

I plod on. The fourth mile looked the shortest on the map but it is taking forever. There must be a gazillion sets of traffic lights. I turn the corner and have the Mile 5 marker in my sights.

"Woooo! Woooo! Wooo Hooo!" says a cyclist. I stop and look suitably annoyed. "Do do do do you do a lot of r… r… r… running? Because it's very important that when stop at Traffic Lights or…… Pelican crossings - do I mean pelican crossings? Yes those are the ones with the buttons - that when you stop - Or you could have someone stop you for directions - that you always keep moving and stretching and moving to stop your injuries from coming on. Hamstrings."

Great someone has stopped me to give me advice about not stopping and keeping moving.

I get through Mile 5 and head off down to the final stint. I pass an unlit secluded back street with no overlooking occupied buildings and no CCTV. This street may or may not hold some form of significance to me and My Canadian Girlfriend.

I get a whiff of toothpaste on the air as I turn into the last mile. I see another runner coming towards me. It is vital that when you pass another runner you look as fresh and as keen as you did in the first mile. Show no weakness! My shoulders un-slump, my heads looks to the horizon and I pick my feet up turning my current shuffle into a run. As I pass him, I observe common convention and give him an over exaggerated "Nod". He nods back. 20 seconds later, we're both back to our depressing trudge.

And then without really noticing how close I was, I arrive home. I check the big clock near my house and realise that not only is it difficult to run without a watch, it's even harder to judge your run a success, if you didn't even make a note of what time you left. I make the assumption that I left about 57 minutes ago and crown this experiment a resounding success.

Next week, I think I'll add an extra level of crazy on top of this and go to the gym at the end.

C:\dos > run

2007-05-29T14:54:00.001+01:00

"That's insane! You're not really going to are you?" My Canadian Girlfriend says with a slight hint of disbelief. This is exactly the response I required to know that my latest crazy scheme is crazy enough to have become so crazy, it might just work. Part of the fun of being slightly unhinged and kooky is that you can suggest things and no one really knows if you're being serious or not. They tend to dip their head and look at you through their eyebrows and wait for you to admit that you're just joking. Depending on the gullibility of the person it's amazing what you can persuade people you are going to do.

Before I can be talked out of it, I am stood in the Disabled loo at work changing into my running gear. I have it all planned out. It is 7 miles from the roundabout outside work to the big clock opposite my flats and that should take me somewhere between 55 minutes and an hour. This will be my first road run in a year and my longest run in about 3 years but it will hopefully answer the question "How do I increase the intensity of my workouts without giving up any extra time?"

Being an obsessive compulsive about my "Things", I am trying to carry the absolute minimum to remain lightweight and streamlined but the absolute maximum I can so I can cover the most outlandish problem I can think of. I place my "Things" in my pockets and go to the car. Even at walking pace I can feel that I will jangle. First casualty is my mobile phone and the second casualty is my iPod. I haven't even finished my warm ups before I'm worrying about not being able to text all night. I resolve to buy a back pack if I'm going to do this again.

And we're off!!!

Mile 1 and 2 are nice. Some gentle downs and some steeper but invigorating ups. After passing the mile two marker, it's about now that I realise that running is much much much easier when you have a watch on. I have no idea if I'm running fast, slow or average. I carry on running.

A VW van passes me and makes a honking noise that I would normally expect to be made by Canadian Breasts. It takes me a few seconds to realise that
a) It had nothing to do with breasts.
b) He was honking at me
c) It was JR from work, who was confusing me by being neither on his bike nor in his Volvo.
I wave even though he's already probably too far away to see me in his mirrors.

I completely miss the side street that is the "Mile 3" marker. But since the next mile is entirely down hill, I don't really sweat over it. Nearly half-way! A runner appears from a side street about 200m ahead of me. Some competition!!! I try and haul him in. I get just about close enough to see that his T-Shirt is sponsored by the National Blood Service before he turns right and heads off towards his destination.

I can see the city centre and the horrible eye-sore that inhabits Exchange Square. The M.E.N campaign to keep the Big Wheel is so off the mark. What can possibly have inspired someone to take away a wonderful public space which, for some city centre dwellers, is the closest they come to having a garden? I'm looking for more than "To make an obscene amount of money out of tourists" as an answer.

I approach Mile 4. The worst mile. Not only is this the only mile where I expect to be dodging in and out of people but this is where I start to run away from My Canadian Girlfriend's flat and all the tram stops - this is now the "Point of no return". Once I commit to this mile I am stuck running all 7.

To be continued…….

Paying the penalty

2007-05-22T09:12:00.000+01:00

"Me, Me, Me!!" I say, in a way that isn't really plugging my blog. "I'll take it! Let me"

We have a penalty and I want to take it but, like a black girlfriend of a white man in the deep south of the US, us Goalkeepers normally have to stay hidden away where no one can see us. However, this is different, we are already winning 18-2 and there's only 5 minutes left. The other team were top of the league but for some unknown reason thought that the best way of taking on the team in second place was to turn up with only 4 players and no goalkeeper.

I am waved up field by our player-manager and like a Fireman dealing with a terrorist attack this is where the training kicks in. At the end of each match for the last 6 months, I've been taking the match ball, placing it on the spot and practising at least three penalties. I have it down to a fine art I can hit the ball into the top right corner of net making it as difficult for a goalkeeper to save as it is for Richard Gere to get a decent curry.

I take one step back. The goalkeeper is standing more to his left and my right making my previously practised penalty routine as useless as a man buying underwear in Ann Summers. I stand there and puff my chest out remembering the words of Eric Cantona after scoring two penalties in the FA Cup final, "If the goalkeeper dives to the left I hit it to the right, if the goalkeeper dives to the right I hit it to the left." If I had a collar, it would be turned up.

I caress the ball into the left hand side of the net as softly as a letchy old boss caresses the hair of his young assistant whom he only hired because she had her knockers out at the interview and who had conveniently forgotten to wear her engagement ring and hadn't mentioned that she's seeing that guy who sits on the crash barrier outside the pub selling weed.

I run back to my area, trying not to look too bothered about scoring. But inside all the emotions are building up. I get the feeling I'm about to do something silly. And then all of a sudden my world is turned upside down like a Masterchef's Tarte tatin. I seem to be doing a hand stand. I don't get many times to celebrate scoring so maybe I should spend some time practising my celebrations rather than my penalty taking.

And then I come back down to Earth with a bang as my head hits the Astroturf. I get up, brush it off and pretend I was supposed to fall over as part of my post ironic goal celebration. My head is spinning more than a ……

Nah, I can't think of anything…..

Fraternal Twins

2007-05-11T10:01:00.000+01:00

My new shoes have sat here for two weeks waiting to be worn. It is 7:20 am and time to leave house. I am wearing my brown suit and now have a chance to wear my brand new brown shoes. I pick up the box and liberate my new shoes.

Oh.

There seems to be a slight problem. The two shoes I have do not match. The two shoes I have are very similar but they are not the same. I inspect them further. Well that is ironic. The two shoes I have are one shoe from each pair that I considered buying.

Well that would certainly explain why they were cheaper. I pick both shoes out, hold them up and then place them on the floor. I momentarily consider setting a new trend of wearing odd shoes but my meterosexual fashion setting credentials are already rocking from when my new hair style was referred to as "too Tin-Tin-y".

At the next available moment, I head out to the shops with my odd shoes in their box and due to my recent recycling trip I am receipt-less because the receipt was in the plastic bag I have recycled. Quod erat demonstandum, I also do not have the bag. Further, I am heading out without My Canadian Girlfriend who is staying at her flat to create some super-bagels. She cuts the tops off and puts two bottoms together for me while keeping the two tops for her.

I walk into the store and pick the store assistant that looks most likely to be bullied into giving me a no-receipt exchange. "I have a slight problem with these shoes I bought a while back." I open the box and show him the shoes. "Can you guess what it is?"

He stares at the shoes. "Oh" he replies. "Let me go and see if I we have any more replacements." He fetches a pair of the shoes I want and keeps the shoe I don't want and we walk to the till. "Do you remember who sold them to you? They should've checked the box before the sale."

"Hmmm," I think. "I don't really remember." I decide that since someone on their side has made a mistake there is no way I am going to put them in hot water. I don't think its right for them to get into trouble, we slackers and underachievers should stick together. I am not a grass. And I really don't remember.

The manager at the till listens to the problem and starts the exchange. "Do you remember who sold them to you? They should've checked the box before the sale." I remain stoic and say "No."

"Do you remember what day you bought them?"

"It was a couple of weeks ago - either a Saturday or a Sunday."

"And could you describe the person who sold them to you?" she says flashing a look at the person she obviously thinks is responsible.

"Not really. Look, I'll tell you the truth. I thought I was about to get a £25 pair of shoes for £12. I wasn't really interested in who it was who sold me them. I was more interested in getting out of the shop before they noticed their error."

"Really" she says looking down at the computer screen. "Oh yes, I see now. In that case I'll need £13 more pounds off you please."

I offer my card and type in my PIN.

TGIF - Toes go in first

2007-05-09T08:57:00.000+01:00

Ah the mid season sale. The last chance to purchase something to help your push to the fashion version of the Champions League before the sale window is closes until mid-August. A poor purchase or a panic-buy during this time and all of a sudden you have to start planning for next year and accepting that this year's fashion is a write-off.

I've been looking for some brown work shoes for a long time but my Mother's influence on bringing me up means that I don't like parting with money. I'm not quite up to her level where anything that doesn't come from Ethel Austin's sales bin is expensive but I do like to make sure I get value for money. And yet I seem to have inherited my Father's attitude that "there's no problem that can't be solved by throwing money at it". This often causes very amusing arguments between voices in my head.

I have in my hand two shoes both are brown, both are on sale, both are brown, both are size 10, both are 'nice'. The left hand shoe is £25 and the right hand shoe is £12. It's very difficult to make a decision between them partly because they are so similar and partly because I really don't care so much. I turn to My Canadian Girlfriend for advice. "I'm having some trouble deciding, normally I get the cheaper but £12 isn't really much. Which would you go with? I can't really make my mind up - after all they are just shoes…"

She looks back at me with that look I must give her when she describes football as "just a game" and follows it up with a long rant about shoes. I understand about every third word: "Steve Madden", "Flats", "Rounded Toe" and "Two Colours". In the end she points to the £25 ones in my left hand. I wave over an assistant who fetches the other shoe from the back and I move towards the till. I do not bother trying on the pair and go to the cash till. I give them my card and get charged £12. I tap my PIN in and scurry off pleased that once again I have beaten the sales and got an unexpected discount.

The shoes sit in their box for two weeks before I wear my brown suit to work.

Football Fever

2007-04-26T14:22:00.000+01:00

"You've got time! Play the easy ball! Keep it simple!" I holler from the other end of the 5-a-side pitch. Adrian, the Wednesday League Division 2 version of Christiano Ronaldo, completely ignores my advice and dribbles past all four outfield players at least twice.

His silky skills reminiscent of Pele, Maradona and Best, light up the pitch like a fluorescent bulb dangling from the ceiling in a bright white police interview room. He flows round defenders like a bubbling spring stream full of fresh salmon making their way towards the source. His legs, like long grass in a swirling wind, jink from side to side, keeping the ball closer to him than a mother keeps her new born child.

He pulls back the trigger and fires a shot off like a bullet from a gun. The ball sails over the cross bar, over the netting behind the goal and into a bush.

Everyone looks around for a volunteer to go into the bush. I do not like going into the bush. It is very overgrown and makes it very difficult to find anything. You have to really reach into the bowels of the bush and really struggle to part dense foliage. It also makes my nose itch and can be quite prickly and has sometimes been known to make me come out in a rash. Also, it smells funny and leaves a strange taste in your mouth afterwards.

Dan, the closest one to the bush at the time, reluctantly, dives in.

"Hey Ben!" I say, wandering out of my area to talk to a team mate. "Maybe you should give him some shooting lessons, especially after you hit that one into your own net from the half way line."

"Fucking Hell! That was six fucking months ago. Can't you fucking just let it go you cunt?" he replies in a jocular manner. I love the banter between team mates.

"Give the ball to me! No one's marking me." shouts Peter, our token special needs, Manchester City supporting player.

"Pete, it's gone over the fence," I say "But while we're waiting for it to come back consider this. Is it true that the only reason the Government wants the Super Casino next to the City of Manchester Stadium is because people are used to going there and throwing their money away even though they have no hope of winning anything. And that even though the roulette, the poker and one arm bandits are going to be in the Casino, the crap games are going to take place next door."

He looks at me vacantly while the cogs turn as he tries to figure out if what I had told him was true.

And then Dan, our intrepid explorer, returns from the bush. The ball has miraculously changed colour. It is now yellow.

Cartoon Church

2007-04-24T16:29:00.001+01:00

11:25 on a Saturday night is not really the time of day that you want to learn that your Sunday has been usurped. I'm entirely sure how it even happened. One moment I'm on the phone to my dad and the next minute I am agreeing to help paint a room at the Church.

Painting itself isn't too bad. I quite enjoy it. I had done all the painting in my flat even before I'd finished unpacking. I couldn't wait to impose my own colour scheme and get rid of the Magnolia walls. But there are two things I don't like about painting, having to climb big ladders and doing the "cutting in" or the little fnickety bits round the edges. One moment I'm stood there talking to my dad and the next minute I'm on top of a 6 foot ladder painting round the ceiling.

A 6 foot ladder isn't really that bad. I'd probably be able to land on my feet if I fell off this, just so long as I don't have to do the other wall and climb up the 15 foot ladder. That is scary. It's not that I'm really afraid of the height - I'm more afraid of falling off and hitting the floor. Although, if watching the WWF has taught me anything it's that people can jump off the top of ladders and still survive. One moment I'm stood on top of a 6 foot ladder talking to my dad and the next minute I'm on top of the 15 foot ladder painting round the ceiling.

Damn him and his Jedi mind tricks.

I think one of the major tricks to overcoming fear is to pretend you're not afraid. If you act confident then you'll be confident. At least I found that that worked with Canadian Friends. Even if you're a shy retiring little flower like myself if you pretend you're confident then you come across as confident. And if you pretend for long enough, eventually you become confident. This approach is working well and I'm painting and leaning and swaying and haven't even thought about being 15 foot above the ground. And then my dad suddenly announces, "Hmmm, that ladder doesn't look very stable. I don't want anyone going up it unless they have a spotter."

And so he calls my mum. I would never go as far as calling my mother a "Little Old Lady" but she's 5"1' and is approaching retirement age. And she is now the only one stopping my ladder from falling over. I'm not sure if things have got better or worse. If I am to fall from the ladder, this now means that as I am falling not only do I have to make sure that I don't fall on my mother but neither does the ladder. And after doing that, then I have to think about falling properly on the ground. I go back to pretending that I am happy to be up the ladder.

As the afternoon moves on, I begin the second coat. By now the rest of the painters have progressed to the "Sit around eating bacon sandwiches and drinking strong tea" part of the afternoon, leaving me up the ladder on my own. The loving caring Church members shout helpful encouragement at me like "Ha ha ha! You missed a bit!!!" and they good-naturedly point out the bits I have overlooked.

And then some salvation comes. 6"3' Nick appears through the doors and is quickly given the job of stabilising my ladder. "Sorry I wasn't here sooner," he says "but I was playing football and I made a flying save and tipped one on to the bar with two minutes left and when I fell I think I dislocated my shoulder." I go back to pretending I am happy to be up the ladder.

So I've gone from being supported by an undersized elderly person to a giant who can't lift his arm above 45 degrees let alone catch me. I twist and contort trying to reach the bit behind the ceiling beam by the old chimney, which no one can see unless you're stood on a 15 foot ladder. At that moment, I arrive at the conclusion that my Father has decided to send his only son to die.

Good God!

Light the candles

2007-04-19T12:09:00.001+01:00

As I speed towards a '0' birthday, I can understand why people don't want to make a big fuss about the anniversary of their Birth. After all it is just a day isn't it? And people who celebrate their Blog's birthday are just like those people who celebrate their pet's "Birthday". I know that Jess looks nice in a little party hat. And it's funny that you bought her presents and made her a little slice of "cake" from tuna. But that's not for me. Which reminds me, isn't it strange how a cat's "Birthday" seems to coincide with the day it was "rescued" from the cat's protection league when it was already 6 months old rather than the day it was actually born. If the right-to-lifers are right, then life begins at conception. Does that mean that a cat has three birthdays?

So what have we learnt in the last two years?

In the beginning there was a flat. It was very near my polling station but I did have my bin stolen, it had a crappy back door to it, the big clock round the corner kept telling the wrong time and my car was vandalised while parked outside so I viewed a new flat. And then I bought a flat which included lots of jitters about moving and also led to my Mum staining the toilet bowl on my first visit to the house.

The flat is very nice the area is very boho. The neighbours are nice if you can put up with people walking into your flat at 3am, people leaving notes on the doors of flats, cars and garbage huts, people knowing that you leave the windows of your flat open when you're not home and people with yellow mouldy feet. It also has a freezer that freezes itself shut, lots and lots of spiders, a boiler that didn't work and a wardrobe that took 10 months to finish. And that's even without mentioning the ants.

I like using the tram. As well as being on at least a couple of trams that were on fire, I have had the opportunity to steal one. Trams do have a tendency to break down when I am on them and I have also been known to not "mind the gap". They are used by different people from Jehovah Witnesses to women with no dress sense.

I seem to be the IT Help Desk for most members of my family.

The sporting landscape has changed dramatically. The England cricket team was an embarrassment and a laughing stock two years ago and is now, well….. they were a good team for about 6 months. And Manchester United have gone from being debt free to being 600 million in the hole. I have a brand new football team, which is not something I was expecting and they sing old Beach Boy songs and about inbreds.

Day of the week socks rule but being compared to Peter Crouch does not.

My Canadian Girlfriend, who inspired me to start this blog, has gone from being My Canadian Work Colleague to My Canadian Friend to My Canadian Girlfriend. We are very similar - she likes over priced coffee based drinks, I like over priced strong coffee a lot. She likes slagging people off, I like slagging people off. I like making jokes, she likes laughing. She likes shopping, I like buying her pretty things. I can even forgive her for saying that mum had webbed feet. We've been to London, Hull, Anglesey and America.

So what are my plans for the future? Maybe I'll get a new mobile or a new iPod. Summer's coming up so I'll be wearing shorts a lot. I'll continue to contribute to the community in such a way that I could be in the future awarded with an MBE, which I'd decline. I think I've agreed to go to my own fancy dress birthday party as Maximus from Gladiator so lots of working out is in the pipeline. I may try starting some fires or if that isn't a success maybe I'll take up a martial art.

Other than that, just a lot more dicking about.

