Thursday, 20 October 2011

They've Blown It!

Sunday, 25 September 2011

Big Brother Bitchionary


- noun
1. a person who hates men but hates themself even more
2. a person who tells lies
3. a person with no sense of self awareness
4. a c***,  usually a prostitute or woman of loose morals

- adjective
1. manipulative
2. controlling
3. disingenuous
4. bitchy
5. shit stirring

- verb
1. to assassinate with a smile


- noun
1. God's place
2. a person who doesn't know when to shut the f*ck up
3. a fruit cake

1. delusional


- noun
1. a sow's ear
2. a crone
3. a person who frequents seaside slot machine arcades
4. a person of indeterminable skin tone

- adjective
1. gullible

(ay-den, ar-den, ah-dén)

- noun
1. an immature wuss
2. a person who can't rap

1. wet


- noun
1. a person who lives off benefits and spends their days in the gym and the weekend shagging Alex types


- noun
1. a good egg
2. a small penis

- adjective
1. stringy


- noun
1. a bit of fluff

1. shallow


- noun
1. wallpaper

- adjective
1. loyal


- noun
1. a fox killer
2. a young Boris Johnson


- noun
1. a matey bird

- adjective
1. emotional
2. lacking confidence


- noun
1. a person who thinks they're more clever than they really are
2. someone with their brains in the abs


- noun
1. a person of dubious sexual orientation
2. a person who avoids eye contact

- adjective
1. mysterious


- adjective
1. beautiful
2. dull


- noun
1. a person who writes bitchy blogs

- adjective
1. reem ;-)

Saturday, 17 September 2011

Female Trouble

In the space of a week it's gone from Hollyoaks to a John Water's movie.  How quickly the worms have turned and the mice are roaring.  The full moon had a strange affect on the house hormones. Oh and Mark got his dick out.

Rebeckah has always been a bit prickly but this week she really showed her hand as she weaved a spell around hapless Aden and Mark.  Toying with them like a cat with her acrylic talons.  With all that totty in there why would these donuts fall for the mardy bird who doesn't seem to brush the back of her hair?

Maybe it was the anecdote about her urinating on her boyfriend that got their juices flowing but can't they see that she's really taking the piss?  The only watersports she's going to play would involve drowning the competition in the egg shaped bath.  She's already dampened Arden's ardour and looks like it'll be tears at bedtime for Mark since he informed us that he cries after a wank.  Get those boys some Zinc tablets!

As well a playing the players, Rebeckah's also been shit stirring and bitching about her other housemates at every opportunity.  I know it wouldn't be hard to manipulate some of those dim wits but it seems like Aaron is the only person who can see what she's up to.  She knows he knows too and it's really annoying her :-)

Chocolate gate was a perfect example of her devious tactics.  After munching a few sneaky biscuits in the store room she discovered that Heaven had been spotted nibbling a bit of chocolate.  She immediately raised the alarm with the other housemates, screaming 'Heaven's eating all the food'.  Mob rule descended on the hapless holistic healer and she ran off sobbing to the bedroom.  Enter Rebeckah, the caring counsellor, to tell Heaven why none of the other housemates like her.  Of course she was only doing this because Heaven is like her best friend.  Job done.  The Spearmint Rhino hostess smirked as Heaven looked broken and confused.

Poor Alex was given a task by Big Brother this week.  I think it was to raise her profile.  She spent the next two hours walking round the house talking to herself.  Isn't that what she's been doing for the last seven days?

Faye and Maisy didn't really do much this week apart from sit around with the Wolf pack lads.  This Wolf pack thing is a really bad idea.  It's like The Jungle Cats with no teeth.

I'm really liking Aaron and Louise and their developing relationship.  They're my favourite housemates at the moment.  They seem quite human and normal.  In their case 'being themselves' is a good thing which can't be said for the other attention seeking idiots.  I really wish Aaron had been brave enough to dump the shopping list for some beer and a Scalextric set.  Give him more time and I think he's gonna be a Big Brother star.  It's a bonus that he's a dead ringer for Jenson Button.

Talking of attention seeking idiots.....Trashie was the first person to get the boot.  Her highlights in the house were crying over a saucepan and claiming the moon had tears because she was up for eviction.  If she was granted one wish, what would it be?  Of course, she wanted to grow things on trees like sandwich bags.  What about growing a brain or some dignity? What a ridiculous waste of space.

I'm still liking crazy Mark but wishing that he'd keep his clothes on some of the time.  Running around the house naked he looks like a stork with a prolapse.

Quote of the week came from Aaron.  During a very intellectual debate about the origins of Big Brother the Weston Wonder told everyone that the concept came from a book called 1984 written by Orson Welles. Genius.

In other news - Cheryl Cole has finally managed to get another job.  The Geordie Polly Pocket has flown into Afghanistan to help the boys in beige defeat the Taliban.  They plan to send her round the mountains singing her greatest hit live, to drive the enemy out of their caves.  I'm sure Amnesty International will be on the case as that's more cruel than anything that went on in Guantanamo Bay.  Without auto-tuning that really is a weapon of mass destruction.

Saturday, 10 September 2011


I haven't even had time to blog about the Celebrity Big Brother Final, but well done Paddy Docherty for wrestling the crown from tabloid princess Kerry Katona.  She should definitely consider an acting career after that grateful runner up performance on Thursday night.  The odds were always in Paddy's favour though.  Just look at previous winners like Alex Reid & Bez from The Happy Mondays.  The Great British public love an inarticulate oaf.

24 hours later and we're off again, but with real people to love and hate for the next couple of months.

I say real but there is one fake in the mix. Pamela Anderson has agreed to spend a few days with the new housemates to sort out her overdraft.  I guess this was a better option than playing Aladdin's genie in Hull for a month at Christmas.  Nice of her to leave that job open for Kerry.

So would it be back to basics or a line up of shocking freaks?

First  down the runway was Mark.  A cheeky chap with a small willy.  It was like Joe Pasquale had just woken up in an alternative reality.  Seems quite adorable but will probably annoy the hell out of the other housemates :-)

Housemate number 2 is irritating Maisie, a fame hungry wannabe.  She's one of those pretty girls who fold jeans at Abercrombie & Fitch just to make normal people feel insecure about their own looks.  Loves heating up baked beans wearing nothing but spike heels.  Is that what she meant by 'living for the moment'?  No likeability factor.

Aaron up next.  A cute tosser who walks like he's shit his pants.  Came over as a complete knob in his VT.  No doubt he'll turn out to be an absolute sweetie.

Hooray for Heaven.  She's an holistic healer who's obsessed with her womb.  I suspect there will be a few of her male housemates who will be interested in exploring that region too. She nearly lost her small breasts on the way in as she slipped into Brian's arms. I can see her doing a porn version of Play School with two hairy bears, a pigtailed dolly bird and her ugly mate.  Has someone spiked my wine?

Tom Thumb popped up next.  A curly, camp Hobbit whose party trick is getting his massive cock out.  Small people with big penises scare me.  The dwarf with the cod piece in The Singing Ringing Tree scarred me for life.

Time for Tashie.  A loud belly dancer who swears in 5 languages.  Annoying but nice shoes.

Odd Aden ambled out like he wasn't quite sure he wanted to be there.  After months of auditions and beating thousands to win a place in the house he could have at least tried to look a bit excited.

Up next was Alex. A South Shield's munter with nasty extensions and in need of some Freederm.  Works front of house at McDonalds.  They must have right posh burger bars in the North East.

Say hello to Harry.  This big country toff in crumpled Ralph Lauren wants to be a gay icon.  Needs to do something about his bad teeth and embarrassing wind first.

Rebeckah is a man hating lap dancer. She's neurotic and has anger issues.  Broke down as soon as she got in the house.  Will be the first to have a meltdown hopefully.

Anton swaggered out onto the stage.  The People's Champion and a Croydon legend......allegedly.  He once played football for Crystal Palace.  So not that special then.

Fiesty Faye, the tom boy wrestler, is fit as f***.  When she entered the house she asked if anyone else was shaking. I'm sure there was a few stirrings in the guy's pants.  I like her.  In fact I think I might fancy her a bit!

