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May. 11th, 2007


Damp & Fusty

Walking to work when raining heavily:

1. Umbrellas don't work sufficiently when sat in the bottom of your wardrobe.

2. Put gym stuff in plastic bag inside your bag. Drying the groin region of your shorts under the changing room hand dryer does nothing to help maintain your air of cool.

3. Bring small amount of Vaseline or, at a push, lib balm for soggy trouser induced thigh chafage.

4. Buy a car, take a taxi or go on public transport with the smelly masses. 9 hours sat in damp trousers is not fun. Either is trench nuts.

5. Come up with half decent retort to "is it raining?" question.

May. 10th, 2007


Only when I'm dancing can I feel this free

I’m getting slightly fed up of thinking to myself “Ooh! Those weren’t there last time” every time I go down a road I haven’t been down for about ten minutes. The trouble is I can never remember what was there previously, just that it wasn’t the hideously mundane 446 luxury apartment block with ‘exciting retail opportunities’ beneath that’s now sitting there like a giant festering turd.

I assume it happens when everyone in a company goes out to lunch, and a crack team of builders swing in SAS stylee and knock the building down and whip up a load of apartments in its place and then stand there whistling nonchalantly trying to subtly hide their trowels while a load of baffled looking clerical staff wander round trying to find where they left the office.

At £150K+ a pop they’re not exactly the low-cost housing they claim to be either. You want your balls feeling* if you're daft enough to pay that for one. I reckon there’s about forty quids worth of material goes in to building each one, so someone must be raking in shitloads. Let’s all buy shares in Bob’s Apartments** and move to the Bahamas on the profits***, and who cares that our cities look like some bronchially challenged low-cost housing giant has gobbed up a load of apartment sputa on them? Not us. We’ll be on the beach oiling up each other’s thighs and playing volleyball with our cocks out.

Young Tomas was back up last weekend. We went out Saturday and Sunday with the intentions of having a couple of beers and then going for a curry, but both times we just dug in in the pub. Good nights though. His girlfriend really does have a cracking pair of knockers. You might think it a bit shallow of me to base how much I like her solely on her boobs, but to that I say pish, you haven’t seen them. And if you have, tell me you didn’t want to take a running jump in to them.

Steve was round last night, but to be honest both him and Chris I’m getting increasingly bored/annoyed with, which bothers me. I really hope it’s just a passing thing - they're my boys. Who else will I talk to?

Steve’s giving up being a bouncer. About fucking time if you ask me, which, I appreciate, you weren't. He had to go to the hospital about a month ago as someone thought it would be fun to have a go, and I think that was probably the clincher. Steve’s 6 foot something and 18 stone but it only takes one stupid fucker to do some proper damage. I’m glad he’s quit. Now maybe he’ll shut the fuck up about it and therefore annoy me significantly less. I'm guessing not though. He’s just got to make it through his last weekend, which happens to be United’s last match. I’m no expert on such things but I guess there might the odd squabble or two as the hoodlums bank a few kickings to help them get through the long summer.

*One of my dad’s odd expressions, which I never think quite works as I wouldn’t be prepared (nor could I afford) to spend that on an apartment but would quite like my balls feeling.

**3%, 5% and 7% are for illustration purposes only. Shares can go down as well as up and on rare occasions sidle up to you at the bar and press something unpleasant against your thigh.

***Made you look

Spank me bandy; it really is Thursday.

May. 3rd, 2007


I once bought the Guardian doncha know

In case you wondered which way I swing!

Until, that is, Boris Johnson is leader of the Tories.

Note to self:

May. 2nd, 2007


Showering For Dummies

Is there some sort of technique I haven't yet mastered for applying shower gel to ones bits? I've always had baths but at the new place it's a really old enamel bath that's rough on the bottom (tee hee) and always looks mucky and even with an anti-bacterial bath mat I'm not prepared to put my arse anywhere near it. So, showers it is but you squeeze the stuff on and before you have any time to lather it's spoldged off in to a blue soapy mess by your feet. I am easily confused about many things, so it can't be right that I'm on about half a bottle/shower.

Boom Boom

I had a rather fun packed weekend. Well as fun packed as you can have in Great Yarmouth. And of course by fun packed I mean spent in the pub.

On the way down we tried to find our little Brigadoonesque village off the A47 where we stopped off for a pint a few years ago but haven’t been able to find since. We take a random left at some stage along the road and hope we just stumble in to it. This year though with the help of Google Earth and sat-nav we thought we’d sussed where it was we needed to head, but then decided knowing where we were going would ruin all our fun so ignored it and opted to take the eighth left instead and found a nice little pub in the village of Hairy Fadgestick where we got heckled for being crap at pool.

We did do some stuff while we were there, mainly so when people asked us what we did all weekend we had more to offer than ‘pub’. We went bowling, wandered round Trevor Two-Swords Wax Museum*, and played many games of Buzz, all of which I lost because it’s a stupid game and everyone thinks it’s funny to steal your points. And also being able to identify depixelating (Oh, fuck off it’s a word) fruit is not a sign of intelligence if you ask me.