Postman Pat

2007-04-16T14:54:00.000+01:00

"I've rung them but they didn't answer!!! I want my MP3 player!!!" says My Canadian Girlfriend. "I can't believe it. The delivery company had said on their website that they'd left two yellow calling cards but how could they? This is a secure building and they can't get into the lobby. I can't believe they lied on their site and said that they had left notes. At least they've not delivered it to someone else like the time they did that with those books. I am so angry about that. I'm going to keep ringing this lot until I get an answer. Will you be able to pick it up for me? I've loaded up the map for you on the Internet. I've got a Hybrid map on Google, a street map from Multimap, the company also has a map on their website and I've written out directions from United's ground - I figured you'd know how to get there. I'll get my passport out which you'll have to take so that they know you know me and you'll need some form of ID but you carry your driver's licence don't you? So will you be able to go? I'd come too but I want to stay here and wait for my boots. The post office is so much better at delivering stuff than these private companies and the Post Office website says they're out for delivery today. I can't believe I ended up ordering a pair, especially after we were in the shop when we went down to London. I showed them to Martin at work - you remember him, the one that talks like a tax inspector - it's his Girlfriend's Birthday coming up and he was stuck for present ideas and she was after some new boots so he's said she should treat herself to a pair. It's especially good for him because they're on sale and they're on such a tight budget since he's been putting her through Uni. He's so sweet doing that don't you think. The other day he sat up till 3am with her while she did an essay because she doesn't like staying up on her own. But of course there are plenty of boots that aren't on sale - I hope she doesn't pick one of the pairs that are £120. Apparently she gets really jealous of other women talking to him. His partner at the evening class he takes is a blonde and apparently she's quite pretty and they have to spend like two evenings a week together until the summer - hopefully these boots will reassure her. She sounds a bit nuts but not so fucking crazy she could be part of my family. Did I tell you that I got my mum in the shit the other day? You remember that my sister Suzanne has just had the baby? Well my sister Sarah went to see her and had a couple of photos taken of the children when she was holding them. And then she sent them to my sister-in-law, Leanne, who sent them to me on email. And then I mentioned to Suzanne that I had seen them and she went mental - at my Mom!!! Sarah had the photos taken, Leanne was the one who emailed them, I was the one that saw them and she went mad at my Mom!!! Apparently she's the only one that is allowed to distribute photos of her children. It's like she owns the image rights to her kids. But I should've known better, this was the same sister that went mad when I printed out a photo of her twins, framed it and hung it in my Dad's study. And speaking of crazy nuts, Andy walked into our office when I was placing the order for the boots. He only ever walks in to our office when I'm doing stuff I shouldn't. But he's not my boss so it doesn't really matter. I'd just sent that report out to the Director and seeing him reminded me that they'd changed the procedure for it and I was supposed to copy everyone from the Planning team into that email but I hadn't. So I sent out an apology and attached the report. I got five people emailing me back reminding me that I should've done it in the first place. It was like working in 'Office Space'. And Andy left without offering to make a brew. He never makes a brew. The last time he made a brew you had to put the kettle on the stove and wait for it to whistle. And what makes it worse is that he always comes in with his cup, so you know he's brewing up. And sometimes he has the tenacity to simply ask if someone will make him a brew because he can hear his phone ringing. I'm sure he just rings it from his mobile. He always teases me and Gabby about not making brews but I make plenty. I always brew up as soon as I get in - it's my fault that he's not there and doesn't get in until twenty past nine is it? And he switched my mouse over to left-handed the other day without telling me. He's such a child."

"Well I can see why you'd get upset about that." I say.

"You sound a bit grumpy - is everything ok?" she says.

"It's 6:15 AM on a Saturday and I'm trying to have a wee, which I don't think I'll be able to do until you give me a minute and I can close the door."

10 things I hate about you

2007-04-10T08:54:00.000+01:00

I have been tagged!!!

I have never been tagged before apart from by Andrew at infant's school. I could've swore we were playing tickey-bob-down but it turns out we were playing tickey-shadow. So this being my first time, I'm not entirely sure what I should do. All I know is that I have to write five things about myself that I haven't written about before.

1. I used to have "Champ Bear" from the Care Bear collection. I slept with him until I left home for Uni. He was the most masculine of the Care Bears and taught me that second place is the first of the losers. But the losers should be praised, because if it weren't for them losing then my winning would feel a lot emptier. I also bought Grumpy Bear because I wanted to see if I could make him smile.
3. I've always had a problem with counting.
2. Back in school I finished third bottom of the class when we did a surprise test on the 50 most misspelled words in GCSE exams. I was very good at learning words to spell but very bad at remembering them after the test. Of the two people that came below me, one of them was diagnosed as being dyslexic a year later and I've always been worried that I could be but never had it checked. Although thanks to the little red squiggly line in Word, I never need to remember any spellings ever again.
3. Its very self centred but a lot of times I wonder if people exist when I can't see them. I've always viewed the world like a computer game - when I turn a corner the vectors and lines of the room are then drawn. I am glad I don't live in a 486 computer otherwise there would be a considerable amount of loading time every time I tried to enter the room. I have yet to face an "End of Level" boss.
4. I've told a lot of lies in my life. Some big - "Of course I'm not going to United vs Liverpool on Good Friday, the reason I can't go on the field trip is because I'm involved at the Church's 'Walk of Witness'" - to the small - "No of course I don't think Kirsten Dunst is more attractive than you!". And I feel guilty about all of them.
5. I've always seen my blog as more of a real world story / book rather than a "blog", which is why I don't like being tagged because it's all a bit non-canon. It's also the reason why I don't tend to read many other blogs and why I don't go around commenting on everyone's blog. And that, I think, is one of the reasons why my face will never "fit" in the lofty blog circles. And that's why I'm not gonna tag anyone else.

Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Blogosphere

2007-04-05T14:29:00.000+01:00

High Five!

Having just visited the US of A, I thought I should share with you the areas in which the Greatest Nation on Earth (tm) can improve the experience of a visitor.

Cars and Roads
The roads are nice and straight, I can only assume that they are like this because American's find it difficult to cope with turning the steering wheel or that because they all drive top heavy SUVs that the thought of taking it round more than a shallow bend, fills them with fear that it'll tip over. And the roads are wide too. If some of their three lane highways were in Britain then the Department of Transport would've been able to fit seven lanes each way, a disused trailer with a usedjag.com advert on it, a 22 miles to Next Services sign and an electronic sign warning you to drive carefully and have a rest if you need it.

Also, vanity plates are neither funny nor entertaining they just prove that you're a wanker (This goes for Brits too!)
"Can you give me 'Mum' please?"
"I'm sorry but there are already 765 'Mum's out there - how about 'Mum 766'?"

Cars are pretty eclectic. The cars in the car park of the mall I visited alternated from Escalade to a 15 year old Hooptie with half a petrol cap because the other half had rusted off back to car with 24" rims. So I summarise that to fit in, you must either own the sort of car where you can run over an old lady and not even feel a bump or a car that would disintegrate if it went through a puddle.

Customs
When all you've done since 11th September 2001 is travel through Europe, approaching US Customs can be intimidating at the best of times. It can terrifying if you've just seen a 14-16 year old British Girl (you'd have had to ask her for ID if you were worried about statutory rape) almost be denied entry to the country because she had a name that sounded like a terrorists.

So when you reach the front of the line it is nice to see that the guards are actually quite polite and entertaining it's a nice relief. Although when you mention you're going to Wrestlemania and they ask if you like seeing half naked men wrestling - answering "Yes" is probably not a good idea. That is when they get the special stamp out and deface your passport with "QUEER" in big pink letters.

Size
Everything is big. And I mean Big. The cars are big, the roads are big and the people are big. I'm normally used to looking down on most people - not just because of my lower upper middle class status - but also because I'm 6"1'. But in America, I'm like a midget. All American males seem to measure 6"3' in every direction.
There are many plus points to everyone being big. Even people with severe body image issues, like myself, can feel thin. At least until I look in a mirror. Damn those love handles!!!

Food
You don't have to be a genius to figure out why the American's are so big. Everything either has lard or sugar in it. The bacon is cooked and coated in sugar and the muffins have a big stick of lard in there. And you shouldn't be able to hold the bacon up and have sword fights with it. And the bacon should actually have more bacon on it than charred fat. The proportion should be around 95% bacon and 5% fat, with a 5% margin of error.

Eating a steak is a tricky prospect too. It's a bit like buying shoes. A UK size 10 is a US size 11. You have to remember to add one on. And the same goes for the way you want your steak cooked. A UK rare is the same as a US medium rare. A US Blue means it's still mooing when it reaches the plate. And if you need it well done, then you better ask for it to be nailed to a tree during a forest fire.
On the plus side, all you can eat breakfast buffets are a good idea. Being able to eat so much food that you don't need to eat again for the rest of the day is something that should be applauded. But what is more interesting, is the idea of actually including things people would want to eat and having them tasting fresh. TravelLodge could learn a lot from this.

Magazines
Only in the US would you see "Gun Owners Monthly" on the same shelf as "Men's Fitness".

Chocolate
Hershey's - please note "Special Dark Chocolate" should contain more than 60% coca solids. I don't even get out of bed if it's not more than 69.9%. I would suggest creating an international standard where chocolate cannot be called dark unless it contains 70% coca solids.

(Also a word of warning to people buying chocolate gifts to bring into the office, do not buy Hershey's miniatures unless you are prepared for constant moaning about how the chocolate tastes like cheap Easter egg chocolate. Of course, if you're in my office I would take the complaints more seriously if they weren't followed up by you swallowing 14 miniatures)

Shopping
Everything is cheap. The iPods are cheap, the clothes are cheap. Now this either has something to do with the Dow and the FTSE and the pound being strong against the dollar - or it's because everything is just so damn cheap.

The service is good too. At first it gets a bit of getting used to. Greeters at UK stores normally look thoroughly pissed off as if they've just been rostered on to a job they hate - which, knowing a few people in retail, I would feel safe in saying most of them do. But in the US, the people actually seem happy to see you and they approach you with a smile on your face. This can be quite intimidating, especially to shy retiring Brits like me, but eventually you get used to it and it starts to become really nice. And then after visiting about 20 shops and restaurants it jumps the shark. Having to say "I'm ok how are you doing today" becomes boring very quickly and one should retreat back to the typical British look of "If you bother me, I'll kick the crap out of you, rip your head off and spit down your neck." And then when you're back in the UK, it is nice to get back to normality and have someone simply stick their dirty mitt out and say "£2.99!"

Although I must admit I did jump with joy at one point. You can buy 750 Anadin for £5. That's right - 750. It's not like the UK where the nanny state stops you buying more than 16 Anadin at a time in case you take them for more than 2 days in a row without seeking Doctor's advice. And what's more, I only bought 750 because I couldn't get a 1000!

Even expensive stadium food is cheap. £15 for a coke and two burgers is expensive in US terms but at Glazer's United, you'd be lucky to get a packet of Gum for £15.

In summary, I would certainly recommend taking a Canadian Girlfriend with you (although not mine - you'll have to get your own). They can deal with the pushy sales people, advise you about the right amount to tip people and point you in the right direction for cheap gum.

All grown up

2007-03-27T09:58:00.000+01:00

I reflect on today. It has been a very strange day. I am stood in Tesco wearing my work clothes for tomorrow having Friday socks on my feet while it's still Thursday is confusing me.

I thumb through the razors on sale trying to find one a new one that I can keep at My Canadian Girlfriend's flat. I desperately need one if we are to avoid a repeat of the bloodshed of last week. It made the ear cutting scene from Reservoir Dogs look like a Church Picnic.

I pick up the razors, unsure of which one to get. There is too much choice. I have been using three blades for a couple of years now and am not sure if I am quite ready to progress to using four; let alone progress to using four blades with a secret one on the back. All this is confusing me. And I can't even remember which brand of razor I am boycotting - one of them sponsors Glazer's United and the other doesn't do anything bad - well anything bad that I care about.

My brain cannot concentrate and I can't focus properly. All this seems to stem from earlier today when I was returning to my desk after doing a really good poo.

It was a "Top Five Poo". It didn't quite have the size and stubbornness of the one from last year at my parents, nor did it have the lasting aroma of the one from Wigan but it scored highly on all parts.

I sit down at my desk and my pocket starts to vibrate. It is Matthew. He never rings me, I hope everything is ok.

"I've won a competition!" he says. Great. He's ringing up to gloat. Still given how few times anyone I know has won stuff, I suppose I can give him his moment of glory.

"It's flights and hotel accommodation…" This probably makes it abroad. I didn't think Matt liked going abroad. I suppose it must be somewhere nice. After all he's won it so it must be worth entering a competition for.

"For four people…" Ooooh, four people! I can be one of four people. I'm intrigued. After all I think I have a right to be one of those four people. I am his best mate and he does still owe me for forcing me to see "A History of Violence".

"…to go to…"
Please be the Cricket World Cup Final.
Please be the Cricket World Cup Final.
Please be the Cricket World Cup Final.
Please be the Cricket World Cup Final.

"WWE's Wrestlemania 23 in Detroit."

Oh.

I can't say that I'm not disappointed. I can't think of many better ways to spend the last weekend in April than by sitting in Barbados watching cricket. The idea of sun and cricket is pretty much heaven.

"And I want you and your Canadian Girlfriend to come."

I have been a wrestling fan for seventeen years, ever since I saw Hulk Hogan take on Ultimate Warrior at Wrestlemania VI. I stood outside the Piccadilly Hotel and met Crush, Smash, Koko B Ware and the Big Boss Man in the early 90s. Matt and I were at the first taping of Raw and Smackdown outside North America and we were sat on front row centre for a pay per view at Newcastle. So it's not like we're not wrestling fans. But for a minute I thought it was the Cricket World Cup Final.

I grudgingly accept.

"Y'know I thought for a minute you were going to say you'd won a trip to Barbados"

"Oh yeah, that would've been much cooler. Damn, I wish I had won that - it would've been much better. Oh now I'm gutted. Way to take the shine off me winning something for the first time ever."

It's a steal

2007-03-21T12:14:00.001Z

The finger goes up and I stop in the middle of asking My Canadian Girlfriend to judge the quality of the toilets on Virgin Trains. I know she is a toilet snob, in that she requires it to be clean and the seats to be urine free, but I guess I must've hit a nerve.

And then I notice her phone next to her ear. The look on her face is not a happy look. I wonder if she's mid way through ringing Richard Branson to complain about the toilets...

"I've been broken into..." she says flushing my toilet theory down the drain. "The police must've rung when we didn't have a signal and they left an answer phone message. Apparently it happened at some point this evening. The caretaker's there now."

We are at least 90 minutes away from Manchester. This is the second longest 90 minutes of my life, after the European Cup Final. We begin to approach this in a logical and slightly detached manner. 90 minutes of not knowing what to expect means we can go through all of the emotions without even knowing what's happened.

"It's not like I even have much to take is it?" My Canadian Girlfriend says "My iPod is there, those diamond ear-rings are in that black box, I have no money in my bank account so if they find any money in the house then I didn't know about it..."

"And there's your Computer with all that legally acquired music on it, you have your best sunglasses with you don't you but what about the other ones? What about your Canadian ID?" It's about now when I want the focus of the worrying to turn on to me. After all, my workout bag is there with my Gym towel in it! And they better not have taken my work suit which was hanging up. It was a pain to find one that fit in the colour I wanted in the first place and even though it has a slight hole in the pocket, I have grown quite attached to it.

"My passport is on the dining table, I hope they haven't taken that - it's a pain to replace them. But let's hope they've taken the DVD player. It was only 9.99 from Argos so it'll give me an excuse to get a new one. Of course I could throw it out and get a new one anyway."

We walk into her apartment to find that it's not looking too bad. Most of the jewellery boxes have been emptied out on to the table and they have been through every handbag she owns, which is no mean feat. They've even found handbags she had forgotten she'd bought. They have tipped out her bedside cabinet and it looks like a porn bomb has gone off on the bed. There are dirty books, vibrators, hand cuffs and "other" toys everywhere.

We hurriedly tidy just as the caretaker lurches into the flat. He is a giant of a man. He stands about 7 foot 10 tall and it takes the moon about 2 hours to fully orbit his stomach. He is wearing a food stained sweater and smells like he's been drinking since 9am… Yesterday. He saunters around the flat surveying the damage and leaves mumbling something about fixing the door as soon as B&Q opens tomorrow.

We do a quick root around to see what is missing and draw up a list. The only thing we didn't think would be missing that was actually missing was two Canadian credit cards and about $150. There was very little in the flat that was of value but they took everything that was expensive and easily disposable. They knew their stuff. The policeman comes and goes; having a tea with milk and no sugar. He looks detached and weary, like the pressures of the impending paperwork will cause him to lose sleep.

We head back to my place so we can sleep behind a lockable, but unlocked, door. I press the button for the lift and we reflect on the craziness of the day. The lift pings and the doors open. The caretaker is stood in the lift with his back to us. And for that precise moment, with everything that had gone on, I feel like we are living in a horror movie. I fully expect to see him turn round and have an axe buried in his head or maybe wearing an apron stained in blood.

A night at the museum

2007-03-20T09:38:00.000Z

I get some culture!!!

When I originally planned our weekend in London, I had expected to gain some faux-culture by watching Spamalot and looking at Kylie's hot-pants before spending the rest of the weekend having filthy and dirty sex in a Travelodge. I rue the missed opportunity as we walk into the "Wallace Collection" in London's Mayfair.

Before we'd even set off to London, I'd relented and agreed to go to the British Museum and I thought that would have been enough proper culture. After spending most of my formative years rushing home from school to watch William G Stewart on Fifteen to One, I wanted to see what all the fuss was about over the Elgin Parthenon Marbles. Although imagine my surprise when they turned out not to be little round bits of glass but rather big slabs of stone.

The "Wallace Collection" contains "The Swing" and we are going to see it. Apparently this is a painting and it's a famous one too. So famous that even Canadian Girlfriends have heard of it and admired it since they were children.

I try not to show how bored I am. I have to keep telling myself to put this in perspective. For someone who likes art and is cultured, this is a special day. It's like meeting Eric Cantona on the way to watch a Test Match at Lords with Holly Willoughby. But let's face it, this isn't a very well known painting and it is JUST a painting. So it's more like bumping into Karl Maginson down the local while waiting for your go on the pool table.

The gallery tour starts off well. There is a series of rooms full of armour and stuff to kill people with. I have some fun imagining that I am wielding the two handed European renaissance sword from the sixteenth century and can't help but think what people would have looked like when I had diced them up like a stick of celery.

But after I move on disaster strikes. I am stood admiring the muskets and I want to move on to the next cabinet – daggers – but someone is stood there. I could commit the cardinal sin of just barging in front of them while they're busy staring – I know from my time spent admiring myself lifting weights that it can be very annoying when someone stands in front of you. I also don't want to skip the cabinet as the daggers look cool and stab-y.

Hmmm, I wonder if the Supermarket trick works? This is a strange town and a strange building but it could work. I invented this trick whilst in a Sainsbury's. All you do is look up from the shelf, count to three and take a step towards where the person is standing. You need to aim for about a foot and a half in front of them – close enough to be uncomfortable but far enough away to not stand on them. And then ten times out of ten, even if they're not finished looking - they will willingly swap positions with you. I count to three and the plan is executed with perfect precision.

We finally get to "The Swing" and it's a lot smaller than I expected. I don't want to come over all Sister Mary but as the title suggests, the painting features a swing. There's a young woman with curly hair on the swing. She is kicking her shoe off while her gentleman friend is lying on the floor getting a quality up skirt beaver shot. A little kinky nymph looks on in some sort of medieval version of dogging.

And then we move into the final room which seems to contain paintings of nipples.

I feel my cultural experience has been well worthwhile.

Shaggy Blog Stories

2007-03-16T12:27:00.001Z

Do not buy this book!!!

I know what you’re thinking “This is just jealousy and bitterness because you’re not in the book”. And you’d be right. I am upset and I am bitter. I am bitterer than the Manchester City supporting Berite Magoo the Bitter Blue. I am bitterer than 85% dark chocolate. I am bitterer than freshly squeezed lemon juice.

I must admit when I scanned the list I was already about 80% sure I wasn’t going to be on it but there was always that hope. But there are a lot of surprises on there – and not in a good way. There are blogs on there written by people who wouldn’t know what funny was if it came up and started humping their leg. And that makes me think that it’s just one big blog love in. Lots of backs patted, lots of egos being rubbed and lots of secret blog mafia hand shakes going on.

So I ask, where’s my parade?????

This is exactly like when I was back in school and we went on a field trip and in the 15 of us, I was the odd one out who had no friends and no one wanted to sit near. So I ended up having to sit next to the teacher. I was always the last to be picked for football – until I found out that if you’re a goalkeeper, you get picked really early.

And the publisher is taking a £5 from the costs of the book. So a measly £3.50 goes to Comic Relief. So here’s a good idea – go to each of the 100 or so blogs, read a couple of their posts, even go through their archives and then give the full £8.50 to charity.