Oh look it's another Geordie cliché.  Jay is muscles and tattoos in a tank top and designer jeans.  His best chat up line is 'Come back to mine for a shag and pizza'.  Works for me.

Last and maybe least, it's Louise. A Manc model who thinks she's intelligent. Nuff said.  First to get the boot I reckon.

So this is Big Brother - Hollyoaks style, which is probably a really good move by Channel 5. These are the best looking housemates we've ever had, but how are they all going to cope with only one hairdryer and a pair of straighteners?  Somehow I don't think food will be the main cause of arguments this year. I suspect the weekly shopping list will be fags, booze and fake tan.

Quote of the first night has to go to Mark who gave a bit of a back handed compliment to Pamela Anderson - 'You're like really fit in real life'.

Welcome back Big Brother.  The perfect antidote to 6 weeks of burly blokes in tight shorts chasing a ball around some sheep fields down under.

Oh I don't know........

Wednesday, 7 September 2011


Whilst I was trawling through the archives on my hard drive over the summer I stumbled across the mini dance album I made about 5 years ago called Bailamos.

It's an eclectic mix of Latin beats and Euro pop inspired by summer holidays.

Over the next few weeks I'll share some of the tracks with you.  I hope you like them :-)

Just click the on the music player buttons on the right.

Saturday, 3 September 2011

The Borehamwood Riots

Just as the UK was recovering from the recent urban riots and the Notting Hill Carnival passed without incident, the Big Brother House became the latest victim of the messed up generation.  The Grimes Twins chased the rabbit into wonderland and trashed the house and the goodwill of their fellow inmates.

They decided to become punks for the day.  Punks?  Mincing around the house in leather waistcoats and Lycra leggings, they were more like pole dancers at G.A.Y.  Only slightly less cringe worthy than the previous day when they were crawling around the carpet in paper nappies and bonnets.  I'm surprised the tabloids didn't pick up on this disturbing sight.  I suppose they feared a Page 3 for Paedophiles backlash.

In typical British fashion the grown ups in the house either ignored or made excuses for their complete lack of respect and consideration for anyone or anything.  They just did because they can and sod the f'n consequences.  The housemates really struggled to hide their public anger about the destructive brats in case it would make them seem politically incorrect.  Some, like Boring Bob even faked his enjoyment of the whole fracas as though he thought by supporting these jerks it would somehow gain him kudos with the viewers.

It wasn't until Kerry, the Warrington fish wife, nearly took a nose dive on a soup slick in the kitchen that the true feelings emerged.  She wiped the floor with the immature brush heads as her tether ended and she went into Mimi Maguire mode.  Go Kerry!  She might be shameless and not have many/any talents but she certainly knows how to deal with unruly kids.  The Met Police ought to sign her up.

The gormless duo just stood there not knowing how to react to Kerry's tirade.  They're obviously not used to any form of discipline but the penny dropped eventually and the pansy punks went off with their limp tails between their legs and did something completely out of character.  They cleaned the kitchen.

The next uncomfortable watch was when the brats won the shopping task and ram raided the local branch of Lidls.  Seeing them clearing the shelves of bananas and bags of Haribo as they ran round the store grinning was like a rerun of the Croydon riots on Sky News.  It was in such bad taste, I was almost tempted to call OFCOM.

Some people say that Big Brother is trashy and irrelevant.  I say it's always been a mirror of our social values and behaviour, disguised as frothy fun.  Sometimes it's more shocking and thought provoking than the most credible documentaries.  It's not only a game show and that's why I think it's still drawing the crowds after a decade.

In other news.....

The porky Pap from Down Under continued to show a complete lack of self awareness by claiming that some people are trying to influence others in the house.  Pot (belly) calling the kettle black!

Kerry & Lucien have developed a very odd relationship.  It's like watching someone's Mum on a Hen Weekend in Magaluf .

Poor Paddy is losing the plot now.  Jedward, a horror movie and a plate of garlic finally pushed him over the edge and the former fighter was screaming for his Mammy.  The other housemates better be careful as he's snarling and snapping like a cornered dog now.  Can he hold it together for another week?  I hope not.

We lost another couple of girls this week.  Can't say I'll miss trippy Tara, but I was hoping to hear more of Pamela's fantastic/fantasy parties with our Royal Family.  The best story of the week was her tale about having a fag with Elton and Diana's Mum by the wheelie bins at Althorp House. Classy! You just couldn't make this stuff up.  We actually that's not true.  She probably did.

And finally.  The quote of the week came from the mildly more bearable twin.  After Big Brother gave the housemates back their hot water, Edward was really happy because 'cold water is like, really cold'.

Listen lads. Cold water is like something Jedward will never be.  Really Cool!

Sunday, 28 August 2011

Bad Boys Inc

OK so here's the thing.  We all love a bad boy but bad boys who are sexually arrogant and absorbed in their own macho cool.  So how come we get a Big Brother house full of immature, attention seekers with about as much machismo as litter of toy poodle puppies.

Darryn Lyons even has a poofy pink rinse in his ridiculous barnet and a lumpy stomach that could pass for a lactating bitch.  The awful Aussie has spent the last week attempting to cause divisions in the house and preying on the weaker members of the pack.  He fronts up like a rufty tufty XXXX Bush Man but all the bravado is just a cover for an insecure little spoilt brat, who's made a living out of other people's misery.

His parrot feathers were really ruffled this week when Sally branded him heartless in the Wizard of Oz task.  Knowing this could have an impact on his position in the house and in the eyes of the viewers, he went into damage limitation mode.  Given the choice of a slap up meal and a chat with his Macaw or providing his housemates with a Chinese Takeaway - guess which one he chose?  Was it really a selfless act or just a blatant vote catcher?  I might have given him the benefit of the doubt had he not spent the rest of the day making sure everyone knew what a good deed he'd done whilst wiping tears and silver make up from his fat cheeks.

And then we have the witless, effeminate twins.  This charmless duo are unable to stop performing to the cameras in their camp stage costumes.  This pair of namby-pamby brats have an unnatural and uncomfortable bond that makes them incapable of any sort of social awareness or interaction.  The sight of 2 grown men playing footsie with each other's dangly bits in the bath whilst grinning inanely was a disturbing insight into Planet Jedward.  Brings a whole new meaning to the term 'pleasuring yourself'.

What's really interesting is the reaction (or lack of) from the other housemates to their anti-social behaviour.  It  sums up this apathy we have at the moment to discipline unruly kids.  It might be understandable if they were 10 years old but these idiots are legally allowed to vote, drink, marry and have children of their own.  I think we should stop blaming the Police and the Government for our sick society.  It's clearly Jedward's fault!

The third member of Bad Boy Inc. came from left field.  Bobby the Plank sat around for a few days looking vacant and pretty until he was nominated for eviction by Kerry during the live eviction show.  Spurred into action by the gruesome gurner, he transformed himself into Lord Voldermort and started spitting venom and practising the Dark Arts on his shocked housemates.  At last.  Someone was saying what we all thought about the residents of the house.
Events came to a head during the Oz task when evil Bobby gave Darryn a sweat smoothie.  Oh how we gagged.  There was a national outcry that knocked Libya off the front pages of the tabloids.  Now I know this was a sick prank but Darryn is a parasite who lives off the life blood of the rich, famous and not so famous.   I'm sure it's not the first time he's enjoyed the taste of Z list sweat.

I think Mumbles the Man Cub wants us to think he's a bad boy but so far there's no substance.  He's just a candy floss.  Looks nice but after a few minutes you're left with a wooden stick and toothache.  He's so desperate to please and changes allegiances every 5 minutes like a school kid who can't make up his mind which gang are the cool dudes.

The only real bad boy in the house is the one who doesn't need to try.  Paddy is the Daddy.  A real man's man who doesn't need to bitch and bully to gain respect or attention.  He just IS a man.  Woman love him and other men want to be him.  I still can't understand half of what he says but that doesn't matter.  He's still got more allure than the other males in the house.