In fact why not round it up to a tenner. And if you’re looking for ideas, Me, Me, Me’s official charities include the Samaritans and the Big Issue. You can donate money to them here:

https://www.samaritans.org/support/single_donation_popup.shtm
http://www.justgiving.com/bigissue

Or if you like why not donate to directly to Comic Relief.

49 steps to getting a filling on the NHS

2007-03-15T09:46:00.001Z

1. Chew on a Yorkie and lose a filling
2. Chomp mouth several times to make sure you’re not in pain
3. Ignore
4. Accidentally mention it to Canadian Girlfriend bringing on endless nagging
5. Go on to the NHS.uk post code search
6. Go off to NHS Direct
7. Use their self diagnosis tool and see how many questions you can answer “Yes” to, before it tells you that you’re dying and have to call an ambulance
8. Ignore tooth
9. Purchase tooth picks to make sure hole stays food free
10. Endure more nagging
11. Make mental note that normal excuse of “If it carries on till Monday, I’ll get it sorted” no longer works as hole will not fill itself
12. Go to NHS.uk
13. Find local dentist accepting NHS patients – these are the ones with green text near them
14. Print off address and phone number of dentist
15. Absolutely guarantee Canadian Girlfriend that you’ll ring the dentist after work
16. Leave print out on desk
17. Pretend it was engaged when Canadian Girlfriend asks
18. Ignore tooth
19. Start using excuse that “It’s so close to Birthday / Christmas / Valentines / Easter / Mother’s Day / Spring Bank Holiday / Old Trafford Test Match / Start of football season / Remembrance Day * – and no one wants to have a filling then do they? I’ll ring them after that.” * Delete as appropriate
20. Buy more tooth picks
21. Grow attached to the hole in your tooth; name it “Henry the Hole”
22. “Accidentally” tidy the print out into the big circular filing cabinet
23. Begin to get bored of having to fish steak, chicken, turkey or fish from the hole
24. Reprint information because you fancy a morning off work
25. Make appointment for three weeks time
26. Notice on NHS.uk that, the day after ringing, the dentist closes the NHS list
27. Forget what time your appointment is, forcing an embarrassing call to the surgery to ask what time I’m due in
28. Park up on Tom Reynolds Road
29. Walk into the Surgery holding head high, pretending not be nervous
30. Walk out of the surgery after realising that you’ve walked into a doctor’s surgery
31. Walk into the correct surgery
32. Admire the Sarah Beeney like transformation from a mid terrace to a 3 dentist surgery
33. Dodge the hazardous radiation from the x-ray being taken in the cupboard under the stairs
34. Sit down in the waiting room and pick up a magazine
35. Oooh and aaah at the pictures of Diana and Charles – they’re gonna make such a lovely couple
36. Wait
37. Accept apology from Practise Manager
38. Repeat steps 36 and 37 for about one and a half hours
39. Start to get wary of the crazy man who’s talking to everyone while he’s drinking strawberry milk
40. Be introduced to your new Dentist whose Greek-Romanian-Afrikaans-Russian accent is very difficult to understand from behind a mask
41. “Well I’d fill that now but we’re running so late…”
42. Take the first 9 a.m. appointment they have – in two weeks time
43. Chew on some chicken the day before, sending a shooting pain up through Henry the Hole
44. “So I bet this doesn’t hurt but this does? Right we’ll be able to do this without anaesthetic”
45. Watch the sweat drip off the dentist forehead as the Dentist struggles to get the filling in
46. “Wider. Wider still.”
47. Swill and spit
48. Arrive at work to find that no one had noticed that you hadn’t actually been in
49. Spend five days in absolute agony as a throbbing pain resonates through your gums as the filling “settles down”.

The Lynx Effect

2007-03-13T09:04:00.001Z

I sit down on the tram seat and a month’s worth of stresses and strains lifts itself from my mind. I have precisely two minutes to enjoy this before I have to get up and get off the tram and head to work.

I drift off into my happy place.
The sun is beating down on my back and Lancashire is beating down on Yorkshire.

The serenity is rudely interrupted as a pretty young lady with her hair tied back and a big beaming smile taps me on the shoulder.

I have been warned about this.

My Canadian Girlfriend constantly cautions me that I have to be on the look out for young women attempting to rape me in broad daylight. Every week she has me spend an hour practising self defence and running away very fast. She indoctrinates into me, like a mother tells her kids to be wary of Traffic, the Boogie Man and Matthew Kelly, that I have to be careful around blondes, brunettes and red heads. I am not allowed to make eye contact with them for if I do they will rape me.

Apparently, she says, this is because I am so irresistibly gorgeous and have the body of a Greek Statue.

The woman on the tram bends down and kneels in front of me placing her head at the same level as big Jim. I panic and begin to search for my Mace.

“You’ve got my scarf caught around your foot!” she says.

I lift my foot and dial the first two 9s on my mobile.

She turns around and walks away. I can only think that this has been a failed attempt to lasso me, hog tie me and drag me back to her lair. This has to be the case – Why else would she be dragging her scarf along the floor of the tram?

Secondly, doesn’t she know that it’s now summer time? Who wears a scarf in the Summer Time? I know it’s not technically Summer Time for a fortnight but the official changing over from the winter to summer jackets took place last weekend. Plus the domestic Cricket season starts in a month, so we better enjoy the weather while we can because there’s only a month left till it starts raining again.

This makes me wary of her motives.
I have had a lucky escape this time.

Rich List

2007-02-09T10:35:00.001Z

I found a fiver!

Let me set the scene. I'm returning from a wonderful last minute 7-6 victory for my 5-a-side football team, our inspirational on-pitch leader had managed to go toe to toe with two of the opposition, throw them to the floor and not get sent off, England football team had lost and played so badly it was funny and I had managed to fight my way through the twenty five feet of grit on the roads; life could not be much better.

I get out of the car and move the seat to get my water bottle from it's normal position of having fallen out of the cup holder and rolled under the seat. And there is was. In all it's pristine glory - a 10 year old £5 note, folded funny and with a slight tear in the corner. I look at it like Paris Hilton's daddy must look at her. Sure it's a bit messed up but it's mine. I head off inside with a smile on my face.

And that's the end of that story.

This isn't the first time I have found a fiver on a football night. Before Christmas I was getting ready to go out to the field of play, wearing my rain jacket when I put my hand in my pocket and found £5.50! This is not unusual as football cost £3:50 and £5:50 is the right amount of change I would get from £10 from someone who can't add up and on the odd days they can add up they never have any change.

I zip the pocket up and put my jacket down behind the goal safe in the knowledge that I can now buy 6 John West "Tuna with a Twist" sachets with my new found wealth.

And that's the beginning of that story.

I have lost a fiver!

I go to wash my football kit at some point before Christmas.

After you've washed the 100th packet of Wrigley's Extra in a pair of jeans then you tend to get a helpful form of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and check the pockets of everything you wash. I find 50p in my rain jacket. It takes me a while to figure out where this had come from and my joy at finding 50p is tempered by the fact that I have lost a £5.

In fact this joy is so tempered, I only remembered I had found 50p when I was hanging out the washing the other day and the 50p, and a packet of Wrigley's Extra, fell out of the pocket of the jeans I was wearing when I washed washed my football kit a month previous.

And that's the middle of that story.

Jimmy Carr Ruined my Life

2007-02-06T13:58:00.001Z

I am not funny anymore!!!

I seem to have been struck down by some disease that is no longer making me funny. I know some of you would argue that I was never funny in the first place and to those people I say "Fuck you!".

It seems to have started when I read Jimmy Carr's "The Naked Jape". It was supposed to be a light hearted look at the world of jokes, which would explain about why we laugh and why we find things funny. It would help me get a better understanding of how to write jokes and improve the comedy value of my weblog.

Instead it seems to have drained all the humour from me turning me into a bland, emotionless, lifeless, automaton who can't make even the most entertaining things seem remotely funny. I suck life from amusing situations leaving them dry, drab and listless.

I am Jimmy Carr.

Here are a list of things I have done recently which I have not found any humour in:

Having to drive all the way to Hull to carry a sofa bed up a flight of stairs

Having to pick a right wing trainee priest up from Manchester's Bus Station, which is just by the world famous gay village

Within 24 hours I have managed to cut the back of my hand, tear some skin off from by my finger nail on the same hand and then clean the bathroom with bleach. And then burn my thumb on the iron.

Facing the fact that our apartments still have ants

Seeing my Canadian Girlfriend walk, boob first, into a door frame

Standing at the tram stop for an hour, watching half the normal number of trams pass by - all full - one cold morning.

How "Only eating chocolate at weekends" seems to have expanded to "Only buying chocolate on weekends and if there happens to be enough to see me through at least one nuclear winter continuing to eat it through the rest of the week until it is gone."

Being given a "Gay Man's Safe Sex Kit" by my Canadian Girlfriend - who picked it up at her doctors - because she thought I'd like it.

I will now go on a hunt to find my "funny". I imagine it will be close to where stella found her groove.

Not for Girls

2007-01-24T11:39:00.000Z

"Would you like a piece of Yorkie?" asks a casual acquaintance. I am not one to turn down chocolate, let alone free chocolate. And I never turn down Nestle chocolate. I haven't bought any Nestle products since I started the boycott back when I was a fresh faced student, thought I could change the world and cared about things. So since someone else has spent the money and killed the babies - it just seems rude to turn down the offer on principle.

"Yum, is this one of those Raisin and Biscuit ones?" I say as I bite down on this hard bit. I remember them, they were my favourites.

"No it isn't." He replies just as I realise that the crunchy bit in the chocolate is actually part of my tooth. I clear my mouth of Yorkie and expect to feel a new definition of pain and suffering similar to what I'd feel if I was slowly digested over a thousand years in The Sarlacc from Return of the Jedi.

Thankfully, there is no pain from the large hole in my tooth. I do not need to get an emergency dentist's appointment. Or any dentist's appointment - which sits perfectly with me.

I don't have a dentist. I haven't had one since I was 21 when I finally got fed up with my childhood Dentist calling me "Tiger". This co-incided with him retiring a couple of years later and me finally having to pay full price for dental treatment. So since then I haven't had one and haven't needed one. And since I'm not in pain, there's no reason to find one.

And getting an NHS Dentist is hard - we all know from the Daily Mail that you're better off emigrating to Georakistan and coming back here as an assylum seeker because us law abiding decent citizens don't stand any chance of getting one. So all the more reason to put it off.

In fact this all happened before Christmas and not only have I spent the time procrastinating about calling the dentist but I have also spent that time procrastinating about blogging about the detist. I like procrastinating on things because it's a nice way of saying I just plain don't want to do something.

I even asked for my two front teeth for Christmas or an NHS Dentist. But Satna didn't deliver. I've even got used to carrying around tooth picks so I could excavate the hole after each and every meal. And I have over a hundred of them - so it'd really be a waste of money if I got it sorted before I had used all of them.

But my procrastination list is now so full of the normal sorts of things - clean the inside of the car, clean both bathrooms, iron all my clothes, write book - I should really do it. And it feels like i've put it off so long that I may have been quicker digesting in The Sarlacc.

Makes the world go round

2007-01-16T10:27:00.001Z

"You must let me pay for this!" says My Canadian Girlfriend as we're walking towards a swanky Manchester gastro-pub for our Sunday Lunch, "You pay for everything."

"You paid for lunch yesterday and even though this is going to be a fully cooked meal, it'll be just as expensive as coffee and a Sandwich at Starbucks. And you paid for the Family Guy DVDs for me to give to your sister for her Birthday - although I suppose technically, since we watched them before wrapping them up we're not exactly in a position to take any moral high ground on those."

"And", I chirp up helpfully "don't forget about that time you saw me make eye contact with another woman on the Tram - you said I'd pay for that too...."

The air turns cold and there's an icy silence.

Personally, I don't see the problem with it. Since I was born with a penis, I am automatically entitled to earn 16% more than her for the same job. I can see it now, God is stood with Adam and Eve - "Right I have a couple of things to give out - Which one of you wants to earn the most money? Adam's hand went up first - which means Eve, let's have a look at what you could've won.... Its a speed boat! I suppose the only consolation is that you can now have the next thing - multiple orgasms."

"Ok," I say reluctantly, "you can pay for this."

Now I'm going to let you into the deeper depths of the male psyche here. This is a regular heated discussion we have, either on the way to Sainsburys, in the car park of Sainsburys or while getting a trolley in Sainsburys, and I have a system to solve it that works every time. Normally, I'll simply agree to let her pay and then wait the 20 minutes or so it takes to get the shopping and then when we reach the checkout, I just get my card out and pay. I'm not saying it's a very clever system or a well thought through solution with graphs and a PowerPoint presentation. But it is effective.

"And don't think you're doing that stupid thing where you agree to let me pay then pay yourself!" she replies.

Damn she's worked out the system. If the system is no longer sacred then what is? Next she'll figure out that I only read her Glamour to get practical relationship advice and not look at the models and celebs.

So we enjoy a nice lunch, she has the fish and chips, I have the curried chicken sandwich and fat-chips. We spend time putting the world to rights, discussing the week ahead and pondering why the skinny waitress is trying her hardest to make herself look as fat as possible.

And then the bill arrives. It takes all my will power not to get my Maestro card out. My Canadian Girlfriend furtles around in her bottomless handbag. She removes an umbrella, Lip Gloss, more pill bottles than Lloyds Pharmacy, a single unwrapped extra strong mint and a copy of the Treaty of Rome.

"Erm," she says looking up, "I think I've left my wallet in my coat. Is there any chance you could cover this?"

Jimmy Choo

2007-01-11T12:06:00.001Z

I am in work today and don't have my work shoes on. I realised that this would be the case as I stood in the shower at My Canadian Girlfriend's House. (I even stay over on school nights now because we're grown ups) After trying to make sense of my dream about us having dinner with JonnyB and Abby "The Girl" Lee at my parent's house, and why they were interested in getting slabs of chocolate with their faces on them, I suddenly had a mountain top moment when I dropped the soap.

There are many ways out of this. I can phone in sick - which I didn't even do when I was sick. I could drive home, pick the shoes up and get to work for a bit late but then I'd miss the water-cooler discussion about last night's edition of "Can Geri Halliwell save the NHS?". And then there's the lie. I can go in wearing my workout trainers, which are in the back of the car, and concoct some story about why I had to put these shoes on. But I'll need something believable....

I sold my work shoes, along with a liver and my soul for an iPhone.

They got soaked in Hurricane Margaret that is battering Manchester

My shoes are off being re-laced because I have trouble doing that funny lacing they do in shops where you only use one end of the lace

I dropped the remains of my dead hamster on it, which sit in an urn on the mantlepiece

I clicked my heels together and, in an attempt to save on air fare and reduce pollution, only the shoes were transported to Kansas

My shoes are working from home and have a dentist's appointment.

I hurt my foot playing fooball - seems plausible. Especially as I actually did play football last night.

But of course telling the lie is just the first part of the deception. A good liar can take the lie and subtly interweave it with every part of their life and can tell the same concocted story to everybody who asks. So far, I have walked a lot slower and with a limp since I got in, although it's hard remembering which foot to favour and if you favour your right does that mean that it's that one that is injured. I have to remember then not to shake that leg uncontrollably under the desk while I'm thinking as that would cause me pain. I can't kick the office gimp today - however tempting it may be.

I was even asked, "And is that why you drove in?"
And the obvious reply I gave was, "Hmmmm, Yes sure why not - that sounds plausible."

But with this slovenly affair goes my shot at employee of the month. Now Jessica Simpson won't want to sleep with me.

Personally I can't wait till 5pm when I walk off into the sunset, stop limping, uncurl the kinks in my leg, flex my hand and get picked up by Pete Postlethwaite's Kobayashi.

I am Keyser Soze!

Oh Happy Day!

2007-01-09T10:37:00.001Z

There was something in the air that said this was going to be a bad day. I don't know what first made me think that, maybe because it was 3am and I hadn't managed to get to sleep so far. Insomnia is a funny thing. I am lucky in that I do not suffer from it regularly but I have done enough research into it to know how to handle it (don't look at the clock, admit your powerless over it, accept there are things you cannot change, read Uncle John's Bathroom Reader).

I know how to handle this and I can tell other people how to handle this but if there's one thing I am not good at it is taking my own advice. Mainly because I don't like to hear the sound of my own voice. I don't really sound like that do I?

Finally, and with four hours to go till my alarm, I drift off with the thought of a cup of tea and my Bran Flakes for my breakfast. Of course, if I had remembered at that point that I had no Bran Flakes then I probably wouldn't have got to sleep. And I certainly wouldn't have slept if I had known that I didn't have any tea as well. And more importantly, I have no bananas, I have no bananas today.

So after a makeshift breakfast of an apple, two boiled egg and a glass of milk I head off to face the world. By now the day is pretty much lost and I've not even reached work. I have decided today is a gonner and it was obviously showing. After winking at me as I stood in the queue, I got two extra shots of coffee in my Americano from the Baritsa.

(Note to Canadian Girlfriend: He isn't my type and as you know I don't even like Graham Norton.)

Finally, I sit down at work. Five sneezes, eight kleenex and two Advil later, I have decided why this day is turning out so bad.

I am sick!!!

In a similar situation to the insomnia, I know exactly what I should do. I should go home, tuck myself up in bed and get better. I do not want to infect my colleagues, co-workers, casual acquaintences and people I nod at in the corridor with anything and "The Man" does not appreciate you enough when you are well and still come in to work - so you know they don't appreciate you coming in when you're sick.

But after looking at the weather outside and remembering the pile of ironing I have to do at home - I ignore my own advice again, take some Day Nurse and stay at work.

Out with the old

2007-01-02T12:24:00.001Z

Ah January!

What a wonderful time of year. This is the time of year when all those cheap-ass cunts go out and buy next year's Christmas cards and wrapping paper. Yeah that's right, I dislike them so much I used 'cunt', which I never use, so you can tell my displeasure.

Although I should point out that I did use the same roll of wrapping paper this Christmas as I did last Christmas. And I used it for all Birthday presents in between. And then it ran out two presents from the end of the this years haul. So I have moved on to this year's wrapping paper for all Birthdays between now and when it runs out.

It is also a magical time of year. For the last month and a bit, I haven't been able to buy anything for myself. So now Christmas has passed it is now time to go out and buy all that stuff you were expecting for Christmas and didn't get. (A Pizza Cutter!!! My Canadian Girlfriend has seen me struggle to cut Pizzas. She has even commented on the uneven-ness of my slices and I have retorted with a comment about how good a Pizza Cutter would be. And the Christmas Day - nothing. Well nothing apart from all the thoughtful gifts.)

The January Sales are also a good thing to do at this time of year. I can never understand people who buy clothing before Christmas, especially if they're buying clothes for themselves - and even more so if they're just buying "some nice shoes". It's not like the Sales are a secret. I have concluded that there are many different ways to organise your sales:

River Island - Organise everthing by type - jeans, sweaters, t-shirts, and suits seperately.

USC - Organise everything by colour - pink stuff, brown stuff and yellow stuff.

Next - Like a bomb's gone off - just throw everything everywhere and let the people find it.

TopMan - Put one rack out front with nothing on it.

(I even pointed out a Simpson's Pizza Cutter!)

But then of course there is the downside. The "It's nearly Christmas" excuse cannot be used for another 11 months and the bottomless tin of Cadbury's Heros has disappeared. You also, by law, have to stop doing stuff you've been doing and start doing new stuff as soon as the clock strikes midnight on the date that King George declared in 1752 would be the change between one numbered year and the next after moving it from March 25th.

So here are my nominations for New Year's Resolutions:

Begin Podcasting - Given the huge rise in video blogging and using YouTube for diaries, it's about time I got to the dulled edge of technology and begin using technology that's two years out of date. Hell even the BBC are doing it now.

Go to Cloud 23 - The new bar that has opened in Manchester's Beetham Tower is the place to be. It's where all the hip dudes and cool cats are hanging out. And for that reason I should be there so that I can knock it down a peg or two! Although this should really be a "New Year's Reservation".

Generally do better stuff and be a better person - I'm not sure I could improve my smugness quotient by much. I'm nice to people, I offer them lifts places and go out of my way to help. I recycle, get public transport and am generally a do-gooder.
Although I don't like Dolphin Friendly Tuna because I like to think my Tuna can stick up for itself and I buy Battery eggs because I like to think my chicken has suffered.

Write a book - They say everyone has a good novel in them. Apart from Dan Brown. Mine would be about trams or little people or little people on trams.

Don't make any resolutions - Ah one I may be able to keep!

Merry Christmas you arse

2006-12-20T13:16:00.000Z

I am feeling ugh!

I normally love this time of year. I get all excited and start clapping hysterically at the mere thought of all the shopping, presents, songs and turkey. I run around the house cheering and jumping for joy and generally behaving like a kid at, well, Christmas. But this year is different, it is only a week to Christmas Day and I have just started steaming my christmas pudding, thus filling my house with Christmas-y scent, and I feel a bit ugh.

It is very difficult to put a finger on why I am feeling a bit down at this time of year. Normally I like to spend the majority of October being depressed but felt OK duing that month this year. I normally put this down to some disorder that affects me during the changing seasons. (Not the change from Autumn to Winter but from Cricket to Football) But this is December and it's Christmas!!!

And I still feel ugh. Of course it hasn't helped that the first thing I have done every morning for the past three weeks is wake up to that shambles "Down Under". And our football team has broken it's long running unbeaten streak, that included my first clean sheet, and have lost two in a row. At the moment, it looks like we couldn't even beat Manchester City let alone the league-leading Jurassic 5s who we face in a top of the table clash on tonight.

As I normally very health eater, it doesn't help when people keep constantly bringing chocolate into the office. Why don't people buy healthy treats? I mean people would be just as grateful if you turned up with a bag of grapes instead of a 35 tonne box of Tesco's own brand Quality Street - called "Value Street". What about some nice health chicken? Even those kids in the Jamie Oliver program were happy to be given chicken. The campaign for health work based snack treats starts now!!! Well actually it starts on Friday as I've baked some brownies for lunch on Friday.

But what better way to get into the Christmas spirit than to go on a "works-do". Those are always fun and are never two hours spent wishing you could stick a chop stick through your ear and into your brain just for something to do. And they're even more fun if, like me, you don't drink. You can just observe people's behaviour, take notes and blackmail them later! Although the one problem I do have is that I can't sing and after last years debacle where we were sitting on the fourth table and had a whole 8 verses of the 12 days of Christmas to join in with, I have taken lessons from the Sugarbabes and decided to just mime along this year.

So this is the first year in recent memory where I've been feeling ambivalent to Christmas. I am worried this means I am getting old. The next logical step is to get slippers for every present and to appear on "Grumpy Old Christmas".

Anyway, Merry Christmas you lot - I'll be back in a week or so when we'll try and decide what New Year's Resolutions I should have.

Safe as Houses

2006-12-12T10:43:00.001Z

Beeep Beeep Beeep!!!

The security alarm in Selfridges goes off. This coincides with me walking into the shop. I look around to see if any Scousers also happened to be walking in at the same time. The lack of perms and shell suits and the fact that this is the third consecutive shop that the alarms have gone off in as soon as I have walked in, makes me wonder if I'm to blame.

Thankfully the beeping has stopped so I pretend nothing has happened and edge towards the shop.

Beeep Beeep Beeep!!!

The security guard walks towards me, probably to talk about the weather. I turn towards him.

Beeep Beeep Beeep!!!

It doesn’t take a genius, or even someone who was too thick to get into the police, to realise that some Johnny No Stars from Boots or HMV has left a security tag on some of my legitimately purchased goods and that it would make everyone’s life easier if I could find out why I am setting these alarms off.

A bling of chavs, with bulges in their coats, gather round. He swings the first bag and the chavs inch towards the doors looking like a bunch of children trying to dodge a water sprinkler. There are no beeps. The chavs walk back. The Boots bag swings towards the security gates and it starts beeping. The chavs shoot through the gates and scatter throughout the centre.

Now I have identified the offending items, I have a couple of choices. I could either return them to Boots and demand that they stop me beeping or I could just simply remove the security tags myself. As I sit in the busiest thoroughfare in the middle of the large shopping centre which may or may not be near my house on one of the most hectic weekends of year removing security tags I notice that one of the "statues" on the walls turns to face me and his left ear lobe starts blinking red and a very large bald headed man in "plain clothes" comes and stands near me and pretends to itch his forehead while whispering into his sleeve.

I search for the receipt, although I do not need it. I am finished and now I have in my hands three plastic security tags and the power to cause mayhem! Who shall I pass these on to? I could stick them to someone’s back or I could try and stick them to a greeter who every time they say hello or ask you if you want a basket, they’d set the alarm off causing mayhem.

I stand behind a wheelchair user, who is waiting for the lift and stick them to the back of her chair. I prepare myself for that special place in hell.

Leftovers

2006-12-08T14:20:00.000Z

With Christmas round the corner, I thought I'd better give my place a proper clean out so the place looks good. This time of year is very special because not only is it nearly time to get Christmas tree but I will soon be getting the only two visitors I ever get to my den. For some reason, at this time of year, my two friends normally come round to visit bearing gifts. And I then have to make them wait outside while I frantically search for something to give them and then wrap it in three year old "Simpson's" Christmas wrapping paper.

Anyway, while clearing out, I found the following punch lines that really require a story to go behind them but, in true Never Mind the Buzzcocks style, I thought I'd just give you these and let your brain do the rest.

And that stands about as much chance of happening as Monty Panesar does of being picked by England.

I better give that mug another wash just in case someone has wiped it with the Polonium soaks dish cloth.

After mini-muffins and massive mince pies, we decided that we should only eat foods beginning with M. Malteasers beware!

I wish those lads would speak English. Not because I'm racist or anything but just because I'm nosey and like listening in to other people's conversations.

But if Jason Donovan is really playing that working men's club in Blackburn, at least my career is going in a better direction than his.

So since what I was humming turned out not to be the Mr Benn theme tune, the next question is what was it?

And then the tram door nearly took the back of my head off.

How much is that doggy in the window?

2006-12-06T10:08:00.000Z

We go seasonal, holiday, peace to all on earth, nativity, advent, winter time, happy holidays, season's greetings, xmas shopping. Which is a terrible mouthful and could be shortened to "C****tmas Shopping" had the liberal media, left wing local government and Dan Brown not banned the use of the word, in their "War on Christmas".

One of the problems with trying to go shopping at this time of year is that everyone is out and about creating an orgy of consumerism that would've made the little Baby Jesus very happy, after all this is a kid who got Gold for a christening present. But this year it is strangely quiet. I haven't seen anyone yet. No pushy shop assistants. No Slade. No reindeer hats. This is nice. I purchase 4 presents before I see anyone. It is my Canadian Girlfriend, who insists that I get dressed and log off the Internet so we can go shopping at the very large shopping centre that may or may not be near my house.

After starting our shopping the correct way, by spending an hour in Starbucks, we head off. It doesn't take long before we encounter a problem.

"You see that girl and fella over there?" I say.

"The guy in the blue tracksuit whose girlfriend is kneeling suggestively in front of him while looking at a book?" she replies.

"Yeah, we're on the exact same shop schedule as them. I've seen them in the last three shops we've been in. I think they think we're following them either that or they think I think they're following me."

"Well I have to make the first of my ten trips to the bathroom and thus upset the balance of the day by making you walk past a few shops, walk to the bathroom and then walk back the wrong way down the bottom floor back past the few shops so we can restart from where we are now." My Canadian Girlfriend says.

This complicated but effective system means we don't see them again.

Gift buying is proving exceptionally difficult this year. I like to have a good balance between gag gifts, easy gifts and thoughtful gifts. My Little Sister and Dad get the thoughtful gifts because I like them best. My Mum gets one thoughtful and one easy gift because her Birthday is on the 21st and getting two ideas in a month is difficult. My Aunt, Uncle, Big Sister and Brother-in-Law get the easy gifts - walk into the Pier / Next / Gadget Shop and buy something. I have learnt the hard way not to stray from the pre-agreed list of items I have been given to buy for my Nieces.

And I will sprinkle in a few gag gifts. My Uncle, Dad and Brother-in-Law, who are all involved at various levels in Churches, will be getting Firebox's Holy Toast this year. And I will get a few from each category for My Canadian Girlfriend, but thankfully, she is very, very easy to please.

This year, not only do I have to come up with ideas for me to buy everyone but I have to come up with ideas for My Canadian Girlfriend to buy people. And what's more, I have to come with ideas for things for people to buy me. So I am doing three people's shopping. This is getting very stressful.

We go into Boots and look at their three for two offers and hopefully find two things to accompany Spirograph, one of the pre-agreed presents I can get for my Niece. I hold up a nice looking box with a Swiss Army Knife in the shape of a credit card and a super-powerful flashlight in it.

"This looks cool. It's the sort of thing My Brother-in-Law would like don't you think?" I say. My Canadian Girlfriend looks over. "I think it's great! It'd mean you'd never lose it because it'd be in your wallet - unlike all those knives which are probably in some parallel universe by now. And you'd be able to see in the dark." I lay the foundations and stress "If I were him, I'd be happy to get one of these.". The bait is out there, I'll sit back and read the Angler's Times and see if anything bites. My Canadian Girlfriend says nothing.

"Hmmm," I ponder, "but that is only two gifts. We'd need to find a third to take full advantage….. Maybe you could look in Town during the week and see if anything takes your fancy?" She says remains silent and her face moves less than Jimmy Carr's after a session of botox.

I give in. She does not seem to be picking up my signals. I will have to find another subtle way of letting her know I'd quite like one of these for Christmas.

P.S. And another thing about presents this year, there are more and more presents with "A great gift for Dad!" written on the outside. Which is a nice pointer but what sort of people buy this stuff? Do they not have an imagination? What if Boots' idea of what is a great gift for Dad isn't suitable for my Dad? My dad could be allergic to cheap aftershave.

This is just another way the liberal nanny state is invading our lives.

A word from our sponsors

2006-11-30T11:07:00.001Z

I hate other bloggers.

Apart from the petty jealousy about them getting more than 20 visitors a day and getting six-figure advances on book deals, I mostly hate them because sometimes they lie. Maybe I'm breaking some sort of unwritten rule but I'm a trailblazer and I don't care what those stuffy suits in the town hall think - I am breaking down the fourth wall.

So what annoys me so much?

Bloggers will write what seems like a normal post talking about how they got a new thing. And how this thing is a really good thing and it does things other things can't do. They wax lyrical about the thing and by the end of reading 300 words on the thing, not only do you want a thing but you can't understand how you ever lived without that thing. Even if that thing is a "ladies toy".

And then they add a link to the thing. And that link usually contains the word "referer" and then if you buy the thing the blogger gets money.

So I want to make this clear that no money has changed hands in the writing of this post about things which I like. I am not a sell out. Although don't let that stop people trying to buy me!

Starbucks Card

Imagine my surprise when James, the manager of my favourite and regular Starbucks came over to say hello when I was buying my normal coffee. What was more surprising was that he wasn't there because he recognised me from the time me and My Canadian Girlfriend got caught in the ladies toilet cubicle "doing nothing". He introduced me to the Starbucks Card. It acts just like cash and means I don't actually have to have any of those little gold tokens on me when I go to buy coffee.

Of course it has some downsides. I now know exactly how much I spend at Starbucks and it's not good. But the card is red, looks cool and has the phrase "People Watching" on it as one of the suggestions of things to do at Bucks.

Under Armour

Imagine the coldest place on earth? What does it look like? Where is it? Well whatever you're thinking of, unless it's the bottom of Winter Hill in Horwich by the Reebok Stadium then you don't know cold. The wind rolls down the hill and skips across the retail park with nothing in its way. Add to that driving rain which bruises the skin when it hits you.

And this is where I play football. And where I have played for years and where I have trained teams on. On a pitch that drains water about as well as a swimming pool. All you have to do is dive once and then it becomes impossible to bend your legs as the ice creates a leg shaped stalagtite.

This past year, though, I have discovered Under Armour. Not only does the seamless second skin emphasise the good bits and tuck in the bad bits taking me one step closer to the "Brad Pitt in Fight Club" nirvana, but it actually keeps me warm. Although upon waxing lyrical about it to my team mates, it was pointed out that maybe the reason why I was always cold was because I don't have the thick insulating layer of fat they all seem to have.

Using my Griffin iTrip Illegally

I can't believe that I only have one week left to use my iTrip illegally. I have had over two years of driving around being a pirate radio station and it was only after the first 4 months that someone told me that I didn't need to wear a patch over one eye while using it. I spent a little while broadcasting on the same frequency as Manchester's Key 103. I gained hours of pleasure from driving up to traffic lights and seeing people slapping their car radio when Oasis turns into Eminem.

After having a near miss with a Policeman who was listening to Key 103, I moved to 108.0 because no one broadcasts at that end of the FM scale. Unless you're driving by Halifax or Huddersfield or somewhere "up that way". Finding a free FM station while doing 80 mph on the M62 is good fun.

And now the Government ruins my fun by making it legal as of next Friday.
Now every Tom, Dick, Harry and Little Sister will have one this Christmas.

***

Along with raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, Bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens and Brown paper packages tied up with string - these are a few if my favourite things.

Bug's Life

2006-11-28T09:46:00.000Z

Ants!!! Ants!!! Ants!!!

Our block of flats is infested with Ants.

I got really worried the first time I noticed them. They were chowing down on some brown rice. But what is more worrying than seeing ants is that those slow release carbs will keep them going all day so I know they'll be back. This also happened to be the same day that I got a note from Mrs. Sign Guy saying "Do you have ants in your flat?" Now I'm not suggesting that she put them there - just that I am so clueless I didn't see them until I was looking for them.

And so it came to pass that quite a few people in the flats had these ants. The Management Company called an exterminator who would be available all day to come into each flat and put down the poison to "kill" them. So we all booked various times of the day off and arranged to meet him.

At 4:20, nearly two hours after I had arranged to meet him, there is a knock at the door. It is Mrs Sign Guy and (Introducing a new character!!!) "Her Upstairs". They step into my flat, which thankfully is clean and tidy due to the fact that the carpets were steam cleaned the day before. I throw a cursory glance at their shoes - to make sure they weren't going to dirty the carpet.
Big pink fluffy gorilla feet - acceptable
Slip on trainer type shoes - passable but probably a good job she slipped them off

We walk towards the kitchen. Her Upstairs looks into the bedroom, wanting to see where the magic happens.

"We've come to put the poison down." Mrs Sign Guy says, "The guy came at 9am and left instructions with Her Upstairs about what to do. So we've come to put the poison down. We're doing everyone’s flats - we've even been up to that guy who looks like a cross between Bill Odie and Jesus, y'know the one who is always looking out his window. Anyway, I'm not surprised he has Ants!"

"Apparently they like heat and protein." says Her Upstairs as she puts the poison by the cooker. I can see why they like my flat. Not only do I eat a high protein diet consisting of lots of fish, chicken and egg white omelettes but I also have the heating on all the time. I contemplate not killing the Ants for a moment since we seem to have lots in common. We could swap ideas for protein shakes and I can blame them for turning the heat up.

"Have you had much of a problem with the Ants?" asks Mrs Sign Guy. "We have. I opened one cupboard and saw 1000s of them and I've seen them on the toilet seat and I was the one that diagnosed them as being Pharaoh ants. Apparently, they spread Typhoid. I looked it up on the Internet!" she says proudly, like a young naive woman who still believes everything they read on the Internet is true and isn't a series of vaguely connected events, joined together, exploited and extrapolated for comic purposes.

"Great, give the girl a medal." I think, "She managed to use Google! Now go back to 1996 when that would have been impressive. I would have been more impressed if you'd said that you'd been to the library and looked it up in a book." Or at least I think I thought that. If I didn't think it and said it then I’ll have just pissed a neighbour off.

And more to the point it didn't take a genius to figure out that they were Pharaoh Ants. Firstly when you look at them closely they all "Walk like an Egyptian", secondly they had built a little pyramid in the corner and finally they were worshiping the Ra the Sun God.

24 hours to Tulsa

2006-11-24T11:40:00.000Z

I am stuck in a traffic jam twelve miles from Leeds!!!

I have borrowed my Dad's TomTom for the day as I need to find my way to a secret place for a secret meeting about secret things. The more I think about it the more I'm sure he only bought TomTom so that he'd have someone to talk to in the car. And more importantly it doesn't get bored of his stories or answer back:

"And then Great Uncle Peter moved to London, Ontario and lived above a shop on Dundas Street…."
"Turn left in 300 yards"

"Because he was the only Liberal on a hung Council of 9 Conservatives and 9 Labour, he didn’t have to buy a drink all year…"
"Turn around when possible!!!"

I am sitting in a traffic jam crawling towards Leeds. The traffic is not moving at all and I am already going to be a bit late. I make some mental calculations (Our North American readers should note this is the same as "doing the math" but it sounds better). TomTom says I have 45 minutes to go and I will arrive at 11:22, it is currently 8:12. So the clock is 2 hours and 25 minutes wrong and I will be getting there three minutes before the meeting starts. This is not very heartening.

After another five minutes of barely moving, I decide to switch lanes. If my life was a badly written sitcom the other lane of traffic would suddenly start moving until I switched back again. It doesn't. I curse my luck for not living in "My Family".

Neither lane moves for what seems an eternity. But when it does, we have 2 minutes of constant motion. I perform a computation to see if my situation has improved (same explanation as before). The situation has now got worse. TomTom is now calculating my arrival time a calendar rather than a clock.

Call the Captain ashore I wanna go home

2006-11-21T10:15:00.000Z

"It's a good job we checked the kick off time isn't it? Otherwise we'd just be getting here." I say to my Canadian Girlfriend as we get on the tram home from FC United's match against Salford City. After such a hard fought victory against the only team to take points from FC this year, the tram is rocking.

Literally.

The 173rd chorus of "Sloop John B." rings out and the celebrations continue. People jump up and down causing the floor of the tram to shake. The fat guy behind me rams his elbow into the window causing it to shudder, shake and be on the verge of falling out.

"Argh, I'm going to have that bloody song as an earworm all week now." My Canadian Girlfriend says as she untangles her hair from the velcro on her coat's hood.

I am mightily impressed by the construction of the tram as it survives "The Twelve Days of Cantona" - the only damage being a light casing falling off its bracket, which was caused by the young kids stood on the seats at the front and banging their hands on the roof of the tram.

We round the corner from Exchange Quay to Pomona, just as the tram starts singing John Denver's "Take me home". I catch a glimpse of Old Trafford, resplendant in the watery winter sun. I start to get emotional and well up.

So far, I think I have dealt well with leaving Old Trafford after 20 years. The time was right to leave, I know that - Glazer, Ferdinand and Sky were constantly giving me reasons to walk away. The irreversable direction top flight football is taking was not one I wanted to go along. And withdrawing my money and support was the only thing I could do to protest against that.

But it's like having a fight with your sister. You know eventually you're gonna be friends again and all will be forgotten and you know that when the fight is over, you'll probably be closer than you've ever been before. You can't stay mad at them forever, even if you fill your time with 'other distractions'. And I want to be 'taken home'. I miss Manchester United.

I'm wandering. I tend to lose my focus when I'm writing and get emotional and upset.

Where was I going?

Oh yes. If anyone has a spare for Sunday's game against Chelsea can they let me know?