So Sally Bigcow got the heave on Friday and I for one wasn't sorry to see the back of her.  She clearly had the hots for Paddy but spent most of her time in there scowling and bitching at Pamela.

I've picked on the boys this week because the girls in the house are just a bit dull so far.

Amy Childs is a big disappointment.  She just waddles around the house like a duck with Alzheimer's.

Tara Reid is so spaced out I think Big Brother ought to get the contents of her fag packets analysed.  She did manage to come up with the quote of the week though when she told Jedward that they could become as rich and famous as Michael Jackson with the right management.  Could Louis Walsh's days be numbered?

I'm quite liking Pamela.  Not because I think she's a great character.  I just feel sorry for the way she's being picked on by the other housemates.  Maybe they all find nice a bit threatening.

And that leaves Kerry Katona.  Yes let's just leave her eh!

Friday, 19 August 2011

As if we never said goodbye....

Brian Dowling eased out of a big black and pink sphincter gripping his 10" of equipment.

No it wasn't some Afro-Irish gay porn film.  It was the opening of Celebrity Big Brother 2011 on Channel 5.

Brian done good.  I wasn't sure at first but he's so part of the show that he doesn't look out of place and he was probably the only person who could fill Davina's Louboutin's.

Reality whore Kerry Katona took pole position like the wicked fairy at a gypsy wedding. The housemate most likely to cry every day for the next 3 weeks and treat us to a live nervous breakdown.  Kerry always makes me think of the girl that used to play reggae records on the Waltzers at the Gyle Fair in Edinburgh.

Tara Reid is honeymooning in the Big Brother house without her new husband.  That doesn't sound like a good start to a marriage but then marriage in Hollywood is more about building your star power than loving relationships.  Paris Hilton's mate didn't seem to know where she was or indeed what the show was all about.  It was like she'd been kidnapped and then pushed out on to the runway in a black bin bag. I wonder if they do drug tests before they let them in?

Paddy the bare knuckle fighting traveller was housemate number 3.  He's quite handsome in a beat up kinda way.  Like an old leather suitcase.  He'll have all the WOMAN of the house cooking and cleaning for him by the weekend if any of them manage to understand a word he's saying.  Thank God for my TiVo remote subtitle button.  He looks like he's already eyeing up the metal house fittings and appliances.  They better check his suitcase when he leaves.

Amy Childs was next - Jordan with hamster cheeks.  I loved Amy on TOWIE but I can't believe she's really that thick.  Will the mask slip? Time will tell I guess.  No doubt she's packed her Vajazzle kit. Wonder who'll be first to get their pubes out?

Oh God it's Darren 'Mr Paparazzi' Lyons.  A ridiculous Aussie twat with the floor sweepings from a chicken abatoir stuck to his head.  Stupid hair.  Stupid outfit. He looked like a Ferrero Rocher.  I hope they have a boxing task and put him in the ring with Paddy.  I'm sure he's Russell's Grant's evil twin!  No nekkid Vajazzle please.

Another random. Sally Alcoholic is the gobby wife of some bloke who shouts at noisy MPs.  She looks like a bitch who'll probably  be the first to walk.

Lucien was milking it a bit.  Cute Mummy's boy but like a rabbit in the headlights.  Likely to become the house pet.

Next up was Britney Spears' granny on stilts.  Well actually it was Pamela Bach-Hasselhoff-Trailer-Trash.  A real beauty in her day but HDTV is not going to be her friend. Bloody feathers again and an outfit from the Primark sale rack.  She'd obviously knocked back a few Jack Daniels on the bus to Borehamwood.  Poor Brian struggled to control the over excited Mid West MILF.  He finally managed to shove her up the stairs as yet another advert break loomed.

I know Channel 5 need to get mega-revenue to pay for all this but easy on the breaks guys.

Then came posh Bobby floppy hair. Scruffy hunk with cheekbones and a 5 o'clock shadow on a single chin that George Michael would kill for.

Finally, Jedward tumbled on to the stage like 2 pyjama cases filled with kittens.  Please drown them in the pool. No really.  PLEASE!

I'm hooked already.  Loved the new set and the house looks great.  Brian was fantastic in his first show.

Don't understand why people are moaning about the Celeb rating of the housemates.  The reason the show is so good is that it's about people and how they react in this strange environment.  You don't need 'A' listers for a great Celebrity Big Brother.  It's the 'Z' lot that provide the best entertainment and we've got some great 'Z's with serious personality disorders.  Bloody marvellous!

Happy as a pig in the proverbial.

p.s. Is Tara Reid still talking about that f'n door?

Thursday, 18 August 2011

The one about the fire (Mar 2005)

Four days off work! I was cock-a-hoop at the prospect of a long weekend of hedonistic bliss. Well laying around getting pissed watching DVDs and devouring chocolate eggs would be a more accurate description of the plan.

Thursday night I was due to go out for a couple of beers with mates but after dinner I was quite happy to snuggle up on the Linda Barker and settle down for a musical cheese-fest with Britney, Cher and Dead or Alive. Pete Burns had just started wiggling his arse around in a pair of satin tassel pants when - BANG! The fuses blew in the house. Shit! I thought we'd had another power cut. Well for about 5 seconds because the lights were still on so that couldn't be?

I stood up and looked down the hall and it was then that I saw the smoke coming from the kitchen and the pungent smell reached me. I rushed passed the dog who was fast asleep in her bed number 3 in the hall and could see the smoke was getting thicker as I reached the kitchen. My heart was racing now and as I turned into the kitchen I saw thick smoke billowing from the dishwasher and crackling noises coming from inside.

After opening the back door I turned the dishwasher off. Why I don't know cos the fuses had gone but you don't think clearly in these situations. I then debated closing the back door as I wasn't sure if the fresh air would fan the fire. Seemed like ages before I came to my senses but it was probably seconds. Rushed back to the lounge to call the fire brigade.

Hi-tech digital phone was dead as the power was off. Old fashioned simple phones have a lot going for them! Found mobile and called 999. Think it's the first time in my life I've ever done that!

Here's how the convo went

Her - emergency which service?
Her - What's the address
Her - What road are you near?
Me - Ehhhhhhhh! Oh I dunno? Sainsbury's ....
Her - are you near xxxxxxxxxx Hill?
Me - Oh yeh!
Her - what's happened?
Me - (in high-pitched squeaky voice) My dishwasher's caught fire!
Her - are you outside?
Me - No! I'm in the kitchen!
Her - Can you please go outside immediately!
Me - OK
Her - They're on they're way. Please wait outside until they arrive.
Me - OK thanks.

Ran down hall and scooped up dog who was still fast asleep. Thought dogs were supposed to have a 6th sense or at least a good sense of smell!

Was only outside for about 2 minutes when the sirens and flashing blue lights came charging round the corner and out jumped the boys in their sexy uniforms. I told them where the kitchen was and they disappeared into the smoke. The dog kept trying to go in too. She just wanted to get back to her bed.

I was shaking like a leaf and trying not to make it obvious to the boys. Curiously not one of the lads was in the least bit sexy? Next thing the neighbours start popping out and asking what's happened and if I'm okay. I can still hear the cries of 'Your DISHWASHER????' and see the eyes rolling. Why did it have to be such a gay sounding fire.

They all trooped out and said all's OK. Just a bit smelly. They were off almost as quickly as they had arrived. I went back in. Slung the dog back in her bed and she just turned to the wall, farted and fell asleep. Ungrateful bitch. Doesn't she know I rescued her from a smoke-filled death trap!

Here's the remains of the dishwasher

What did I learn from this experience?

1. Never leave appliances on when you leave the house. Just think what might have been if I had gone out!
2. Dogs are stupid
3. Not all firemen are sexy!

Friday was pretty uneventful thank goodness.

Having survived the fire and bending over the bath rubbing anti-bacterial/fungal shampoo on my dog's arse I was looking forward to a special evening on Saturday. A group of mates, who I hadn't seen for ages, were coming round for a bit of a reunion party at my abode. It was Mr T's birthday the other day so it was a timely gathering.