Hide and Seek

2006-11-16T11:03:00.000Z

I wait for a Tram at the tram stop. I have found that this is the best place to wait for trams. It is not a good place to wait for a bus. Unless of course you're at Altrincham, or Bury, or any of the many tram stops which have bus stops attatched. Still even at those stops you'd be better waiting at the actual bus stop for the bus rather a tram stop and then trying to run to catch the bus. It is a good 20m from the Alty Tram stop to the 245 bus stop.

So don't do it, unless you wanted some exercise.

"Hello!" comes a southern sounding voice. I look over to see one of our company's temps who I was introduced to on the steps of the canteen a few days ago.

"Hello!" I reply, trying to make it look like I remembered her name. I do remember that I had my lilac shirt on and I treated myself to some apple pie when I did get into the canteen but when you're being prevented from getting a can of diet coke by someone introducing someone to you, who is only going to be around for a month anyway, remembering their name is the least of your concerns.

"Did you know?" she says, "That there's a guy who looks exactly like you who normally gets the tram about this time. I've seen him a couple of nights running. He's even got the same sort of coat as you. But he doesn't wear glasses."

"Does he look like this?" I say removing my glasses.

"Oh...." she says "Do you sometimes wear contacts?"

"Yes" I reply.

There is a period of akward silence. I contemplate using this as a permanent method of disguise but no one, bar Louis Lane, would ever fall for that.

Spice Trade

2006-11-14T09:45:00.000Z

"Oh Wow!!! A spice rack!" I say.
"Oh Wow!!! A spice rack!" I repeat.
"Oh Wow!!! A spice rack!" I finish.

"Try the 'Oh Wow!!!' from the second one and the 'A spice rack!' from the first." says my Canadian Girlfriend being helpful. We are on our way up to my Aunt and Uncle's to collect My Birthday Present. It is going to be a spice rack and I am practising acting surprised.

To make sure that they weren't buying me something that I already owned and it would be something I could use, wanted and had room for, they called my Father and asked him. He consulted my Mother. She consulted with my Little Sister, who in turn consulted with My Canadian Girlfriend. When faced with a question like that, she did the only honourable thing she could - She asked me.

Now my aunt and uncle have been known to give some very strange presents over the years. I received a dressing gown from them for consecutive Birthdays and whenever a member of the family is a student, they put together a "Student Survival Pack" - which contains non-perishable foods like soup and spam. So all in all, a spice rack isn't a bad present. Better the devil you know.

I unwrap the paper and steel myself. "Oh wow!!! A Spice Rack!" I say. I think I have, using my acting skills, convinced them that not only do I want and need a spice rack but also that I had no idea what it was going to be.

We head to the dinner table.
Gespatcheo - which tasted as bad as my attempt to spell it
Pork, Apricot and Rice - meh
Individual posh apple pies - nice

Now there are many things that Canadian Girlfriends are useful for: cooking you fried breakfasts, looking after you when you're sick, reminding you that you need milk, blow jobs etc. But they are really handy because they can deflect half the conversation from you during meals with relatives.

"The needlework on these chairs are amazing - did you do them?" she says to my Aunt, who did do them. "I've always been interested in this sort of thing. I've often considered taking up knitting as a hobby but I never get round to it. I always keep meaning to get one of those starter kits."

My Aunt and Uncle exchange knowing glances.

Rookie Mistake. After the candle making set my little sister got three years ago, we learnt you have to be very careful what you say at this time of year. When we get to the car I will get her to start practising....

"Oh Wow!!! A knitting kit!"

Easy Bake Oven

2006-11-09T11:02:00.000Z

I bake.

I have all the ingredients an Urban chef needs: expensive Green and Black's Chocolate, a recipe - in American measurements - downloaded from the Internet and a Starbucks overall (Purchased from eBay).

I am making muffins.

I cream the butter and the sugar and melt the chocolate in a bain-marie. I prove to myself that by knowing the French term for something I am a good cook. I stir the chocolate. I like my chocolate like I like my coffee. And I like my coffee like I like my women. Ground up and in the freezer or strong, black, bitter and with a slight hint of orange.

In fact there isn't a chocolate that has been made that is too bitter for me. I am praying that the Hotel Chocolat Gods will eventually have some 100% chocolate so I can try some. It is normally a chef's perrogative to have a glass of red or white when cooking a stew but since I don't drink alcohol or make casseroles, eating cooking chocolate is the closest I get.

But this chocolate is dark. It is darker than a comedy written by Chris Morris and Charlie Brooker. And it's bitter. It is bitterer than Bertie Magoo, the bitter blue city fan, after realising that city last won a trophy 31 years ago, the year Elvis died.

I slave over the bowl, mixing thoroughly.I miss the bit in X-Men2 where Halle Berry goes all albino and Hugh Jackman takes his shirt off.

After taking legal advice, I decided to remove the poisoned muffin. This, I am told, would constitute manslaughter if I had an expensive lawyer and murder if I got a cheap lawyer.

Why am I baking? It is my Birthday on Saturday and I am fullfilling the time honoured British tradition of giving my co-workers high cholesterol as my Birthday present to them all. It is a 9 birthday this year so the next 12 months will be spent worrying, fretting and pulling what is left of my hair out as I approach a big 0 and the inevitable decline into older middle age. And, if reading Swallows and Amazons when I was 10 hadn't put me off books for life, I would have posted my Amazon Wishlist.

Your Flexible Friend

2006-11-07T08:59:00.000Z

There are many stages to go through when you're running late for work.

First is the fear - "Oh my God! That means I can't leave till 5 tonight" at which point you look :(

And then comes denial - "If I run for that tram I'll only be a couple of minutes late."

And then finally acceptance - "Screw it, if I'm five minutes late who cares? It's not like my work is important. I'm probably only going to spend the first hour blogging anyway. In that case, I may as well stop for a coffee."

So with that in mind, I walk into Starbucks holding a crisp ten pound note and join the two person queue just as some guy leaves the cash register. "You have forgotten your card!" says the cashier in a strange Anglo-German-American-Australian twang (Mental Note: I must go on a course for recognising accents - it turned out the 'Austrian' Trainer from the other week was from Isreal). "It's still authorising...."

We wait and the queue grows.

"Technology today, it's supposed to make life easier isn't it?" she says trying to make small talk. Her comments fall on deaf ears as he is too busy using his Blackberry. She takes my order.

We wait some more and the queue reaches the door.

The woman two behind me tuts loudly. Although, since she is wearing a knee length skirt, mid calf boots and just below the knee socks, which show a shocking two inches of lilly white knee / leg, she is no place to criticise anyone. However, since I am wearing my emergency back-of-the-wardrobe-goes-with-every-suit-I-own shirt I am probably manning the catapult next to her in the glass house. (I am wearing this shirt due to a) a toothpaste incident with the shirt I was supposed to wear and b) it was supposed to be laundry weekend last weekend)

"This doesn't seem to be working...." she says.

We wait some more.

Now I put down what happened next to either the fact that they've started using the Red Christmas cups and the spirit of the season came over me or the fact that my drink is getting cold on the end of the counter; "How much is it?" I say, "I've just been to the cash machine and I don't mind paying for it if it gets things moving."

"Well I can pay cash if that's easier" says the guy. There is a stunned silence as he gets a roll of about 20 ten pound notes out of his pocket and takes one off.

I finally get my drink; it's cold.

Economy 7

2006-11-02T14:47:00.000Z

It's the coldest day of the year so far - I know this because I had to give a Brass Monkey directions to a welders - and my legs are aching from football. I wake up feeling lethargic.

And then my heater, today of all days, decides that instead of running a normal weekday program of putting the heating and hot water on at 05:45, it's going to pretend that it's Saturday.

This is double-y cruel because, not only was it very cold, but it rubbed my nose in it by reminding me, while standing shivering, that I have to go to work today.

If you know why it would do that then press the red button now but make sure you have the bill payers permission.

Phones4U

2006-10-31T21:01:00.000Z

My Mobile Phone rings!!!

My Canadian Girlfriend is in a meeting all day, my Little Sister is still on pay as you go so if she needed to talk to me I'd get a text saying "Ring me!" and my Dad's at a Funeral. If it's not them that is calling then who could it be?

I answer with great anticipation!

"Hello is Steve from the Toyota Dealership! How are you?"

"I'm doing ok." I answer nervously wondering why he has called.

"Are you still going to the football?" he says. I search my memory trying to remember if I've gived a fellow FC United Supporter my phone number. I can't remember anything.

I conclude that two years ago when I purchased my Yaris, I must've mentioned football and that got written down on an Excel Spreadsheet / Post-it Note and now it's being used as some form of Jedi Mind Trick to try and make me think that this guy is my friend and that I should buy a new car I neither need nor want. Of course it could have been a lucky guess.

"I go when I can." I reply trying to be as vague as possible so as not to give them enough detail so that I can be properly profiled.

"Is the Yaris ok? Because we've got some wonderful deals on '06 Yarises this weekend" he says. I had always thought the plural would have been Yari but he would know best.

"Well I'd love a new one but still haven't paid it all off...." I say leaving a trailling silence and setting him up for a punchline.

"We can sort that out, don't you worry about that. Is it Toytoa Finance or is it a loan from a bank or another company? Because we can sort all that out for you and then just include that in any future deals. We'll even do it at 0% finance so you don't end up paying interest on the interest." I can actually hear the pound signs rolling in his eyeballs.

"It's a loan from my Dad." I say which is met with dead silence.

"Oh we can't pay that off. Have a nice day."

And he hangs up.

Train Tracks

2006-10-26T10:49:00.000+01:00

Random thoughts from my Training Course:

The fella that is teaching this sounds an awful lot like my Austrian Friend. But slightly more French. So would that make him Swiss?
Why did someone at work ring me and tell me they won't be coming in today because they're sick? I'm not their boss and I'm not even in the office.
They better not serve muffins and danish pastries at both coffee breaks.
Why when he talks about a "Server Farm", do I have a picture of all these little black boxes in a field grazing?
He does sound an awful lot like "The Governator" circa Total Recall, maybe he is Austrian. I keep expecting to hear "Consider this a divorce!"
I wonder what someone who looks after a "Server Farm" is called - a "Server Shepherd"?
I am sitting next to a Scouse, which means I have to put my wallet in my left hand pocket, which is really off putting - cos I keep thinking it's gone when it's not in my right hand pocket.
Why do people go on a training course when they already think they know more than the trainer?
I can't believe that fella is wearing an England football shirt to a training course. And for two days running!
You may all want a 30 minute break for lunch but some of us were planning on going to see our Canadian Girlfriends during lunch
If I've only learnt one thing from this course it is that stick cricket is much easier to play undercover than Blast Billiards.

Normal service is resumed on Tuesday when I'll be able to type without the trainer looking at me funny.

Come fly with me

2006-10-24T11:04:00.000+01:00

I get up at some God-foresaken hour and sleep walk into the car. "I wonder how best to describe such an early hour in my Blog?" I think to myself. "I could call it un-earthly, stupid o'clock, daft AM and I could say that I didn't even know there was a 6AM on a Sunday. In fact what if I was to Blog about thinking about what to Blog. How post-modern would that be?" I slam on the brakes to avoid a Gatso.

I reach the airport and find to my dismay that not only has there not been a delivery of "Observer"s yet but the coffee shop is so far from opening that the coffee beans are still growing. The state of air travel today is very poor. I slump in the blue airport lounge chair and jump up again as it cracks my spine into a normal shape from the "hunched over a computer all day" look.

And then people start arriving. I stand there, still in my pyjamas, next to an Hotel taxi driver in his three piece suit. His perfectly crafted and laminated sign saying "Hilton" makes my qucikly scribbled "John 3:16" sign look un-professional. Although I think mine is funnier.

My Canadian Girlfriend appears! I run towards her and we engage in the normal airport reunion thing. "None of your pets are dead!" I shout triumphantly; ignoring the fact that she doesn't have any pets.

"So what have you been up to since we last spoke." she says as we head to the car.

"Not much" I reply, which is a lie. I have decided that now is not the time to tell her that my major acheivement of the past few days is that I have successfully edited my "5 Celebs I'm allowed to sleep with" list. (Claire Danes, Sarah Michelle Gellar, Eliza Dushku, Georgie Thompson and Joy from My Name is Earl)

We battle through Manchester's famous "Shroedinger's Weather" - It is simultaneously raining and not raining - and arrive at her flat. The jet lag must've hit her pretty hard as she dragged me straight to bed as soon as we walked in.

Working time directive

2006-10-19T10:08:00.000+01:00

I decide to have a lie in!

I am working from home today, waiting for the last piece of my wardrobe to be delivered - I only ordered this back in December so I am not holding my breath for it to arrive today. I think I'll roll over and have another couple of snoozes.

I bet no one has ever thought about having a lie in when they're working from home.

Hmmm, it's coffee time but it looks like the cafetiere is dirty and if I'm washing that up then it'd be rude not do the other few dishes wouldn't it? And I wouldn't want to annoy the dishes. Last dish I got on the wrong side went to Brighton to set up a love shack with a spoon. Thankfully, this time, there is no spoon.

I bet no one has ever thought about doing the washing up when they're working from home.

"What is it about working from home that makes housework seems so appealing?" I think as I pull the vacuum out. Housework seems fun today, maybe it's the fact that I know I shouldn't be doing this. It's the danger of it all! What if I got found out?

I draw the curtains.

I bet no one has ever done the vacuuming while they're working from home.

I like the idea of being able to work in my Pyjamas, however the last time I suggested we do it at work, the women in the marketing department were innundated with meeting requests and I ended up in an all day training session with the Porters. But it's approaching midday and I suppose I better put some proper clothes on. The iron glides across my t-shirt and I realise that I am enjoying this. Maybe that's the answer to making house work fun - only do it when you're supposed to be doing something less interesting and more painful. So next time I'm asked to "talk about my feelings" I'll whip that ironing board out so fast.

I bet no one has ever done the ironing while they're working from home.

Oooo, I know what I'll do now. My weightlifting gloves are falling apart and need a few stitches putting in them. I get out the needle and thread and after putting about a dozen stitches in, it strikes me that a picture of me sitting here with a needle, thread and weightlifting gloves could be used in the future as the exact definition of metrosexuality.

I bet no one has ever done some sewing while they're working from home.

I sit down at my computer and begin doing some work.

I bet no one has ever done any work while they're working from home.

The doorbell rings.

Things to do in Denver before you're dead

2006-10-17T08:59:00.000+01:00

My Canadian Girlfriend has gone home to Canada for a week. She claims it's to see her family and visit her newly born nephew. I think it's because she wants to see some of the new series of My Name is Earl before I do. So with the Ball and Chain gone, I am able to relax and do things that normally I would not be able to:

Overschedule my time - on Saturday, I went to the gym, the supermarket, Starbucks, the football and the cinema. My Canadian Girlfriend has a tendency to sit me down in front of the telly and make me relax.
Obtain two small cuts of unknown origin on my forehead without it turning into an international incident involving sticking plasters and cross examination of anyone who has been within 10 feet of me.
Do a sudoku without having helpful numbers shouted at me and not complete the Manchester Evening News crossword by myself rather than not complete it with someone's help.
Be able to sit and enjoy a coffee without feeling the constant pressure to criticise every outfit every person has on either sitting in the store or walking by the window.
Have some covers when sleeping. Anyone who says women are the weaker sex hasn't tried to wrestle the covers off them in the middle of the night. She'd give Hulk Hogan a run for his money.
Surf Porn in peace. There's nothing more distracting than having her standing over my shoulder saying stuff like "Oh those are so fake!" and "Those shoes are hiddeous"
Eat lots and lots of plums. Since not only am I Canadian-Girlfriend-less this week but I am also in an empty office all week, so the undesirable effect they have on my bowles will go un-noticed.
Rent some proper DVDs like "something with Her from Friends in, you know who - the skinny one" from Amazon rather than the girly comedies like Bullet Boy, Battle Royale and City of God, she has me watching.
Clean the Bathroom, do the Washing Up and Iron. Yeah thanks a lot for giving me the time to do that one.

Super Cally go Ballistic, Celtic are attrotious

2006-10-12T16:33:00.000+01:00

"So let's talk tactics..." says my Austrian friend and the boss of our 5-a-side team. It was very much in vogue to appoint foreign managers about ten years ago and since we're playing in Bolton and they tend to be a good few years behind the trends, we thought we'd appoint him as boss. And he also owns the ball we practise with.

"Well I reckon I should start on the bench" I say until it is pointed out to me that as Goalkeeper not only am I'm going to have start but I'm going to have to play the entire game. This is my first competitive 5-a-side game since 2000. The last really competitive game I played was a quarter final of my Unviersity's Trophy for teams finishing 5th-8th in their leagues. A kind of Uefa cup but sponsored by the Balti King by the Slug and Bucket.

You can smell the fear in our team before we even start. Since we have never played together as a team and the majority of our team are over 30 we are starting in the bottom division. Nerves are frayed as we walk onto the pitch to face Locamotiv Leigh and notice that none of their team even seems to be old enough to shave let alone play football. We are gonna be given the run around here.

"This is what it's all about Reds, feel the atmosphere!!!" I say as the one supporter coughs, "Where else would you rather be?"

"Actually," my Scottish team mate replies "I'd rather be bathing my young'un"

"Well if you're really missing it, you can bath me later" our mentally challenged City supporting team mate says.

At half time, the score is 8-6 to us and according to the Ref it's 'the sort of football I'd pay to watch'. I've shouted so much that I sound pre-pubescent. The second half is a bit more one sided and we run out 20-10 winners in what I think represents a decent score. For American football that is. Or the first two minutes of a basketball game.

In the end we played excellently, despite me giving away a penalty which could've seen me done for Actual Bodily Harm and me deflecting a shot which was going way over the bar into the back of the net and me letting a shot slip under my hands from their token fat player. The aches and pains I am feeling today though are testament to how much extra effort you put in when there's something to play for. Even if that something is promotion from the bottom division the Wednesday night league and your own engraved plastic trophy.

End of the day, we were the better team and in the our superior football skills told out. And if that's the case then we as a nation really need a Government sponsored task force of celebrities (since they know everything), like Harry Hill and Debbie Mcgee, to look into why kids today aren't learning decent football skills and can't beat a bunch of old men.

Or Macedonia.

Or Croatia.

Pumpkin Pie

2006-10-10T10:44:00.000+01:00

We are walking past Next in the slightly less new than the new bit of the Manchester Arndale on a Sunday afternoon. I must admit, I don't really like the "New Arndale", I was a fan of the old orange toilet-wall-like bricks. They gave the building some character. But now we have to go down the same route as every other place in the world and get our buildings from the Ikea flat pack of red brick, grey plastic and glass.

"So how'd you fancy celebrating Canadian Thanksgiving with some Turkey tonight?" I say to my Canadian Girlfriend.

She looks slightly bemused. She looks like she looked when I explained that "Fred" Flintoff and Andy Flintoff were the same person and weren't brothers or twins.

"It is Thanksgiving on Monday isn't it? Well I thought as a surprise, I'd make a Thanksgiving Dinner" I say smugly.

She smiles and leaps for joy. She looks as happy as she did in Hotel Chocolat when the sample tray emerged from the back of the shop.

"That'd be great. But that means Monday's a Public Holiday at home and I'm gonna miss it. I wonder if I can take the day off for Religious reasons." she muses, looking as sad as she did after her fifth failed attempt to explain Football's off-side rule back to me.

And it made me think, we are woefully short of Public Holidays in England - we only have 8. Spain and Portugal have 14 Public Holidays and even the United States has 13 (Source - the TUC), which is more than most workers get in statutory leave. So we need at least three more bank holidays in the UK.

Current Bank Holidays are too bunched up at the moment so we also need to do something to spread them out. To make sure we spread them out, I suggest having one of the extra ones in February or March - one possibility is Pancake Day, a much better option than Valentines Day.