Now to say I've been a tad stressed lately is like saying Jodie Marsh wasn't born that way. It's a fact that is best kept behind closed doors and not discussed in public. So before meeting my old mates I thought I would have a relaxing home-spa afternoon to de-stress and get my sparkle back.

Bath was run and candles lit. Dug out Laura Pausini CD and had it gently playing on the toilet seat. Well on the CD player sat on the toilet seat.

I'd been shopping in the morning and decided to treat myself to a Face Tonic to de-stress the visage. 5 minute miracle it said. Vibrant Fresh Skin - FAST! Explosively invigorates you for the night or day ahead. Perfect I thought.

Gently eased myself into the Seaweed & Watermint bath. Tore open the face tonic mask and smoothed it across my face as I lay back in the hot bubbles being soothed by the Italian diva.

About a minute later I felt this tingling sensation across my cheeks and forehead. I thought that must be the mask cleansing my pores. The tingling soon became a burning sensation and it was at that point I started to worry. The lovely 'orange' fragrance of the mask suddenly put me in mind of Mr Muscle Limescale Remover.

Half a bottle of Nivea Sensitive Balm later and the pain has subsided but my face looks like I've been sunbathing in a balaclava! By the time my mates arrive the throbbing & sweats have begun and the shocked look on their faces suggests they think I've let myself go a bit and need to drink more water to flush those toxins out of my system. I show them the remains of the mask and explain the reason for my odd look. I don't think they believed me.

Ok OK I know there is a warning on the back that says you should do a sensitivity test on your arm before using the mask but who'd suspect that something so 'healthy' and 'fruity' sounding and costing only 89p could result in a DIY chemical peel.

Monday, 18 July 2011

If You Can't Stand The Heat....

......then have your summer holiday in dear old Blighty!  As I write this I can hear screams from next door as another BBQ comes to an abrupt end and my neighbours are trying to rescue soggy sausages and damp drumsticks as the UK summer once again proves that global warming is complete bollocks.

There's something terribly British about outdoor eating in drizzle.  Like taking windbreaks to the beach.

I'm really starting to regret not heading to the Med with my mates this year.  The first night of my holiday was spent alone with a bottle of Merlot and my TiVo box.  It wasn't as Bridget Jones as it sounds though.  After catching up on Torchwood, Betty and I were dancing round the house to Example, Lady Gaga and a medley of 80's grooves.  OK so maybe dancing with your dog on a Friday night is a bit sad but at least she doesn't get moody the next day when I wake up with a hangover or insist on making as much noise as possible to make my long lie in bed impossible.

That's what's so cool about dogs.  They love you no matter what.  I hope she still feels like that this week after I take her to the vet to have her puppy bearing tubes snipped.  I feel really guilty even typing that!

Last week there was a pretty momentous occasion.  It's been 30 years since Bucks Fizz won the Eurovision Song Contest and had their first million selling worldwide hit with Making Your Mind Up.  To celebrate we went to their charity concert at the London Palladium.

Our excitement was doused when we arrived at Victoria Station to find that the Underground was closed due to overcrowding on the platforms.  I love London but why is public transport in the capital so crap?  Heaven help us when we're invaded by the world for the 2012 Olympic Games. The only way this is going to work is if they tell everyone to stay at home for three weeks.

The queue for taxis was round the block so we decided to take a bus.  A bored looking policeman directed us to the right bus stop and we joined a group of agitated commuters all shouting into their iPhones or staring blankly at route maps.

It wasn't long before our bus arrived.  It was one of Ken's bendy buses and we dived on and managed to get a seat after elbowing a couple of Chinese tourists out of the way.  Commuting in London is survival of the fittest and I was having that seat bitch!

As the bus filled up, the smell of sour sweat and stale beer increased.  I tried not to inhale the pungent fumes but all I could see was these damp armpits swinging around in front of me like a load of rotting carcasses in a slaughter house.  It was really hard to suppress the gag reflex.  The traffic was almost at a stand still so there was no chance of getting a bit of a breeze in the coach to freshen the air.  The fat bloke next to me smelled like a rotting Big Mac that had been sprayed with Lynx.

We eventually arrived at our destination after several seemingly pointless diversions and met up with our gang outside the Palladium.  The place was buzzing with more bald heads and A&F t-shirts than I've seen since Brighton Pride Weekend.  The queue for souvenirs was massive.  A load of Friends of Dorothy all emptying their Ted Baker wallets to buy gingham mugs, ruby slippers and Toto t-shirts from the Wizard of Oz shop.  How could the Bucks Fizz programmes compete!

We fought our way to the bar and handed over £24 for 4 drinks.  £24! No wonder tourism in London is struggling.  When I first started work my weekly wage was £13.  That was enough to pay my Mum, go to work, be a fashion icon and have at least two big night's out every weekend!

After four £24 rounds we headed into the beautiful theatre for Bjorn Again.  If you've not seen this band you must!  They've been around for years but never fail to get everyone singing and dancing to the fabulous songs of the Swedish Pop Gods.  Benny & Bjorn really knew how to write 'hooks' that would appeal to the masses.   I guess they were The Beatles of the 70's.

When we found our seats we found another problem.  This being a charity show there were a lot of people that had been brought here by Sunshine Coaches.  As we edged into the row Mr T suddenly realised he was sitting next to someone with Saint Vitus Dance Syndrome.  He spent the rest of the evening ducking and diving to avoid a smack in the face from his zealous neighbour.

The lights dimmed and after a pre-concert video prelude, Bucks Fizz were on and they were really on! Great vocals and tight harmonies.  I'd forgotten how many great hits they'd had.

That said I think the wardrobe department must have been a couple of myopic drunks.  OMG where did they dig up those outfits. Mike Nolan looked like a cross between Freddy Starr and a snooker ref.  There mustn't have been a full length mirror in the dressing rooms.  It's the only excuse for his grey tartan bondage trousers. Why didn't Cheryl & Jay tell him?

Jay didn't escape the wardrobe disaster.  During her big solo number she was raised up by two hefty dancers with flat feet and the bottom half of her white plastic dress fell off.  Luckily she was wearing nice pants and just carried on regardless.  A true professional.  She made it look like it was all part of the act.  I mean they're well known for whipping their skirts off at every opportunity.

Cheryl's costumes were less pantomime but still a bit like your Mum going to the office Christmas party.  Bless her.

Bucks Fizz never claimed to be fashion icons and it was good to see that after 30 years they still revel in their lack of style.  The true magic of Bucks Fizz is the songs.  Perfect, shameless pop with a hint of camp.

Talking of camp.  The male dance troupe was probably a good idea and raised loud cheers every time they whipped their tops off.  I just wish they'd all been doing the same choreography.  Half of them looked like they were just making it up as they went along and a couple of beefy guys on the end seemed to have been thrown in to make up the numbers.  They were completely out of place and like two security guards who'd been squeezed into lycra leggins and pushed on stage when the real dancers phoned in sick.

The hits kept coming and the audience was on it's feet. Dancing and singing along in gay abandon.

We then watched an emotional video about the fateful bus crash outside Newcastle that nearly ended the life of Mike Nolan and ended Jay's time in the band.  There wasn't a dry eye in the place.  It was like watching one of those X Factor sob stories only this was real.  They've had an incredible journey over the last 30 years and it's just a shame that the 4th member of the group wasn't there to celebrate.  Apparently he's too busy trawling his own version of Bucks Fizz around caravan parks in the West Country and wasting his nest egg on pointless copyright court cases.

Tonight, this Bucks Fizz were as real as it was ever going to get and the crowd were loving every minute of it.  Two hours later and we're in the Land of Make Believe with fake snow and giant mirror balls.  Magic!  The encore was obvious.  Making Your Mind Up was a perfect end to the night but Jay and Cheryl kept their skirts on this time.  Tonight it was the male dancers who lost their clothes yet again at the appropriate moment. The two security guards missed their cue once more and their clothes fell off 4 bars later.

What a brilliant night.  Cheryl, Jay & Mike were fantastic.  I wish them good luck with the next court case.