The other one would need to be at the end of the year - How about Remembrance Day? It would be a nice start date for the Christmas celebrations and give everyone the time to sit back and reflect on the sacrifice that those brave young men blah blah blah. (It also happens to be my Birthday)

So that only leaves one day. It would be nice to have one at the height of the Summer. Probably not in early August since everyone and their dog is already off work taking their Brats to Magaluf. June is too early plus there are already two in May. So mid-July it is, during the Twenty20 league stage.

But I don't like the idea of having a new Bank Holiday and not having a specific reason for it, it just seems a bit odd. How about we have an Independence Day? It makes perfect sense doesn't it? Now all we need to do is co-ordinate the overthrowing of the Royal Family during the second weekend in July and then we'll be all set.

Keep the red flag flying high

2006-10-05T11:29:00.000+01:00

We protest!

We are not on one of these hippy crap protests, where 20,000 people stand around and engage in the 19th minute's silence of the afternoon, this time in memory of "our repressed brothers and sisters who are growing up on the mean streets of Bowden, Cheshire". We are doing our protest properly; there are only two of us and we are at Blackburn vs Red Bull Salzburg.

My Austrian Friend (I do not have many English Friends) and I are sitting outside Ewood Park, putting the world to rights. "All football fans are stupid." I say, exculding us because we are, to use the vernacular, clued up. "I mean they put up with so much shit from their team and they do nothing. They have kick offs at 6AM on a Friday because that's peak viewing in Thailand and they have to pay £45 for the honour of watching Charlton and Bolton play out a 0-0 draw in the rain while wearing their sweatshop-made £39.99 replica shirt."

"Well that's all down to the rampant commercialisation of the game...." he says as we put down our McDonalds and head towards the ground.

"But part of the problem is that people just don't realise what is going on." he says as we walk past three knob-heads in jester hats. "It's like at work, people will be treated horribly and just sit there and take it. Years ago if this sort of thing happened everyone would've got up and walked out. Not only are people being shafted now-a-days but they're bending over, accepting it, telling the shafter how much the like it and then going ass to mouth. All because they're worried they'll get sacked and Little Johnny won't be able to get a new DVD this month".

We reach the only logical conclusion and blame everything on a mix of Rupert Murdoch and Margaret Thatcher.

Inside the ground, our protest banner - "Hate Red Bull, Glazer, Sky and Modern Football" - is met with ignorance and apathy. It takes me five attempts just to convince the Stewards that the Red Bull team Blackburn are playing doesn't come from Strasbourg but Salzburg.

I even have to explain why I hate modern football. (Although thanks to Rio Ferdinand continuing to make an ass of himself it is getting a lot easier) On the plus side - we are fighting back. Manchester United have asked me why I didn't renew my season ticket and rather than writing an essay about the ills of the modern game, I summed it up elloquently in seven simple words.

"Malcom Fucking Glazer and his Bastard Sons."

Police Camera Action!

2006-09-26T09:23:00.000+01:00

I return from the gym to be greeted by a Policeman standing in the car park. He looks like he has some form of disability which is causing his neck to be all crooked and his head is twisted like he is trying to eat a chocolate treat off his left shoulder blade. My mind races through the things I have recently done which may warrant a visit from the police:

I put a bit of carpet in someone else's skip (Immoral not illegal)
I honked Perky, My Canadian Girlfriend's Left Boob, while she was talking to the women, utside the Labour Party Conference, protesting about not treating women like objects (Just plain funny)
I drove at 75 mph on the Motorway (Illegal but not likely to require a home visit)
I have never let Nectarines "Ripen in Fruit Bowl" as instructed by the label (I'm sure it's against my Human Rights to have to obey instructions given by fruit)
I conducted an act of sexual harassment by looking up the trouser leg of a big purple inflatable gorilla to see if it was anatomically correct. (It was an androgynous blow up monkey, so no crime there then)
My Canadian Girlfriend never buys a ticket on the Tram and she could've been arrested (Not sure I could afford the bail plus some time in the slammer would teach her good)
I have comitted genocide against Spiders (This would be nice as I've always wanted to see the Hague)

I conclude that if he is here to see me then he must have come to instruct me to cross the solid white line in the middle of the road in the course of his duty. "Is there a Flat 72 here?" he says.

"No" I reply, remembering my "hostile witness" training about not giving too much away during cross examination. I notice that his van is parked in Flat 15's reserved spot, I am assuming he does not live there. I castigate him in my head for it. After all, the Police are not above the law.

"Bloody people thinking they're having a laugh ringing 999 and sending us to the wrong address. If it's not them it's neighbourly disputes - 'Arrest him Officer!' - when all he's done is knock a dog out by throwing a can of baked beans at it. Do they not realise the paperwork I'd have to do..." he continues, sounding like an entry in Coppersblog, "I could be sitting in a lay-by drinking tea from a polystyrene cup."

Still, I think, it must beat standing in the G-Mex car park making sure those anti-war tree hugging pacifists don't drive an electric powered car, packed with a naturally ocurring fertilizer bomb into the Labour Conference. He resumes his disfigured stance and talks to a little black pixie on his shoulder.

"Hang on - I mean is there a number 64 here?" he says. I can see how easy that would be to mix up. I show him where the flat is and he rushes off, climbing the stairs three at a time. I sit by my window with my mobile phone's video camera on hoping I can get a decent video for YouTube.

An Inconvenient Truth

2006-09-26T08:46:00.000+01:00

I rush out Al Gore's movie with a sudden urge to do something. There is no queue for the bathroom so thankfully I can do what I need to do. I wash my hands making sure to use the minimum amount of water from the tap making sure that everyone in Bangladesh now has enough drinking water for the next few years.

I go to dry my hands and there is only a paper towel dispenser and paper is bad because it comes from trees. We need trees because they are like Canadian Girlfriends. They look pretty and do useful things for us which often go unnoticed and without them we'd die. Trees also provide good homes for Beavers.

I do feel motivated to do something though, which is a strange feeling. The last film I saw about Global Warming was Waterworld and the only thing I wanted to do after that was to search out Kevin Costner and make him pay for stealing a portion of my life I'll never get back. But my Private Life is already pretty green so I'm not sure what more I can do. I take public transport and only drive about 5,000 miles a year in a Yaris which does an amazing 40+ MPG. I recycle although I have a nasty feeling that most of the stuff I recycle probably ends up in a landfill.

And we must do something quick. The most harrowing graphic in the entire film was one he showed of Florida disappearing under the rising sea levels. It was traumatic and disturbing. My Canadian Girlfriend's Parent's Condo was submerged. We need to do everything in our power to try and find a quick fix. We are not planning on going there until the new year and I cannot swim. We cannot let the ice caps melt.

So maybe I can make some changes at work. Rather than printing out Agendas for loads of people coming to all my pointless meetings, I will take a projector and laptop and thus cut down the paper I produce. Hmmm, but having a projector and laptop sitting on the desk all through the meeting eating up electricity is not good either. The electricity will come from burning Coal or Oil and that is nearly as bad as generating electricity from a kitten incinerator.

So paper's bad and electricity's bad.

I'm probably going to feel guilty whatever I do.

This must be what it feels like to be Catholic.

Under siege!

2006-09-21T09:49:00.000+01:00

They could strike within 45 minutes and could cause unknown havoc. And that is the truth, it has not been sexed up or anything.

Although I'll put a tough face on it in public, in private I'll admit that I really didn't know what I was getting myself into. I mean who would have thought that two weeks later I'd still be stood here and be involved in a seemingly never ending conflict?

After the first one I thought it would be a walk in the park. We had a bit of a laugh and I even did that speach on the USS Abraham Lincoln saying that the war was over.

And now here I am two weeks later, still shaking out every item of clothing before putting it on and wearing my shoes in the house messing up my carpet but on the plus side - I have taken the spider death count up to 6.

Number 1: Picked up in tissue paper and drowned by my Canadian Girlfriend.
Number 2: Slaughtered using the Manchester Evening News and then vacuumed up after trying to hide in the pile of workout clothes I had just washed (and then had to wash again because there were spider bits everywhere)
Number 3: Sucked up by the vacuum after trying to hide in the corner of the room.
Number 4: I'd had enough by this point so this one was shown no mercy. As it ran across the floor towards the coffee table, I just dropped the Ikea Catalogue on its head.
Number 5: A tough little S.O.B. After hiding under my desk and refusing to come out despite being prodded with a clothes hanger by My Canadian Girlfriend, we used the old bait and bash trick on it. I stood by the door and as it ran menacingly towards me with me backing away, it was sucked up in the vacuum by My Canadian Girlfriend who was lying in wait for it.
Number 6: I felt bad about this one - like I'd crossed some sort of line. It was on the wing mirror this morning when I set off to work. It hung on for quite a while until I went round a mini roundabout and then it was flung off. So there is actually a point to those little white things on the road.

It's not Steve Steve

2006-09-19T09:18:00.000+01:00

"This wouldn't have happened if your Dad had been allowed to buy you that Sat Nav would it?" My Canadian Girlfriend asks as we sit in the car on a hilly back street in the centre of Oldham, which has been race riot free for five days. I have driven with my Dad while he has the Sat Nav on and since he, like 99.9% car owners, is an above average driver the Sat Nav is pretty useless. Especially since he always knows where everything is and what the quickest route to get there is all while the female voice is pleading with him to turn the car around at the next possible opportunity.

A woman walks by in a pink furry Ten Gallon Hat, a denim skirt and Cowboy boots. We look for the Rodeo on the map.

"Why don't we just park up and have a walk around and see if we can get our bearings better?" she says turning the map a full 360 degrees looking for clues.

"There it is" I say spotting the restaurant immediately. In making a series of random turns dictated by the one way system and having a "feeling" about them meant that not only have we turned up next to the restaurant but also on the right side of it for the car park.

We are fashionably early and are the first people there (Technically we are not the first people there as there are many other people in the restaurant and double technically, we're not even the first people of our group to get there - I've just never met the people that beat us here.)

We sit down looking forward to a fun, enjoyable and light hearted night out.

"While we've got a minute, maybe we can have a chat about when you're gonna come over to meet my Parents?" My Canadian Girlfriend says. I mumble something incoherent. Then the Birthday Girl (or Birthday Sheila as she is Australian) shows up. The rest of the night passes off without incident apart from finding out that the girl sitting opposite us is wearing a nicotine patch on her left breast.

Every Little Helps

2006-09-14T15:19:00.000+01:00

Dear Mr Tesco,

Firstly, I would like to congratulate you on a wonderful series of stores throughout the UK. I am a regular parton of yours and have been ever since I started working in a building that overlooked one of your stores. Although I think it's only right that I point out that I actually do most of my shopping at Sainsburys. This is mainly because I like Nectar points because I can use them on tat from Argos. My Girlfriend will be the first to tell you that I am far from perfect.

I am mainly writing to you to thank you for the wonderful new thing you have introduced at my local store. You see I am one of those people who likes being told what I have to do. I hate having to make choices. If you ask me if I want salmon or chicken for tea - I normally answer either. I am very indecisive.

I like it when supermarkets put the milk at the back of the store so I am reminded of all the other things I didn't know I needed - this is very helpful and the reason I often come out of them with 4 pints of skimmed milk, shaving foam, four bagels and a microwave. I am also thankful for the way celebrities tell me what to think and what to eat and how the doctor tells me which way to turn and cough.

I like it when I'm told what to do and what to think.

But I digress. I was really writing to thank you for painting the two big white feet by the cash machine of my local Tesco. They are very helpful as they instruct me exactly how far back I should stand from the cash machine when someone else is using it and also show me which direction I should be facing. The person that invented them is a genius and should be employee of the month. I think they should be given a raise and some more stock options!

It is these sorts of innovations that keep you at the top of the Supermarket ladder!!!!!

However, I have one question. Why are the feet so big? I am a size 10 (or an 11 if I'm shopping at River Island). But these feet are massive. Some of the women I know who have tiny little feet which they slip into tiny little stilletos will feel dwarfed by these big white feet and it may put them off using the cash machine or shopping at Tesco completely. This is something neither of us want - is it?

I am extremely worried about this and would welcome your feedback.

Yours,
MB

P.S. I noticed in this picture that my shoes need shining and I'll be doing this just as soon as I remember to buy some shoe polish - which I'll get from Tesco of course. Or maybe Sainsbury's. I haven't decided yet.

P.P.S. In case you are wondering - everything is in proportion with the size 10 shoes ;)

Eight legged freaks

2006-09-12T08:54:00.001+01:00

Right, let's see what's on the schedule for today:

1. Spin a web.
2. Have a scuttle across the floor.
3. Visit Harry and Jo.
4. Eat fly.

I've heard MB's house is a nice place to have a scuttle. I like having a good scuttle. If he's out then maybe I'll have a good flick through the Argos catalogue and order some of those vacuum sealed tupperware.

But if he's in then we can have some real fun! And I can do some scaring.

Ah ha! I know those over-sized feet with a big toe that's about 2 cm shorter than the next toe. I think I'll run towards it. Ah that girlish scream is music to my ears. This must be what Human's feel like when they listen to Bjork or Darius. Yeah, that's right lift them feet up! Squeal Piggy!!!! Hey little girl, maybe I should just run under the sofa where you're sitting - what would you do then? On second thoughts I'll just stand here and cut you off from the door to the vacuum cleaner. What you gonna do now big boy?????

Muhahahaha!

Hang on! What's this I hear? Oh no! It's the clip clop of "painful to wear but too stylish to take back or to put on ebay" shoes. MB's Canadian Girlfriend must be round. Oh Bollocks. Well I guess this is it, from what I've heard she's an evil little sod so no chance of getting thrown out of the window.

Tissue Paper??? This is new. Normally we just get some face time with Mr Magazine. Hmmm, this is comfy. I'll just have a wriggle around and see if I can get loose. Now it's all wet.

What's that noise?
Is she's flushing me down the toilet?
That's a bit of a shit way to go.

Still I'll have the last laugh. What they don't know is that two more of my friends will be popping out to see them tonight.

Avenge my death Simba!

Movers and Shakers

2006-09-08T10:23:00.000+01:00

"Ok, so everything goes," my dad says pointing to the garage as he starts the engine of the Volvo ready to go anywhere that isn't somewhere where someone is moving heavy goods "the fridge, the sofa, the washing machine, the little bed, the big bed and the flat packed wardrobe."

"What? We're not taking the kitchen sink?" I ask in a sardonic manner. Of course, what I didn't realise is that there actually was a kitchen sink in the garage and my mother's refusal to let him take it to the tip on August Bank Holiday (because "it may come in handy") and the subsequent argument was the reason he had to watch "Ann Maurice: Interior Rivalry" in the bedroom rather than the living room.

We load the van but only manage to get 3/4 of the stuff in. This will need two trips. "We're gonna need a bigger boat!" I say making a cute pop culture reference. My Little Sister and My Canadian Girlfriend groan and slam the doors of a car and a van, respectively. And we drive to Hull stopping only once to get coffee, served by a girl that was one turkey twizler short of a Jamie Oliver school dinner.

We unload the sofa. "This is quite cool, I'm the one that is moving, yet I don't seem to be doing any of the work!" My Little Sister says as she arranges the cushions on the reclining chair. My Canadian Girlfriend and I begin to wilt under the weight of the sofa. My Little Sister plugs the TV in.

"Usually when you say that you start carrying stuff." I whisper to My Canadian Girlfried as we walk out of the house to fetch the little bed and My Little Sister sits down to catch the start of the England Game.

The trip back to Manchester is more exciting. And by exciting I mean edge of the seat nearly shitting yourself scary. And by edge of the seat nearly shitting yourself scary I mean could at any moment plunge to a firey flamey doom off the side of the motorway.

I have seen rain before and I have seen heavy rain before and I have driven in heavy rain before. But I have never been so terrified behind the wheel as I was crossing the highest point on the M62 at Saddleworth Moor. Visability was low and conditions were bad, so bad in fact that when cars decided to tailgate me I didn't even slam on the brakes to test them and see if they were paying attenion. The four anti-travel sickness pills My Canadian Girlfriend had taken began to kick in and she difts off into a drug enduced haze.

I clung to the wheel, closed my eyes and prayed. For the first time in my life, I was happy to see Prestwich. We were nearly home. Having survived the rain and filled the tank up with diesel, we go to load up.

"There's no way we can move the fridge." I say.

After much weighing up of the odds, the pros and cons and the fridge, we tentatively lift it. "This isn't bad" My Canadian Girlfriend says. I smile and nod as the metal edge digs further into my hands. The doors of the fridge fall open. "Let's lift it the other way round" she says. I'm just glad to put it down. Eventually we reach the van and slide the fridge in.

"There's no way we can move the washing machine." she says moving the dead hanging basket off the top of it. I agree.

Back to Hull. "So what would you do with her House?" my Canadian Girlfriend asks.

"Oooh, glad you asked. Is there any chance I could record the voice over in six months after the redevelopment like Sarah Beeney does so I always look like I get stuff right?" I reply

"No"

"What about doing two takes where I say one thing and then say the exact opposite and we'll keep whichever proves to be exactly what the estate agent says. That way I make myself look like a smug know-it-all?"

"No"

"Right well I'd move the bathoom upstairs but you'd still have to retain two good sized bedrooms. And I'd turn what used to the be the bathroom into a study and throw a futon in there so you've got a room that could be used for guests. Although in Hull - just having an inside toilet adds value so there may be no need to move the bathroom. Just a lick of paint and turn it around quick sharp."

We reach Hull and unload the big matress. We get it half way up the stairs. "What if we do this?" I say to My Canadian Girlfriend making a wiggly movement with my hand.

"I'd rather do that." she replies making a slightly different bendy movement. "But we can do it your way." We do it my way and it gets stuck. "Wanna do it my way?" she asks and the matress slides into the bedroom with the minimum of effort. I suppose that this explains why I sleep on the left hand side of the bed, because even in her sleep she's always right.

We collapse in a heap, back in the van. 2 hours more driving to do and we'll be home just after midnight. On the plus side, I get to "lie in" until 7:30am so I can get up in time to take the van back.

And I don't care what Morgan Spurlock says, there is a time and a place for McDonalds and it's 10pm in Hull after a day of moving.

White van man

2006-09-06T08:43:00.000+01:00

I put the Guardian inside the Daily Mirror and put that under my arm. I pull my baseball cap down and 'look mean'. I wait for the keys to the Transit and look forward to spening the day as a real man. My name is called, I look up and answer "'S me bud."

I sit in the van surveying the view from the high driving position. I grip the gear stick and wiggle it from side to side. I push it forwards, clench my biscep and slide it into first. I must not stall this. So far, no one at the rental place thinks that I am the sort of man who panics when he's running low on moisturiser. I slide the clutch up and the van pulls off slowly. So far so good. I perform a tentative three point turn in the car park and I'm away.

As I relax into the driving, I am overcome by an urge. It's difficult to put into words. It was like I felt a force surrounding me and taking me over. This is very strange, I suddenly don't feel like I have any control over my actions. My entire life feels like it has been given over to a higher power and I am helpless. I cannot help myself. All it needs is a trigger.

"Facking ell mate!" I scream out of the window in my best Jamie Oliver to a guy who as just given up his right of way so someone can reverse parallel park, "Where do you get your liscense? Kelloggs?"

So the vans are to blame!

I pull up outside my Canadian Girlfriend's flat and she walks out. She looks.... different.

"Well if you're gonna put your chav-a-wear on so am I. And since I moved here I never get a chance to wear these big hooped earings."

"And I suppose that's also why you've got your pony tail is off centre?"

"Erm, no. That would be a mistake."

We make our way through the back streets of Manchester towards my parents. It's vitally important that we get underway as soon as possible, the forecast is not good. We have a lot of stuff to do. There could be two van loads here. We can't afford to get held up in traffic or get bogged down in anything. If we do have to make two trips, we'll be lucky to get back by midnight. We must be on the ball!

"C'mon in" says my Mother. "I've just boiled the kettle. I'll put some toast on."

Rent a car

2006-09-01T22:35:00.000+01:00

I sit on the tram wearing my full Chav gear of tracksuit bottoms and Addias t-shirt, holding the new Argos home catalogue, the paper part of my driver's license, proof of address, myDenver Broncos hat, £300 in cash and a tin of condensed milk. I think back to last weekend when this weekend started in earnest.

"Are you doing anything next weekend?" my Sister said.

Fully expecting to be offered company for Snakes on a Plane or to be given the excuse to have a take away, I say "No not really doing anything."

"Well I'm moving back to Hull next weekend and I need someone to drive the truck." she says. Right now, I suddenly remember everything I have to do - shopping, cricket and well anything else but helping a family member move house. "Dad's got in early with his excuse and him and Mum are going to meet our big Sister and babysit for her."

Damn, what a good excuse. There are two kids and two of them, maybe I should go as injury cover just in case one of them pops a shoulder out.

So a week full of typical house buying activity followed - purchasing cupboards, buying beds, finding out that there won't be a cooker, waiting three extra hours for the keys because the person they were buying the house off forgot to drop them off with the Landlord and ended up taking them to Wakefield and of course they leave it till the last minute to get the Van booked.

After being surprised that after a dozen phone calls she can't book a Transit Van with 2 days notice, my sister phones me with the news that the van is booked. So I am travelling to my Canadian Girlfriend's house, who conveniently lives within walking distance of the Van Hire place. Which is her second best assest. After her breasts.

Now it would be very easy to start making jokes about Britain's "Crap Town" Hull like saying that although it's not the end of the world - you can see it from there. Is it the sort of place that the seagulls actually fly upside down and an atom bomb would do £100,000s worth of improvements? I had heard that it's so shit there, Starbucks only opened 35 coffee shops and that after losing the title of Britain's fattest city to Bradford, they have been staging open air pie guzzling championships every third Sunday.

But to tell you the truth, I've never been there and I'm quite looking forward to seeing if it is actually worse than Stockport.

Deliverance

2006-08-31T10:04:00.000+01:00

"Your Sister is your Mother! Your Father is your Brother!"

The tune of the Addams Family rings out loud and true from Football's loudest "End", the Manchester Road End at Gigg Lane. FC United, the club formed for the only reason of creating one English Club which wouldn't have Rio Ferdinand in their team, are known throughout the land as being one of the best supported and having the nicest fans in the country. However, I know this one isn't going to end well.

"You all fuck one another. The Flixton Family."

I look indignant. I give a sullen shake of my head.

"It's not true!" I said to my Canadian Girlfriend. "We're not inbred! There's no Luke and Leia's in Flixton."

"Well, if there were, that would explain your Mother's webbed feet." she said.

"My Mum doesn't have webbed feet. They're skanky and look like one big corn but I don't think they're webbed. Let's check shall we." I say getting my mobile out. "Hey sis, quick question. Does Mum have webbed feet?"

"I don't think so but I'll check." My Sister distantly shouts, being too lazy to get up and walk anywhere, "Mum do you have webbed feet?... MB's Canadian Girlfriend... Ok... No she doesn't."

"Thanks sis." I hang up the phone. "No she doesn't have webbed feet."

"Y'know you didn't have to check, eh?" says my Canadian Girlfriend turning red, I presume because of the heat. "I won't have upset your Mum will I?"

"Nah, she doesn't get upset. She'll rip the piss out of you and never let you forget it - like that time I was 6 and fell asleep in my dinner on holiday in Cyprus - but she won't be offended. Oh and that time I insisted on wearing my jeans and a sweater even though it was 30C outside."

Anyway, my Mum was born in St. Albans.

Excess Baggage

2006-08-29T10:36:00.000+01:00

We approach airport security without a care in the world.

"Excuse me sir can you put that bag here!" says one of the many crack security experts partolling Manchester Airport.

My Dad places his bag on top of a magazine rack / ash tray like contraption expecting to get searched. This would make sense as he fits the stereotype of a terrorist - he has a beard.

"It's supposed to slip in an out of that!" she says pointing to the box that is about a third the size of his bag. He takes his sweater out and his jacket out. He squashes the bag and puts his foot on the top of it and pushes it into the box. "Hmmmm, OK, It's supposed to slide in an out easily. I'll let you off this time." she says.

He picks up the bag by the handle and brings the entire magazine rack / ash tray with him. I make a mental note of bagsy-ing a new 22 by 18 by 10 flight bag for my Dad's Christmas present.

We go through the gate and my bag gets pulled for a "random" search. It is about now I realise that however many times Fleet Street reporters manage to get explosives into airports, I probably shouldn't have packed my hair wax in my hand luggage the week after such substances were banned.

"Have you packed your bag yourself? Are you carrying anything for anyone else?" the security guard asks.

"It was packed by me and no one has interferred with it!" I say, lying through my teeth and trying to remember to forget that My Canadian Girlfried threw some unidentified muffins and Green and Blacks into the bag. If I mentioned this, it would raise alarms as she is foriegn.

I try to act all innocently as if I had never heard of any terrorist plot or any restrictions bringing anything onto a plane. She finds the gel, opens it and looks at me like Anne Robbinson looks at a contestant who has answered George Bernard Shaw instead of Oscar Wilde. But she adds more menace, in a sort of "you're trying to deliberately breach security and are worse than Osama." kind of way. My expression changes from carefree fake ignorance to one of slightly shocked guilt in a "OK you caught me but I'm going to pretend I didn't know it was illegal and have brought a hat anyway just in case you spotted it and took it off me and I couldn't wax my hair tomorrow." sort of way.

I consider protesting that it is in fact hair wax and not hair gel but decide that a place where the police have guns is not the right place to discuss the fine differences between a wax and a gel.

I skulk away wondering what I will do without my gel. It will be another hour or so before we reach London and get to Paddington Mega-Mall / Station.

Sliding Doors

2006-08-24T10:37:00.000+01:00

I am stuck in the middle of nowhere. The barren stretches of nothing-ness sweep into view. The desolate wasteland of twisted metal and abandoned vehicles stretch as far as my eye can see - although once I put my glasses on, I can see a block of flats.

I am at Cornbrook station looking out towards Salford.

We are stuck. The doors of the tram will not open. People sit nervously twitching. This is the last thing I need after the weather pissed me off already. Ever since I bought some shorts it has rained constantly and yesterday My Canadian Girlfriend proclaimed that it was now cold enough for her to start wearing her Kinky Boots again. So it warmed up.

The balding ginger man looks up from "Blood, Sweat and Tea" as the driver strides out. He uses the emergency open switch and finally people can get off the tram! One peron gets off an two get on.

"Are we going to start moving now?!?" said a young woman as the driver walked past her. "You see if I'm late, even just once, I get fired for gross misconduct." Sounds to me like she could do with a new job if they fire her for that.

Tensions rise.

The young asian man standing opposite me carrys on with his student breakfast and opens a can of red bull to go with his Twix. The doors beep but the tram goes nowhere. The driver emerges. He explains that now he can't shut the door.

There is an inevitability in the resulting tut from the impatient passengers. I begin to panic too - I cannot even smell a Starbucks from here. I don't mind being stranded - I just don't want to be left here. I'm neither near home, work or town. I am in limbo.

The doors eventually close and the driver returns to his cab and he comes on the speaker. "Unfortunately ladies and gentlemen, Metrolink control have just informed me that because there is a nutter on the track near G-Mex we all have to sit here until he moves or the police arrive."

Everyone looks anxious. I have never seen so many people actually want to get to work. I cannot believe they all do jobs that are so important that they need to be in work NOW!

I could understand if it meant Little Timmy's transplant operation was going to be cancelled or that illegally parked cars weren't going to get a £30 fixed penalty notice. But for the majority of people who spend the day copying a formula from B23 to E23 and emailing the results out to a bunch of people who can't even open an excel file let alone make decisions based on it's content - a ten minute wait isn't going to ruin their day.

I call work, tell them I'm dead, put my feet up and start doing a Sudoku.

United we stand

2006-08-22T08:51:00.001+01:00

We stand together and yet divided on Picadilly Gardens tram stop. It is late at night and the freaks convention had just got out. We divide ourselves out nicely. The oddballs stand at either end of the platform and the normal people, myself and two others, stand in the well lit area at the centre.

It is like a Manchester Metrolink version of apartheid.

A 17 year old slapper and her friends were stood at the far end. She is on her mobile. "I got DDE in Art, Religion and Film Studies and I got into Sunderland Poly to study Nuclear Physics." she says pulling the top of her top down and the bottom of her top up. She tries to alter the small piece of denim she has that is passing as a skirt. "I can't believe it. We didn't get in anywhere" she says into her phone.

With hindsight, the normal people would've been much better standing somewhere else. We are sandwiched in a classic pincer movement. Our only escape is over the tram tracks. We are joined on the centre of the platform by a young couple. The woman is wearing a giant gold rope belt and some red knee length trousers, which just skim the top of her bright red knee high boots. I glare at her trying to indicate to her that for her crime against fashion she should really be stood with the oddballs.

At the other end of the platform a man walks on carrying several black bin liners. He sets them down. Looking at the largest bag he exclaims "You're not making any noise now are you?".

I check my exit route.

A woman starts to walk up the platform. She hesitates by the slappers and walks on by. She comes to stand with the normal people. I want to make her feel welcome amongst us so I look her up and down, smile at her and stare at her tits.

Waiting Times

2006-08-17T09:59:00.000+01:00

I lift very heavy weights. I am bench pressing.

I enjoy going to the gym and spend a lot of time there. For a while, after I started, I like to think I was known as "The quiet guy" or "Y'know that guy who looks like Peter Crouch" before I got my new bluetooth headphones and then I was known, cleverly, as "The guy with the headphones that blink.".

The dumbells I am lifting are very heavy. In real terms they equate to about 2/3rds of Victoria Beckham. I fire off the first reps five fantastically and frantically. The weighs feel a lot heavier today.

Six!
Push!
Seven!
Push!
Eight!

Ok Stop!
Hammertime!

Nine!
Ten!

I try to bring the weights down slowly and my right arm turns to jelly. I drop the dumbell in my right arm. In dropping it, my right arm falls to the floor and my left hand side is suddenly heavier, and higher, than my right side. My body spins about it's axis like I was being spit roasted. My body turns and rotates off the bench and I end up face down on the floor.

I lay there not sure how to react. I have three options.

While lying there, I notice that I picked up one dumbell that weighed 1/3rd a Beckham and one that weighed 1/3rd + 1/8th of a Beckham. So I was overloaded on one side. So one option is to explain this to everyone what I had done using the tannoy - they'd understand.
I could fake injury. I could grab my shoulder and yelp in pain. But I know what would follow - I would have to fill out Accident forms, they wouldn't let me carry on working out.
So to save myself from the moutain of paperwork I chose option three. I get up, brush my shoulder off and pretend nothing happened.

And then I realise that from now on I will be known as "The guy who fell off the bench". I need to do something drastic. Time to dye my hair red!!!

Post Script:
According to Mehmood at work my hair looks "Superb" and, like Kryten, he can't lie (We tried to get him to call a computer mouse - "An Antelope" and he couldn't) so you can take that as gospel. Or Koran.

Jobseeker

2006-08-15T08:48:00.000+01:00

I have found a new dream job.

There are many jobs I have wanted to do throughout my life.

1. I gave serious consideration to becoming a meterologist. I was always very good at Physics in school and loved Geography. I was the only person in the school who knew that Bogota was the Capital of Columbia. So that set me up nicely for a job being Wincey Willis. Until French class when I was aksed what I would like to be when I was older "Je voudrais présenter le meteo!" I replied. Half the class laughed. The other half couldn't translate what I said. And with that I needed a new dream.

2. I have always wanted to be the centre line judge at Wimbledon. You work two weeks a year and all you have to do is shout "Fault!" at the top of your voice. And once the serve has been hit you can retire back to your chair and enjoy tennis. Sure you have to be willing to be hit in the face with Tim Henman's balls or face the tauma of having Maria Sharapova end up sitting in your lap but I'm willing to take that chance to reach my dream.

3. I quite faniced being an anonymous sex blogger.

I was sitting with my Canadian Girlfried watching the Marathon at the Euopean Championship in Gothenburg feeling fat. And then I saw my dream job. They cut to the Javellin and some (wo)man was throwning the spear. It flew a long way and I thought "How the heck are they going to get it back from there?"

And then on came a little car, which looked suspiciously like a Volvo 4x4. It had a little tiny roof rack on it for the Javellin to be strapped to. Now providing they haven't got some very tiny little people to drive it, then there must be someone who controls it. And I bet they get to travel the world too. And drive a tiny little car as a job.

Cool.

And I have a full clean UK Driving License too.

Blue Suede Football Boots

2006-08-11T09:44:00.000+01:00

Elivis Presley's "Jailhouse Rock" booms out across the football field.

This is unsual. Even for me. The local kids' "Summer Camp" is having a party and have decided to pitch their marque up right behind my goal. This must be what it is like to be Barry George, FC United's partially sighted Goalkeeper - not the one who killed Jill Dando, and play in front of the loudest supporters in the land. But I am not being treated to football anthems like "Under the Boardwalk", "When FC United come out to play", "Die, Die, Glazer, Fucking Die" and "We hate Blackpool Mechanics". I have to put up with a very badly sung version of "Lola".

This makes playing football very difficult. Communication is the key to playing well as a team, or so I read in the FA's football coaching book. My team can't hear my helpful cries of "Man On!", "Easy! Time!" and "Keeper's Ball".

Thankfully, the band takes five minutes and I have time to hear myself think. "I wonder if "Girl with a One Track Mind" will ever make the GCSE reading list? It was a darn sight more enjoyable than Silas Marner. I don't remember George Elliot explaining the act of 'tromboning'."

And then the band kicks off again with that song from the advert a while back that I think is called "I love you baby". Which is actually a football song. I have heard Arsenal sing it. And just as the song ends, as clear as day, eveyone, including the children in the tent hear me proclaim "Fuck!!!" at the top of my voice as I palm the ball into the path of an on-coming attacker who blasts it home.

The lead singers voice strains and wobbles as he comes to the end of "Hey Jude" and there are loud whoops and hollas. They have finished. I can go back to being relaxed and concentraing on the football. I have time to hear myself think. "If you crossed a monkey and a rooster would it be a mon-ster or a roo-key?"

"Who wants an encore." shouts the lead singer. in a gruff Haslingden accent that sounds like he's been chewing sandpaper all day. The recognisable introduction of Blur's "Song 2" (aka "The one with the woo hoos!") blasts out just as the ball slips between my legs, making the onion bag bulge.

Good things to come those who wait

2006-08-06T07:38:00.000+01:00

I play chicken with the sales.

I have seen a very nice sweater I want to buy. It is chocolate brown and has mint green stripes and a hood. I have been watching it for quite a while. Every weekend, I walked past the window and saw it in the shop. It is £55. But I knew something that the shop doesn't know - by the end of July, the sweater will be in the sales and thus save me a huge amount of money. I am not swayed by the signs that say things like "That looks perfect on you!", "Jet from Gladiators would shag you if you wore that" and "You're amazing in that, spend your money here!".

All I have to do is wait.

I am playing a pretty dangerous game - the equivalent of Bungee jumping off a bridge, you're pretty sure it's a safe bet but there's always that doubt in the back of your mind that it could go wrong.

I wait. Tick follows tock follows tick follows tock. And the fat drummer hit the beat with all his heart. I took my Canadian Girlfriend along with me to the sales and showed her the sweater and it was reduced to £33.

"It'll make you look like a Mint Green and Blacks!" she says excitedly. Her eyes began to glaze over and she starts to drool. (I assume she is thinking about how sexy I will look in the sweater and not about said chocolate bar, which is in her fridge.)

I looked at it and started thinking, which is a dangerous game for me. Usually when I have to think about it, I've already decided that I am not going to buy it. I opened my wallet and looked inside to see if I have enough money, which makes no sense because I was going to pay with Maestro anyway. I try and justify my decision not to buy something I want "If I leave it and come back in a week or so, maybe they'll have knocked more money off it" I think. I refuse to be swayed by by the signs that hang from the ceiling and say "Buy it today, it may not be here tomorrow" and "Spend your fucking money you tight assed little twat!!!"

I decided to leave it. Now I am playing a very dangerous game - the equivalent of Bungee jumping from a temporary crane in the car park of "The Dog and Bob" in Baguley, I'm pretty sure this is just suicide.

After a week of soul searching, I return to purchase it. I want to look like a chocolate bar and I cannot wait any longer. It is still £33, although even with the saving of £22 I feel like I can claim at least a score draw against the shop. I take it to the till.

"That'll be £16 please" says the shop assistant who has her lip pierced.

I win! I win!! I win!!!

All Booked Up

2006-08-04T08:59:00.000+01:00

Manchester (Reuters):- The Tuesday Lunchtime Project are proud to announce that it has secured the rights to publish "Me, Me, Me" the widely read and highly acclaimed internet diary of MB.

MB started writing on the Internet as a way of filling that hour and a half between getting into work and actually starting work. This marked his return to writing in 2005 after a long hiatus since finishing his GCSE English Language Exam.

The on-line diary has earnt respect throughout the media by tackling important subjects like drinking coffee at Starbucks, wacky neighbours who leave notes on cars, styling hair and doing a poo. He was also the first blogger to give a voice to an out of work Dwarf.

"Woo Hoo!!! I've got a book deal!!!" said MB reacting to the news. "This makes up for only having half a dozen readers. In your face everyone else. Where's your book deal?!?!?" he continued in a humble manner.

Stevie Akbar, head of Panic Signings at the Tuesday Lunchtime Project said "We are very lucky to have signed one of the blogosphere's major talents. This is not a knee-jerk reaction to the fact that all the other major book labels are releasing books from bloggers and we were desperate to sign anyone. We have paid him and initial £14million which will rise to 18.6 providing his book wins the Champions League. He will wear the number 16 shirt. What? Stop looking at me like that. No I don't have shifty eyes."

The 4 page pamphlet entitled "Me, Me, Me and a bit about you" will be available from the middle of August, providing the photocopier doesn't break down. We can now confirm that the book will be widely available throughout the country. Copies can be picked up from Cliff the Toilet Roll salesman on Urmston Market, Prestwich Library in the Biographies and Memoirs section (This is not made up!!!), from under the fake plastic monitor on a Tovik desk at the new Ikea in Ashton Under Lyne, anywhere in Burnage we can find where it won't get nicked and Borders.

MB will be conducting book signings on the 7:24 Altrincham to Bury Tram, which is a "Double Unit" during the first week of release. He normally sits right behind the driver so he can pretend he's driving.

Notes to the Editor
1. MB scored an A* in his English Language exam, which his Mum wanted re-marking because she didn't think he could spell or knew anything about grammar.
2. There are many other desks available from IKEA and one is called Jerka.
3. MB now joins a long list of people who have been made famous through blogging before being published by the mainstream media. These include Tom Reynolds, Abby Lee, Mil Millington, David Copperfield and Boris Johnson.
4. Charlie Brooker's Screen Wipe is on BBC Four every Thursday starting at 22:30.

Going for a Burton

2006-08-02T09:32:00.000+01:00

I am shopping in summer for shorts! Not a difficult thing you'd have thought. However, I require my shorts to be short. Not "Mexico 86" short but short. Above the knee. And relatively plain - I do not mind a few stripes or a small "Iowa State 92" logo type thing, I just don't want camouflage or "cool" wavy patterns all over my ass. And not athletic shorts, casual shorts.

I am also acutely aware that since this is the first pair of shorts I have bought in years - I have gone from a 36 to a 30 inch waist - then it will almost certainly guarantee that there won't be any more sun this summer.

I go to Republic, home of the 2 for £25 offer.

"Do you have these shorts in small?" I ask.

"No, everything we've got is out. It's been quite warm out recently if you haven't noticed and people are buying shorts." the cashier sneers at me.