We left the London Palladium with beaming smiles but our joy was short lived as we descended the steps to Hell.  London Underground should supply customers with oxygen masks, water and a can of Magicool during the summer.  Oh and anyone wearing Lynx body spray should be forced to make alternative travel arrangements.  Try a bike or better still......have a bloody shower before you set off.

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Friday, 8 July 2011

The one about the blinds (Apr 2007)

Today has been another one of those days when I wish I'd just stayed in bed and not allowed myself to get tangled in life's evil web.

This morning, around 7am, I was drifting off to sleep again after pressing the snooze button for the third time when my mobile rang. I got such a fright that I let out a girly yelp and pulled the duvet over my head. Why on earth did I think that the theme from Psycho was a good idea for a ringtone? 

By the time I'd composed myself and adjusted my eyes to the dim light in the bedroom the caller had rung off. I assumed it was a wrong number and snuggled back under the covers only to hear the main house phone ringing within seconds. I let it ring and waited to see if the person would leave a message. Just as the bloke started talking I remembered my new shed was being delivered today! 

I stumbled through to the lounge only to hear this Argos oik telling me to get out of my bed! To be fair, he did have a point. I was still half asleep so wasn't really sharp enough to have a go at his interesting customer skills when I finally picked up the phone.

It was good to get that delivery out of the way early. I just hadn't expected it to be so early. Usually if I book a morning slot the doorbell rings at 11.59.

My Sainsburys shopping delivery arrived promptly too. Just after Loose Women and before a spiky phone call with a project manager who smells of Ritz crackers.

This evening I'd arranged to go to IKEA to get a new blind for my bedroom. I'd managed to break the mechanism for opening and closing the blinds during a Jacobs Creek tasting session. What little co-ordination and dexterity I possess vanishes completely after 2 glasses of Shiraz.

In preparation for the IKEA trip I drank two cups of camomile tea and popped a propranolol but I was still feeling flushed and anxious. The car trip was only five minutes but as the blue and yellow towers drew closer I had a twinges in my right arm and my ankles turned crimson and swelled up. Not a good look when you're wearing 3/4 length shorts. 

I did some breathing exercises on the escalators and by the time we got to rugs I was feeling pretty chilled. We reached blinds and spent 20 minutes arguing about colours and drops. In the end we decided on the 120 x 155 in pale wood. I say wood but I swear it felt more like Wrigleys Spearmint chewing gum strips.

Half an hour later we find the tills and the exit and depart Swedish purgatory without purchasing anything that we didn't come for. Never EVER pick up the yellow bags in IKEA. If you do you're sure to arrive home with a useless fish slice, rubber ice cube tray and some apple & blackberry tea lights.

Got home and decided I'd have a go at putting up the blinds myself despite my famous lack of skills in the DIY department. The old blind came down really fast but I managed to break the fittings in the process. I'm not good up a ladder but I was being dead focused. Too focused really as all the fittings snapped off.

No worries, I thought. I'll just unscrew the old fittings and put up the new ones. Unscrewing was a piece of piss. One by one the screws came out and fell on the floor as I teetered on the step ladders. Why is it that step ladders make such scary creaking noises the higher you go up?

Replacing the fittings shouldn't have been a problem but when I started I realised that the screw holes were in a different place. I'm sweating now and the step ladders are moving freely around my laminate flooring. I'm determined to do this and get the right side fitting fixed after a shaky struggle.

The left hand side proves more difficult as I can't get a good twist on the screwdriver due to a wall cabinet being in the way. After dropping the screw five times I'm getting stressed again but despite the wet arm pits I persevered and decided I needed to apply more pressure on the screwdriver.

The screw fell out another six times and I'm getting angry and more heated. My head is throbbing and after counting to 10 I decide to have one last lunge. The shift of weight pushes the step ladders back and throws me forward......through the open window and I do a stuntman dive onto the patio, destroying a group of small flower pots with Jasmine cuttings.

I think I've done something bad to my shoulder and my left ankle is feeling sore. I feel a bit shaken to be honest but I haven't got time to worry about my injuries because I now realise my trauma has been in vain because Mr T just told me that the window is more than 155cm deep so the blind is too f'ing short!

I'm washing down more propranolol with Jacobs Creek so even Jodie Marsh couldn't wind me up now. I wonder if I need an X Ray? It hurts when I do this..............

Saturday, 2 July 2011

The one about the restructured holiday (Sept 2006)

Holidays are supposed to make you feel relaxed aren't they?

I've just had over 2 weeks off work and look like some disheveled hobo with TB. The stress rash I developed on my scalp has started bleeding so I now have red dandruff.

Things didn't start well. 2 days before my holiday we were all told that our department was being restructured. That's business speak for cutting back on staff but not the volume of work.

OK I should have made a decision then to postpone my holiday but I'd already agreed to house sit for friends so my hands were tied. So started the weirdest vacation ever.

I hung around at home over the weekend. No point travelling South for a couple of days to come home and then venture to the North for the interview. Hanging around just made me more anxious, so by the time I got to the office my breathing sounded like a camel having an orgasm. I covered myself in Garnier Shine Control moisturiser and Sure Extreme Protection but still sweated up like a Turkish wrestler.

The interviews were behind schedule and in the end I landed up with the after lunch slot with a woman from Human Resources.  She was having problems keeping her eyes open. Was I boring her to death or had she had a couple of pints and a carvery roast down the pub?

30 minutes later it was all over and I was dispatched back to London to continue my anxious wait/holiday. A quick change of suitcase and I was off to the seaside.

Arrived in Brighton and headed off to the chemist to get a prescription. As luck would have it the local chemist closes early on a Wednesday so now I can feel a panic attack coming on.

17.15 I have no idea where the next chemist is. I start walking East. Not sure why but it seemed to make sense at the time.

17.26 I find another chemist in the nick of time. A small, surly Scandinavian woman is getting ready to shut up shop as I bluster through the door, knocking over a display of cheap reading glasses. The troll gives me daggers as the pharmacist takes pity on me and agrees to make up my prescription. I buy a purple nail clipper set out of gratitude.

17.36 I wave goodbye to the pharmacist and her grumpy troll and head back.

17.37 A monsoon hits Brighton and t shirt/shorts and flip flops suddenly seem inappropriate. 3 blocks later and I'm drenched. I've stuffed my drugs down my shorts to keep them dry but I'm soaked through to my Calvins.

17.48 I eventually make it home and collapse with my drugs and a bottle of Jacobs Creek.

Things can only get better.......................right?

After 4 days I trek back home as I'm being summoned to work for another interview.

The dog's developed a nasty cough/retch combo in my absence, so my first day back and I'm off to line the vets pockets again. £78 for some pills and a bottle of ear cleaner. If any parents are reading this crap, my advice would be to encourage your children to become vets. It's like a license to print money and no one ever complains because their little precious babies are worth every penny. It's simply not the done thing to whinge about being robbed blind by the bloke in the green coat with bad hair who just stuck a thermometer up Fifi's arse.

Got myself in a right 2 n 8 over my pending interview. Woke up with hives and the scalp scabs were itching something rotten. As the morning wore on I couldn't settle and just walked around the house picking up stuff for no reason and putting it down again in between several toilet visits. If I'd been auditioning for a remake of  One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest the part would have been mine. 

As this was a final interview and I'm supposed to be on holiday they decided to do it by phone rather than make me travel up North again. By the time the phone rang my t-shirt was wringing wet and I was having trouble walking. My behind was red raw and felt like a blob of mince and drawing pins. 

Actually the interview went really well until the dog had a cough/retching fit and I made a dash for the door so they didn't hear her. I tripped over a toothbrush charger and fell into the huge banana plant that I'm babysitting for a friend while she's on holiday. It was snapped in two but I got the job so it's not all bad news. I've got a few days left to think up a good story about the death of her beloved plant. I've got rid of the evidence. It's currently in small bits in our wheelie bin and should be land-fill by the weekend.

Without an ounce of remorse I was back off to the coast to continue my holiday. The rain started almost immediately.