I try Topman, River Island and Next with no luck. I even go to Primark, see the queues of bargain hungry Bridget Jones Wannabes holding Latte's in one hand and £2 t-shirts in the other and leave.

There is only one place left. Burtons!

(Imagine squigley lines indicating time travel)

I pick up a nice pair of shoes, a short sleeved t-shirt and a long sleeved one. I queue up waiting to pay and get my 20% discount by opening a Burtons Store Card. I will also get my choice of a "free" pair of shoes in the sale. This was shortly after I had been introduced to shoe shopping by My Canadian Girlfriend (who back then was simply my Canadian Work Colleague) so I was very excited. This would double my shoe collection, from one pair of trainers and one pair of work shoes, in one swoop.

I must admit, looking back I was naive. I actually believed that getting a store card was a good idea.

The items were rung up, I completed my form and waited for verification. I was denied! They didn't want to give me a store card! I was a hard working, law abiding, hard working, tax paying, law abiding citizen subject and they didn't want to give me a store card. I was distraught. I pay all my bills, I don't have any CCJs, I have no credit problems. But without the discount all this stuff was an extra £30.

I was incensed. This store was saying that I'm not good enough for them.

"So do you want the items anyway?" asked the cashier.

I turned and left in protest.

And I have never stepped foot in a Burton's store since.

(Imagine squigley lines indicating time travel)

Until now.

In am usually very good at holding grudges / boycotts. I haven't had a Yorkie bar or any of Nestle's products since I was a teenager. I am a walking advert for Adidas and Coke since the infidels took over my Football Club, which has even stopped me wanting an Audi TT - Chrysler Crossfire is the way to go now. And this boycott of Burtons has lasted four years.

But it has been hot and they have a pair of plain khaki shorts in the sale for Â£10.

I get to the counter with my shorts and a crisp £10 note in my hand.

"Would you like to save 10% by opening a store card?"

"No" I reply. I have listened and I have learned.

Springwatch

2006-07-31T11:47:00.000+01:00

"Can you put this up on your noticeboard?" a random neighbour asks.

I become instantly suspicious because that is what we Britons do when strange people ask us to do strange things. Especially when they are our neighbours. As far as I could know I could be putting up a sign which goes against social-liberal norms dictated to us by the Guardian and supports something like fox hunting, listening to James Blunt or voting Conservative.

And I get even more suspicious when the person asking you to do this look like a cross between Jesus and Bill Oddie.

"I noticed some youths on the compound the other day." said Jesus Oddie. "They were stood near the bike rack - no doubt looking for some bikes to steal to help feed their crack-cocaine-PS2 habit. I thought I should warn everyone since I HAVE NO DOUBT THEY WILL BE BACK."

Not wanting to look like someone who would hug a hoodie, I put the notice up.

"You're MB aren't you? You have the ground floor flat that overlooks the garbage hut don't you? I noticed you like to leave your windows open all day when it's hot. I think you should reconsider since these kids will nick anything that's not tied down. They could come in through the windows and steal everything. EVERYTHING!!!

Now I do not know which is more scary, some kids trying to nick a bike or the fact that my neighbour knows all about my life. I will start to close my windows because I don't want to come home and find Jesus Oddie teaching some ducklings to walk on water in my bathtub.

Night Nurse

2006-07-25T08:43:00.000+01:00

I toss and turn in the heat. As always I am faced with a tough decision - should I put up with the heat and sleep in peace or should I open the windows and be forced to listen to all my neighbours coming in, off their faces at various times between now and 05:00. Which nicely co-incides with when the trucks begin driving up the Busy Road.

After five minutes of considering this I realize I am suffering from insomnia. I try everything I know to cure myself. I lie on my back, placing my hands on my stomach and think about going to sleep. I cross my right ankle over my left. I cross my left ankle over my right. I roll on to my left side, bend my knees towards my chest and hug the duvet I'm lying on. I squeeze my eyes shut trying to convince them to sleep. I straighten my right leg. I roll on to my right side, tuck my knees up and hug the duvet. I use reverse psychology on my brain and try my hardest to stay awake.

Five minutes later, I decide that I am not going to sleep and like any good insomniac, I decide to use this extra time I have been blessed with to get some of my worrying out of the way. I have lots of things in my head which require worrying about. And doing it now will free up vital time tomorrow for important things like more worrying or thinking about sex. Or worrying about sex.

"I'd start with box #1 and just work through them all in order." I think to myself. "Once the banker offered more than Â£20,000 I'd take the deal but if there was any life changing money up there, then it would be very difficult to stop at Â£20,000. I think I'd need all four of the BIG ONES left to stay in the game. And when I finally decided to deal, I'd whoop and holler like I was in the audience of Trisha."

Once the important worrying is out of the way, I move on to thinking about Iraq. I drift off to sleep.

The next thing I remember is hearing someone slamming their car door right outside my window. I awake with a start.

"Noel, I'm ready for the question!"

Training day

2006-07-21T21:07:00.000+01:00

I go on a training course!!!

I have been stuck in a room for five days with a trainer who looks like John Cleese, talks like the Chuckle Brothers but is about as funny and entertaining as having a toe nail pulled off with a wrench. My fellow course attendees were a bunch of odd balls and wierdos.

Tina the Technical Writer

Nice girl but desperate to prove that she belongs in a male world. She sounds like she has a really nice job. At the interview, the two guys interviewing shouted abuse and hurled insults at her for five minutes to see if she could cope with the "pressure". How nice.

Fat Boy Slim

When we sat down for the three hour exam on his desk was a Yorkie, a box of jelly babies, some Dairy Milk minatures, a bag of Tesco finest cookies, some salt and shake crisps, barbecue spare ribs, Kung-po chicken with fried rice and a DIET coke.

Although when the pizza delivery guy showed up after an hour, that really was taking it too far.

The Quiet Man

Hmmm, it took me three days to notice that this guy was actually in our class.

He sat at the back drinking evil red bull and not doing anything.

Until the quiet man finally found his voice and came top of the class in the first exam. Maybe I should've been paying attention like him.

Wide Boy

The sort of fella who wears shorts over the knee and whose idea of complimenting his Girlfriend is walking up to a stranger in a bar and saying "Are you looking at my bird?" "No" "Why not because she's gorgeous".

He wasn't very interested in learning either.
"So if I need 50% overall to pass and the questions worth 15 marks and I get five marks for drawing a rectangle, a circle, a rhombus and joining them up with lines then all I need is to write three key words and I'll have passed?"

City Short Girl

Well the course wouldn't be complete without the sterotypical girl would it. She asked questions at every single possible point searching desperately for confirmation that she'd understood it. Convinced she'd done terribly in the mock exam until she got the second highest score in the class, certain she'd failed the first exam until the moment that she got her results and absolutely positive that she'd failed the final exam even though she was the only one in the class that had any previous experience in this field and was studying for about 1200 hours before the exam.

And what's more interesting is that she had really huge hips but actually looked good in those horrible city shorts.

Scouser

Eh Calm Down! Calm Down! Now I'm not into any racial stereotyping but I'm glad I didn't drive in because I'd be worried about my hubcaps. And I'm not saying all scousers are thick but this was his second attempt to pass the course. He even tried to bribe the examiner by offering him a cathedral, since they've got one spare.

In fact he was the spitting image of that guy who said "Meh-der?" on that real life police show that was set in Liverpool.

And 'dat scouse wit, eh? He thought it'd be funny to come in with a Liverpool shirt on every day and go on and on about how they've won five european cups.

City of Culture my arse.

And me, well we were on the 9th floor in Salford Quays and I spent five days wondering what would happen if the side of the building I was leaning against fell off. I also watched the Eccles trams driving around and even nearly saw two of them run into each other. Which is pretty amazing as there are only about 3 eccles trams running at any one time.

Cafe Culture

2006-07-19T17:45:00.000+01:00

"Don't you just hate it when you forget to bring the cow you're supposed to be milking?" I say as a woman walks by in a fluffy blue skirt and a puffed out white blouse. I sit back and appreciate the funniest thing I've probably said in days.

My Canadian Girlfriend looks up from Empire magazine, giggles and says "I have the best boyfriend ever, not only are you cute and have a killer body but you're also really funny." (I am paraphrasing as I don't normally pay any attention to what she says.)

We are sitting in a cafe in Manchester's stylish Northern Quarter waiting for someone to come over and serve us. This is a new cafe and, like every person on Property Ladder, is trying to tap into the young professionals market. It has succeeded. We are there and we are young professionals.

We sit waiting to order our meal and coffees.

We still sit and wait.

My Canadian Girlfriend gets that look in her eye that says "I'm from North America and this service is unaccepatable and I'm going to create a scene soon if someone doesn't come over here and serve us." This usually leads to me getting embarassed so I have to manage the situation.

I try to make eye contact with the waitress. I normally have a foolproof method of getting a waitress to come over. I look in her direction and flash her a flirty smile and a little wink. Nothing. She must be a gay. I try to make eye contact with the waiter, in case he is too.

Nothing.

Someone comes and sits on the table next to us. The waiter comes running over and takes their order.

"If he doesn't turn around and take our order straight away. We should leave." I agree to this course of action because it contains the least amount of me being embarassed. He does not turn around. We leave.

I am upset. I am going to miss out on my All Day Breakfast.

As we are walking away from the restaurant, a young man walks by with a full tracksuit on but no T-Shirt. "Don't you just hate it when you go out and forget to put a T-Shirt on." I say, remembering that even if I didn't get my Breakfast, I am still funny.

MB's Kitchen Nightmares

2006-07-14T09:05:00.000+01:00

Call Gordon Ramsey! I need his skills and swearing ability to turn my Kitchen around. I have been suffering back luck and disasters all week.

So far I have:

Forgotten to stop pouring the boiling water when I was making a cup of tea.
Torn a tortilla wrap in half making it perfectly useless for its intended purpose.
Filled the sink so full when I was washing up the over-flow was working double time.
Forgot about the sheets I put in the washer, which is in the kitchen, and left them there for three days.
Put Bran Flakes into my mug instead of my bowl when making breakfast.
Accidentally used my Canadian Girlfriend's Toothbrush to clean the drain.

Although this seemed insignificant today after I followed a woman to the Tram stop, who was wearing cream trousers and showing some black VPL.

Now that is a nightmare.

The Watchtower

2006-07-12T09:57:00.000+01:00

We get on a very full tram.
(I admit this is not the most interesting start to a post but stick with me.)

There are an awful lot of conservative looking people wearing badges that say "Deliverance is at hand". Now I liked that movie and its influence over modern cinema is obvious but I don't think I'll be watching it again. And the only place I know in Manchester where "Deliverance" is actually at hand is in Bolton where it's normal to walk through a council estate and hear the strains of dueling Banjos.

"I think they're Jehovah's witnesses" whispers My Canadian Girlfirend.

I sush her and look around to make sure there aren't any men dressed up as women pretending to be men wanting to stone her for saying Jehovah. The women all look like they've just come from Stepford and the men in suits looks suitably demure. Even the kids are wearing ties. There's something slightly disturbing and sinister about seeing young boys wearing ties.

They must have been coming from the Jehovah's witness conference which, Google says, was in Manchester. I imagine they were discussing "Important Things" like that evil music them kids listen to today, Sunday trading and equal rights for women.

I start humming "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" (Glory Glory Man United - for the un-religious). My Canadian Girlfriend flashes me a "You're so bad but not bad as in bad but bad as in good." look.

The tram gets even more crowded at the next stop. A brunette gets on and invades my personal space, pressing her body against mine. She puts her pony tail right under my nose and decides she is going to look around the tram. Each movement feels like going bobbing for apples in a tub of pepper.

We get off the tram before I cover the back of her head with phlegm.

As my Canadian Girlfriend walks past the brunette, she places a firm but powerful head-butt to her chest. She may not be able to explain the offside rule but at least she has learnt something from the World Cup.

Spectacles, Tesitcles, Wallet and Watch

2006-07-10T08:38:00.000+01:00

Disaster!!! I have lost my wallet!!!

Everything is in my wallet. My expired season ticket for the Tram is in there - I am currently running a competition to see how long I can ride the tram on an expired season ticket before changing over to my real ticket - which is also in my wallet. My Gym card, my Shareholders United card, my car insurance details, two "secret things for grown ups", my driver's license and my National Insurance card are all in there too. And my Nectar card - think of all those points! :(

Oh and all my bank cards. I wish the thief good luck on guessing the PIN numbers for my Visa and Master Cards. I don't even know them. And let's hope that they don't figure out that my Maestro's PIN is written in a Secret Code on a piece of paper called "List of Phone Numbers". It appears as the middle four numbers for "Phil In Nottingham"

It has my life in my wallet - I could now become a victim of Identity Fraud!!!

(If you have stolen my identity, then please feel free to take over updating this blog. If you leave me a comment with your email address, I'll send you the password and you can start updating tomorrow! All you need to do is write stories about Trams and Toilets.)

Over the past few months, I have been getting more and more paranoid about losing my wallet and begin to hyperventilate. My friends, colleagues and neighbours must think I have joined some really odd Cult because I cannot leave any room without genuflecting - "Wallet, Keys, Phone and iPod."

I cannot believe this has happened. Especially today, when I've already suffered the trauma of over-waxing my hair and turned out looking like a lego man. I must've taken my eye off the ball. I begin to concot how it could've been stolen. I left the windows open when I went to the tram stop and my wallet was on the sofa - I know that because I had just got a stamp out. Someone must've come in through the window and taken it. That's the only explanation.

My Canadian Girlfriend comes in and sees the panic on my face and without asking for an explanation she says "Sit down, I'll make you a cup of tea.". She is becoming more English by the day.

I sit on the sofa and get prodded in the back by a rectangular black object from between the cushions. I keep quiet and start to drink my tea.

"You look worried - what's up?" she says.

Not wanting to look a complete fool, I reply, "It's this whole Middle East thing...."

Out! Out Damn Spot

2006-07-06T08:41:00.000+01:00

"He's thrown piss at me. I'm drenched in piss. This is piss. Smell this - this smells like piss..." my friend's Husband says and continues ad nauseum.

The throwing of the unidentified liquid was pretty spectacular. Not only was it done from a moving vehicle by someone who seemed to have had a skinful but it perfectly singled him out. There was not a drop on any of the surrounding ensemble. This is a shame because if his aim was a bit off to one side, we could have had a spectacular wet t-shirt contest.

We take refuge in a local drinking establishment. "He definitely said 'I'm covering you in piss!'" he insists as he goes off to the toilets and begins to scrub his clothes and face in a Lady MacBeth type of way.

He returns to the table to find us selfishly trying to enjoy ourselves. He sits down with an angry face on and takes a sip of his Bacardi Breezer. Immediately he stands up and bolts out the door, screaming "That's them! That's their car!"

He runs out of the pub and heads off down the street. I offer to go after him but his wife insists that if he gets a good kicking it'll be good for him. He returns intact. "I felt like just giving the three of them a beating anyway because they were all <>". He sits back down. Immediately he stands up and bolts out the door, screaming "That's them! That's their car!"

This continues until My Canadian Girlfriend and I exit stage left, not chased by a bear but laughing hysterically. We return to her house.

Ten minutes pass and we have just about calmed down.

"Is this piss?" I shout to my Canadian Girlfriend after I have finished my business in her toilet.

I can see this joke running and running.

I come out of the toilet and she throws half a glass of water at me.

"I'm covering you in piss" she says.

This is no longer funny.

Rivers of blood

2006-07-05T10:20:00.000+01:00

"Is that piss?" he asks as we walk down the street on the way to a restaurant.

My Candadian Girlfriend, him, his wife and I are going out for a meal.

It turns out that my friend's husband seems to have an irrational fear of urine. His wife tells us how he would cross the street and dodge traffic to make sure that he doesn't walk though a steaming stream of sidewalk wee. I am not sure what harm he thinks will come of him if he does step in some. It's unlikely that the pee will be able to corrode it's way through his Timberland boots and his socks and touch his foot.

And it'll probably have dried out hours ago anyway.

And even if it did touch his foot I do no see what harm it will do? It may not do any harm but it is unlikely to do any good either. He has not been stung by a Jellyfish and - as every Friends fan will tell you - that is a good cure for Jellyfish stings.

During dinner, I find out that he is obstinate in his tenets. He will not hear any argument on the merits of England's football team, race equality or where to buy curtains that completely block out all the light. (The answer seems to be Next, if you are interested.)

After we have had our desserts, we leave the restaurant and something, not even Mystic Meg would have prediceted, happened. He got his just deserts. A blue BMW drives by as we are trying to cross Deansgate. The window is wound down and a balding man leans out. He has a pint pot in his hand and throws a clear substance at my friend's husband and completely drenches him.

My Canadian Girlfriend, his wife and I try and stifle our laughter.

Continued tomorrow

Crimewatch

2006-06-30T09:08:00.000+01:00

Crime!!!

Real life crime!!!

I am walking home from the gym and there it is. Two police officers stood in the door way of a house which looks like it has had a brick thrown through the window. They stand in the official police officer stance which involves putting both hands on the neck of their vests, presumably to make sure that the vests do not float away.

They are carrying a menagerie of tools and equipment on their utility belts. I am tempted to ask for some bat-anti-mummification tablets just in case King Tut the mad professor from the Egyptian museum tries to kidnap me.

The Police officers are doing a very good job of guarding the house. They have used at least 2 miles of yellow police tape to mark off the houses front yard so no one can get anywhere near the window. I am glad to see my tax money being well spent.

They stand by the open door. I try and look in so I can get an idea of what has gone on. Purely from a concerned local resident point of view and not from a busy-body gossip point of view. The Policeman on the left notices this and slowly reaches for his radio and tilts his head towards it. I put my head down and scurry on.

I can't believe am now living in a high crime area!

There was fare dodging, bricks through windows and someone keeps ripping the "Work at Manchester United" adverts off the windows of trams and depositing them in the bins on the Metrolink stations.

And speaking of crimes - who decided that "City Shorts" were acceptable fashion garments? Wearing trousers that only come up to your knees does not make you look like Sienna Miller - it does make you look like someone who bought the wrong size of trousers though. Mango, Next, River Island and the rest - I hold you guilty of mass fashion genocide.

When I take a moment to think about all this I shake my head in Daily-Mail-disgust. Something needs to be done about this before it escalates to more serious crimes like affray and drinking in the street.

And I know the man to do it!

Tickets please!

2006-06-26T15:19:00.000+01:00

"I can't believe you're not getting a ticket..."

"I never buy a ticket, you don't need one. I've only got caught once." My Canadian Girlfriend replies.

"Well I wasn't going to mention this but I had a dream last night about you getting caught without a ticket. And I got off the tram to wait for you and while you were being questioned I was playing Super Doku on my phone and I got cold hands." I start to worry. I don't like cold hands.

I can't believe My Canadian Girlfriend is a willing criminal. This shouldn't come as a surprise. After all the only thing we hear about on the news is how all crime is conducted by foreigners. If she gets a criminal record, the home office are bound to want to deport her. They could make an example of her as she is very photogenic and would look very hot being led up the plane steps on a flight back to Canada. Plus they know where she is which is very important. And if she's not where she should be, she'll be at my house.

I do not want her to be deported for no other reason than I heard that they only show Adam Sandler movies on the deportation flights. And she'd probably have to share a row with someone from Guantanemo bay who is being tortured / interrogated.

I wring my hands and put a disapproving face on. "I'm not saying you should buy a ticket but I bet that that Mountie fellow do on Due South would arrest you and give you a lecture on morality!" I say trying to use an example she would be familiar with.

"It's not like I've murdered anyone. It's not even a serious crime it's like parking on double yellows, being drunk and disorderly or punching a police officer."

I cannot put up with this blatant disregard for the law.
I put my money in the ticket machine and purchase her a ticket.
We do not get stopped but my hands do get cold.
Fucking Manchester Summer.