Had a great night out with mates for a birthday celebration. We had a magnificent Thai feast served up by what looked like the chorus line of a fat ladyboy cabaret. Staggered back home and fell asleep on the sofa squinting at the SKY+ planner with one eye and swearing at the remote control.  Every channel seemed to be showing Charlotte Church murdering Hey Jude but I can't be sure if I was still awake.
 Next day went shopping in Brighton with Mr T. We got soaked again darting through The Brighton Lanes and spent most of the afternoon in clammy charity shops as he was searching for Scally footwear. He tells everyone he buys these shoes to re-sell on EBay. We all believed him until his Mum's loft collapsed and she was buried under a pile of Doc Martins and Adidas trainers.

Sunday, 26 June 2011

Stand By Your Man

So said Tammy looking like a perfect Stepford Wife.  Every man's fantasy.  A flawless and demure doll who would stand by her wayward husband at all costs because, after all, he's just a man.

That song caused outrage at the time from horrified women who baulked at the Victorian sentiment that pushed back the female cause by 60 years.  In the end, Tammy's hymn to him didn't stop the feminist flow and over the last 30 odd years women in Western culture have really come into their own.  Juggling family life and careers so successfully that equality is almost not an issue now.  Some might say that our sisters went too far as ladette culture created a new breed of binge drinking sexual predators that had men running scared.  The roles became reversed as New Man was consumed with spray tan, body waxing and glossy mags with blokes in tight white underwear.

What we're led to believe by all this Jordanesque behaviour is that it's Game, Set & Match to the fairer sex.  However underneath this orange veneer is a much more disturbing truth that in reality things haven't really changed at all since Mr Wynette was given carte blanche to have his good times by the down trodden missus.

Every time we open a paper or magazine these days we're bombarded by sordid stories of high profile husbands having furtive escapades with whatever slappers happen to be served up on a plate for their sexual gratification.

Now this is nothing new and we all know that men are genetically designed to be controlled by the contents of our pants but what's happened to the power of a woman?

There's not a week goes by without some dim witted WAG choosing to humiliate herself in the media by forgiving her man......because she loves him.  Do these people not watch Jeremy Kyle?  If there's no trust in a marriage then no amount of Jimmy Choos or Gucci bags is going to give you self esteem and happiness.

Reading through the Sunday rags today we're told that Cheryl and Ashley's reunion is inevitable and that poor Mrs Giggs has decided that she can live with a man who has allegedly had multiple affairs and shagged his brother's wife.

Unfortunately these idiots are the role models of a generation and the message being given here is loud and clear and no different to that song from 1975.

You'll have bad times
And he'll have good times
Doing things that you don't understand
But if you love him you'll forgive him
Even though he's hard to understand
And if you love him
Oh be proud of him
'Cause after all he's just a man

Are women smart? I suggest that men aren't as dumb as women think they are.

The one about Christmas (Dec 2005)

Well it's over for another year and I've survived again, albeit with bowel movements swaying dramatically from pebble-dashing to prehistoric rock formations.

I managed to get away with only two Christmas parties this year and both were a cracking good time. Cracking being the operative word as I managed to recreate the ending of Torville & Dean's Bolero on an icy Broad Street in Birmingham in my new Paul Smith party shoes........TWICE! Well the queue outside Walkabout demanded an encore so I had to oblige, didn't I.

Christmas shopping was stress-free this year. Did it all online in November. How bloody cool am I eh? Well I was really cool until my father rang me last Friday to inform me that he'd forgotten to tell me that the hamper I ordered for him had been sent back to Harrods due to the fact that he'd forgotten it was being delivered and had gone out for the day with his new lady friend. It must be the Scottish water. I mean he's 80 with arthritis and prostrate trouble FFS!

Anyway said pensioned lothario forgot to tell me that this happened a week or so before, so I'm left making frantic calls to Harrods at 5.27pm on the Friday before Christmas to try and find out where the bloody hamper is. The local Post Office don't have it and it's not found it's way back to Harrods either so it's probably landed up as a special Christmas gift to some lucky Mother in Dundee whose son works for Parcel Force.

Between me and a Harrods Customer Service Manager, who sounded like Zippy from Rainbow, we managed to agree on a hamper re-send and I told the old letch that he had to stay at home for a couple of days and wait for the delivery. I'm sure he could find something to keep him occupied on if he gets desperate.

Christmas day was a rather bizarre experience. Me and my ex spending it with my ex's boyfriend and his ex. It wasn't as bad as it sounds and in fact it was quite good fun. Well anything is fun after 3 pints of mulled wine I guess. It was all going rather well and in fact I found the ex's boyfriend's ex to be extremely attractive and was enjoying the day more and more. However the thought of someone else I like right now made me hold back and not get too flirty. That and the fact that even thinking of the complications of me with ex's boyfriend's ex................ Oh jeez it just doesn't bear thinking about! That would be a 4 star blog in the making or a dead cert for a reality TV shown on Living TV between Queer Eye and Extreme Makeover UK. Is it just me or are the UK women on there not really that different at the end? They all still look a bit Chav but with nice hair and a decent dress.

Whilst I'm on this rather gay topic. I was having a browse online and for some reason landed up on the Channel 4 News Form. Bloody hell, Boxing Day is an anti-climax.

Found the usual gay debate on there. These threads are common on the News Forum and it amuses me how some people will post anti-gay statements in the guise of a 'debate'.

I find it really strange that some straight males claim to fear homosexuals like they're some sort of heavy mob waiting to pounce on fragile little men and force them into some gay sex act. What is it they fear I wonder?

It surely can't be the act of budgery as that is popular between consenting straight couples (mainly for male gratification). It's also common in male schools and prisons when there's nothing less hairy around.

It leads me to assume that this terrible fear must be due to the fact that, what they will quite happily do to a woman or indeed another man, might be done to them by some big gay brute of a man. OK maybe I can understand that the role reversal may not be appealing but I wonder where these men think these fearful attacks might take place?

Trapped behind the lockers in the Virgin Active gym and tied up with some iPod Shuffle headphones?

Bashed over the head with a bag of Mange Tout and dragged into Tesco's toilets......more room in the wheelchair cubicle ;-)

Heaven forbid they should sit next to a gay on public transport. That would be just asking for trouble! Look out for tell tale signs guys (HEAT magazine and Diesel trainers) before you sit down.

OK I'm being flippant now but I really would like to know why someone would be scared of me and think that I'm on the prowl every day for a weak straight guy to dominate for sexual pleasure. Hmmmm. I'm turning myself on now.

Most of my male friends are straight and I don't see them trembling with fear in my company. Backing off at the overpowering smell of my D&G cologne maybe.......but never scared of the contents of my pants. I do combat sports as a hobby and work out with a lot of tough blokes who don't bat an eyelid about my sexuality. It's just not an issue for them.

Oh look I've gone off track again haven't I. Back to Christmas.

It wasn't so bad after all and in fact I received something nice on my new phone that made me smile during the present unwrapping. I did get lots of lovely pressies but then there were the usual presents that required Academy Award standard acting during the ceremony.

I mean how would you react at the sight of a remote controlled Dalek and a Croydon Advertiser mug...........

Post script

Since I wrote that blog 6 years ago things have changed and homophobia and fear of the gay is now sneered at in the media.

There have been a couple of examples recently on Reality TV that have shown how attitudes have changed.

Leon, the wimp, on The Apprentice was rightly ridiculed for his fear of giving a bloke a spray tan. His girlfriend tried to defend him by saying it was because he was a man's man. I'm saying nothing ;-)

The Hunks on Living also made a point of making Idris look a complete idiot when he wanted to leave the series because his straight flatmates were quite happy to help each other with hair products.

Let's just be totally clear on one thing guys. You can't catch gay from a jar of Molton Brown hair gel.

Saturday, 18 June 2011

The one about Skiathos (July 2008)

Well I'm back in clammy Croydon having survived two weeks of searing heat, angry wasps, peanut butter poo and stifling transport, squashed up against hairy Europeans smelling of fags and pizza. It was like a home from home!

It was a fantastic holiday filled with new experiences. It's not everyone who can claim to have spent an afternoon on a nudist beach discussing DFS sofas with an old queen from Blackpool. What made this scene so memorable was the fact that he spent the whole conversation flapping his balls around in the sea breeze and I couldn't help but notice that his genitals bore a striking to resemblance to Father Christmas with a stinking cold.

As you might expect I had some typical mishaps during the fortnight. The most painful happened late in the first week. We'd had a lovely day on the beach and I'd spent a lot of time languishing in the shallows to cool down. I decided to leave early because I wanted to pick up some shopping on the way back to the apartment. I'd pretty much dried off in the sun so just wandered back into town for a browse.

After about half an hour I started to feel a bit of chaffing between my legs. Damn I thought. My shorts must must have been a bit damp. Too late to do anything about it, I went about my business and as the pain got worse I started to walk like I'd shit my pants. The more I tried not to look like my nappy was full the more awkward my gait became and no matter what I did, the pain at the top of my thighs was getting worse and starting to make my eyes water.

I waddled slowly back to the apartment and eased into the bathroom to check out the damage. As I pulled down my swim shorts I discovered I'd been walking around town with a couple of pounds of wet gravel from the beach trapped in the pant lining of my shorts!

As if in slow motion and due to the excess weight, my shorts dropped to the floor and a substantial amount of Megali Amos beach scattered all over our lovely clean marble floor. We were still standing on stray bits of crunchy beach a week later. I went through a tube of Savlon over the next couple of days and spent most of the time in a sarong so as not to aggravate the red welts between my legs.

We were holidaying on Skiathos, which is one of my favourite Greek islands. They filmed Mama Mia there last year and the movie was showing at the open air cinema there. We just had to go and see it. It was a magical night. Singing and dancing along to an ABBA movie under the stars probably scores rather high on the Camp-o-meter. Ghostly sea birds soared overhead as we all got on the floor for the reprise of Dancing Queen at the end. One of mates got a bit carried away and knocked over our table, spilling a full glass of Ouzo over my brand new trainers. I've washed them 3 times since but there's still a whiff of aniseed under my bed.

I don't know if I've mentioned before but Mr T seems to have developed a fetish for people with disabilities. Over the last couple of years we've seen him getting off with what could pass for the British Paralymic Squad. This strange obsession continued on holiday as we were introduced to his latest Greek flame. The holiday romance this year was with a deaf mute called George.

Mama Mia!

Sunday, 12 June 2011

The one about the tram (Oct 2004)

Right it's nearly Halloween and have I had a gut full of ghouls already. Digital Spy forums aside ;-) things had been pretty harmonious at home. Had over two weeks off work and although all my planned trips had to be cancelled due to building work in my kitchen, the end result was worth it. Lovely kitchen and a pretty chilled Steve.

I hardly recognize my kitchen now and find myself gliding around in there with a Dettox surface wipe far too often than is healthy for a 6'3 bloke with a No1 crop and tattoos.

Only a few bits need doing now. Mr T has volunteered to do the tiling. Very nice of him and I am appreciative but he's one of these DIY Dangers that starts things but never finishes so I'm cautiously delighted.

He bought a huge shed/garden workshop kit to put up the end of the garden. Had it delivered, started to level off the ground where he was going to build it. 2 years later the level ground is a massive cat litter tray for the local felines and when I look out my bedroom window all I can see is 2 tons of pine rotting under a bright green tarpaulin.

Anyway he made a start and the tiles are looking magnificent. Perfect match. Very butch if I say so myself. You may remember that I'm getting quite blazé about going to the DIY sheds after recent expeditions. So when Mr T says he needs some tile edging I leap to the rescue and tell him I'll nip over to Tile Base and get some. I could see the slightly unsure look crossing his face and after much silent shuffling he agreed that I couldn't do much harm with such a task.

Feeling dead chuffed and almost like a pseudo-builder's mate I pop down the road and catch a tram to the Tile Base Superstore just in time for school's out! The tram was packed with kids in baseball caps, polyester and arses hanging round their knees. There's a lot to be said for school uniforms.

Get to Tile Base at last after suffering the stench of a sweaty kid devouring 2 Big Macs. There was a hint of Lynx in the mix too. It was like a round of Stilton that had been sprayed with Fabreze. Not a smell I care to encounter again.

The place has what I need. 2 lengths of tile edging in black. Perfect! Leave the shop looking even more pleased with myself and head for home. Whilst waiting for the tram I suddenly noticed that the other people waiting were giving me strange looks. I pretended not to noticed and shuffled around looking at my mobile phone for no reason and reading the barcode on the tile edge strip. Some people are so rude I thought. 2 minutes before the tram arrives.

It's at this point I suddenly look up to the end of the 8 foot long pieces of tile edging. Yes. I said 8 foot. Bugger!

As the tram approaches I can see people whispering to each other and a pushchair Mum with greasy hair and equally greasy child rolls her eyes at me and inspects her false nails. I return her eye rolls and throw in a screwed up nose into the bargain.

The tram's here. Doors open. It's really busy. I lower the edging strips and try to manoeuvre myself into the tram, almost knocking the cap off an old bloke who's dancing around in the gangway trying to get out of the way. I try and pull up and the strips smack against the ceiling making a noise like the electricity lines have snapped. Two old dears obviously headed for bingo let out a shriek and before they have time to attack me with their dobbers an Inspector appears. 'You can't bring that on here mate' he says. I look indignant and desperately trying to maintain my cool blurt out 'Well how do you expect me to get get this home'

I could have crawled into the old blokes cap. Why did I say that? The whole place was now a mix of sniggers and tutting and my face was beetroot.

I got off the tram pretending to be furious at the way I had been treated. Probably looked a bit like Diana Ross after being frisked at Heathrow. Stormed back to the shop who very kindly gave me a refund whilst I ranted on about public transport and pensioners traveling during peak hours. By the time I got home I was quite calm again and told Mr T what had happened.

He looked at me in disbelief and said 'Why didn't you just get the shop to cut it in half'.....

Saturday, 11 June 2011

The one about the trip to Newcastle (April 2007)

Off on my travels again. This time I'm at the mercy of GNER as I make my way to Newcastle for a business meeting and a big company do. Spent the whole previous evening emptying the contents of my wardrobe and trying to pair up tops and bottoms for the party. In the end I went for a Diesel/Primark combo of jeans and black t shirt adorned with various crucifixes and bracelets. I think I'm turning into Madonna circa 1984.

Surprisingly the trip North was pretty uneventful apart from a toothless drunk across the aisle who kept emptying a carrier bag full of Celebrations and Quality Street onto his table and counting them. After he satisfied himself that they were all still there he would scoop them up and put them back for 20 minutes before starting all over again.

He caught me watching him outside Peterborough and waved a mini Mars bar in my face and laughed so much he nearly choked on his own phlegm, like a TB victim who's just won the lottery.

Jumped in a cab at Newcastle station and when I said where I was going I got what sounded like some mild form of Geordie abuse. 30 seconds later when we pulled up to the hotel I realised why the cabbie hadn't been best pleased. The hotel was just the other side of the traffic lights. I felt so sheepish and embarrassed I gave him a fiver and told him to keep the change.

After a curry I finished off some work in my room and had a glass of something passing as red wine before getting ready for bed. I was really tired and looking forward to hitting the pillows. I slid under the covers with a grin on my face and my specs perched on the end of my nose. It took about 5 seconds before I realised I was lying on something damp!

I threw off the covers and leapt out of bed. Well I didn't exactly leap. It was too late at night for leaping. Anyway I switched the lights on and gently patted the mattress. It was definitely damp. Should I sniff it? I sniffed it! No smell but it's damp. I sat on the sofa for a few minutes wondering what I should do. No choice but to call reception and think about packing up and moving rooms.

After about 5 minutes there was a knock at the door and Blakey from On the Buses walked in! I swear he was a dead ringer. He has a feel of the bed and ventures a sniff too. We're both rubbing the sheets now and it's becoming clear that the dampness seems to have vanished! He's now looking at me like I'm some sort of mad person. He's quick though as he suggested that it was probably the Fog off the Tyne and maybe I should shut my window. I found myself agreeing with his theory to get out of my predicament. He bid me goodnight as I rushed him out the door. I guess I'll never know where the dampness came from or where it went. Maybe it was some kind of paranormal activity!

Next morning my guts were playing up after the curry. I'd already had 2 toilet sittings in the hotel before the cab arrived. Why don't hotels provide bog brushes. I'm sure it's so the maids can have a right good laugh at your skid marks.

I'd only been in the office for about half an hour when the curry made itself known again. Nothing worse that doing a poo in the office but I had no choice in the matter. I sneaked down the corridor and after checking to make sure I had no neighbours I landed in trap number 4. Just at the point of relaxation, the toilet door opens and in come a group of sqealing lads from the call centre. I think I've only ever taken a dump at work on 2 occasions and both times I ended up with a giggling audience outside. Having a shit can be really shit sometimes.

The main event was the party in the evening. I work with a great team of people and we always have fantastic nights out but this one was extra special as it marked a big change in our company. A change for the good I have to say. It's been a dead exciting time and we were all really up for a good time.

As usual, tea-total Frank from Sales got rat arsed after 2 pints of Carling and was swaying by the ladies toilets offering Marlboro Lights to anything that walked past. We got him a cab at half nine as his eyes were rolling back into his head after someone gave him a Sambuca.

Soon it was the last record of the night and we were all on the floor linking arms and shouting along to The Proclaimers and 5000 miles. As we got to the 2nd verse I felt this hand down the back of my jeans. Inside my Polo underpants! I turned to Diane who was on my right but realised her hand was on my shoulder. The hand down my pants belonged to Ian from Finance. How rude!

We staggered across the bridge to Buffalo Joe's for more of the same. I love Buffalo Joe's. Especially the bar staff. Those sexy lads in chaps and leather waistcoats are very pleasant viewing and the girls are not bad either. I was apparently quite easy on the eye to a young gun who followed me around like a puppy all night. I say puppy but I think he was more like a drunk velociraptor as he tried to get me away from the pack at every opportunity. I was flattered and it was fun but he wasn't my type.

After a quick snog by the wheelie bins I escaped back to the herd only to be thrown onto the bucking bull. Well I say thrown but actually I was getting boos from the crowd as they were getting bored waiting for me to take off my boots, jewellery and find a relatively sober person to hold my mobile phone. I finally made my entrance and leapt onto the bouncy base around the bull. Misjudged the bounce and fell forward, bashing my nose on the saddle. I didn't ever get my leg over and staggered off with a bloody nose only to be greeted by Ian from Finance with a tissue and a smile.

What to do next? Another grope by the bins or should I risk the foggy bed?

Saturday, 4 June 2011

The one about the Wine Box (June 2004)

I think I'm turning into Frank Spencer!

Having recovered from the D&G spectacle debacle I was enjoying a relatively tranquil day yesterday. The sun was shining and I was chuffed that I'd managed to complete all my work tasks by the early afternoon. Well you know that expression pride comes before a fall > I wanna slap the supercilious git who coined that phrase!

First of all I went arse over tip trying to get to my mobile phone and smacked my head on the wardrobe. I'm sure I didn't leave my gym bag there. Maybe the dog is getting her revenge for the breakfast incident.

When I get up in the morning she usually rushes through to the kitchen with me to get her food. Strange that she staggers about the place looking like an arthritic pensioner until there's any mention of food and suddenly she's whizzing about like she's on speed. Anyway I get to the kitchen and there's no sign of her. I call her name but still nothing. I start to worry and walk back through to the lounge only to find her struggling across the room dragging her bed which had somehow attached itself to her back leg. Of course my initial reaction was to fall about laughing and she didn't take kindly to that and started whimpering. I gave her a reassuring kiss and tried to get her free from the bed attachment but the threads have got themselves well and truly tangled around her paw and her whimpers escalate for more dramatic affect.

I need to get scissors to cut her free so leave her while I go back to the kitchen and the crying takes on a 'don't leave me' tone. Back with a selection of blades, I wrestle with the thread for about 5 minutes trying not to hurt her while she shrieks everytime the scissors go anywhere near her paw. At last she's free and immediately forgets about her trauma and rushes through to the kitchen, tail wagging and dancing round her food bowl.

So I'm convinced she set the gym bag trap to get her revenge for the morning ordeal but luckily no more face damage - just a lump on the head to remind me that SHE is the boss.

Watched the footie in the evening and and prepared to watch Big Brother highlights show. Thought I'd pour myself a glass of red wine and recline on my leather Linda Barker. Grabbed the box of Banrock Station and a glass and proceeded to the lounge. Just as I get through the door things went into slow-motion. The bottom falls out of the box and the sack splatters on the carpet gushing red wine everywhere - carpet, sofa, walls, new Next cushions!!!!!!!!!!!!!! The horror unfolding before my eyes freezes me to the spot for what seemed like forever. I manage to grab the sack and stop the deluge and stumble back to the kitchen, dump the remains in a Pyrex casserole dish and run back with paper towels. 2 rolls later and the place is still sodden so I raid the towel cupboard and continue with the frantic mopping. Next thing Mr T walks in and looks at me like I've just slaughtered the first born of every family in Croydon and without saying anything he stomps off to the shed. I'm hyper-ventilating now.

Back armed with one of those Aqua Carpet Cleaner things he takes over with a sarcastic 'I'll do it' look on his face. Huffing and puffing just to make sure I feel worse that I already do. 20 minutes later it's looking much better but we'll have to wait till it dries before we know if we've managed to get the stain out.

After a couple of fags to de-stress we polish off the remains of the wine from the casserole dish and retire to bed.

I'm sure I caught a glimpse of the dog smiling to herself before I closed the bedroom door!

Friday, 3 June 2011

The one about the D&G specs (June 2004)

After an evening cursing at all things broadband I thought I'd just switch the whole damn lot off before I burst a blood vessel. Snuggled under the duvet to watch a bit of telly. Wondering if there would be any more punch ups in the Big Brother house tonight.

Next thing I know I'm woken by something poking into my cheek. Lifting my head off the pillow and squinting in the semi-darkness I see my new D&G specs staring back at me in bits. I was still half alseep so anger didn't hit me at that precise moment. Instead I just kinda looked at them for a bit - well 5 bits to be exact. I'm wide awake now and after a few muttered expletives I rolled over to check the time and sent the bed side lamp flying across the room taking the clock, my mobile phone and a bottle of Nivea sensitive balm with it. Needless to say the dog starts having hysteria at all this commotion. I slump out of bed screaming abuse at the dog and pick up the debris from the floor. It's 6.40am on a Saturday morning!

Oh and did I mention that the TV is still on but has somehow changed from E4 to MTV Dance during my fight with the specs and on comes Alice Deejay singing about it how we're 'Better off alone'................Belgian Bitch!

So I chase the dog down the hall to the kitchen muttering obscenities. It's really hard to make STFU sound like you mean it when you're whispering. Make a cup of coffee and chuck some Cesar in her dish to shut her up. Was just about to go back to bed when Mr T surfaces in his Littlewood's boxer shorts and a knitted brow. I apologise for waking him and make some more coffee. He's now staring at me and looking a bit concerned. I know I'm no oil painting in the morning but this is a bit unsettling. Finally he says 'What happened to you'. What did he mean? 'Your face'.

I go into the bathroom and there before me is what can only be described as a seagull attack! My face is covered in scratches. All over. With a sliver of raw flesh hanging off the end of my nose! How could the D&Gs have caused so much damage? Mind you looking at the pillow carnage it must have been quite a fracas during the night.

After a shower and a bottle of Tea Tree lotion the visage was looking slightly better but blimey - what a mess.

Had to go shopping to Sainsburys so I covered up in a baseball cap and sunglasses 'a la Posh Spice' to hide the chopped up face and just drew more attention to myself.

Bumped into fat bloke and his noisy bird from over the road (the pair that leave their windows open during love-making so we can all hear her sounding like she's having her wisdom teeth extracted with a spanner) and she asks why I'm in disguise.

So I take the cap and glasses off and she nods sagely 'Got a new kitten Steve'. I didn't feel inclined to tell it was a pair of F'ing D&G specs.