*Might not have actually been called that.

Yarmouth has Pirate Crazy Golf (Capitals - Hell Yeah!)

Sunday was about perfect – sat outside a pub by the river, talking bollcoks/bickering with your pals, followed up by an unusually creamy but rather gorgeous saag panear at the Indian. This is the standard dish I like to have at new restaurants as a sort of comparator. I know someone who does the same with nargis and has a website showing all the nargi (nargises?) he’s had at various restaurants. Nargis is like a spicy scotch egg, should you care.

The best bit of the weekend though had to be the late equaliser by Ipswich against Leeds relegating (barring a highly unlikely result or 2) the sods to League One football! I know coming from Sheffield it’s sort of obligatory to dislike Leeds, but having been there I think the place itself is reason enough. If it could just be wangled now for Sheff United to stay up and Fulham to go down that would be just dandy.

It was the old birthday on Friday, which I tried to ignore, as is my way. I got a birthday cake (and candle) and some silly shit from the boys though which made it about bearable. That and much ale.

I think there might be a fox nest in my back garden. How’s that for a change of subject? I was digging over my (soon to be) vegetable patch and found a big hole in the bank at the back. I gave it a good prodding but didn’t feel anything squishy, but it goes down about 6 foot. Being a clever chappy and assuming foxes have a fondness for eggs I put one near the hole on Monday night and it had gone Tuesday morning. Last night I came over all Hetty Wainthropp and sprinkled a load of flour round the hole, hoping to see either footprints or a Yorkshire pudding this morning. There were footprints in and out of the hole. How exciting.

Chris reckons Foxes kill cats and Lilypie is only ickle but to be honest I’m more bothered about it crapping on my onions. I can’t say as I’ve ever heard of a cat being attacked by a fox. Although a quick search of the internet has shown that it’s not unprecedented as this picture proves:

You can’t see it very well there but my little toe is now the exact same colour (and it makes a funny clicking noise it didn’t make before) as my big toe(nail) i.e. black. 3 to go then I win a speedboat.

Aren’t feet disgusting? Specifically my feet, I know, but most body parts I can sort of be attracted to in some way, but feet – yuck!

Apr. 20th, 2007


You besmirch Mr Matey calling him a pirate

It’s a thrilling time here. In fact I don’t think I’ve ever been more excited. As I write this our accounting system is being upgraded from version 10.7 to version 12. Oh yes, this puppy’s so fucking radical version 11 just wouldn’t do it justice. No, this fucker’s a 12. At least. We’re all moist with anticipation as you can imagine.

I do have an ever so slight niggling suspicion though that it maybe won’t be that radical an update. I have a further niggling suspicion that all they’ll have done in fact is made it ever so slightly less infuriatingly crap than the current version.

I’ve just had a spam email with “girl gets got by the crew dat drives the freeky sex smelling bus” as the subject. It made me smile a little bit. I’ve been on that bus. It was a 75 to Bradway and it smelled like slag.

Tis Friday again. They do come round so fast do they not?

Apr. 18th, 2007


Or we could just say nasty things about them behind their backs

There was a slight awkward moment when I thought the MD was going to speak and he thought I was going to speak and we ended up just staring at each other like deranged, mute fools, but other than that the salary chat went okay. They somehow dragged it out to over an hour Monday and half an hour yesterday morning and we agreed on a 25% increase. Not too shoddy but I’m not entirely sure I have enough time to do all the extra shit they want me to do on top of my usual workload of making things out of gluing stuff together, drinking 97 cups of tea and the consequent 97 wees, reading wonderfully delicious people’s blogs and generally titting about the place. I know I said I quite like my job but I think that must have been in a momentary, imminent weekend induced delirium. Coincidentally I had an email today from a chappy at the agency I joined about 6 months ago and I replied with my updated CV. Oh such are the vagaries of my odd mind I get close to the pay rise I was after and it makes me want to leave.

There’s a tribute album to Joni Mitchell with Prince doing a version of Case Of You (U?). I adore that song and I sort of adore Prince (pre 1991) but that just can’t work. It can’t. It’s matter meeting antimatter – you know, not so great what with the all the annihilation and stuff.

Apr. 13th, 2007


Quick, this woman needs an emergency Bulgarian

My preferred method of dealing with wasps is to flap around like a girl whilst yelling, “Get it away get it away.” Sadly, having windows on all walls of my office, this isn’t really an option if I want to maintain my butch, manly façade image. The new ploy is to open the door in to the corridor, or better still the door in to my boss’s (ss’s? is that right? I know not how to punctuate) office, and use a pad of paper to "encourage" the wasp out, then shut the door on it really quick before it susses it’s been duped and tries to sting me in the face.

My formative years were spent either wanking to pictures of Wendy James or playing the games on here with Mark. I think I might dust off Mark and my old Commodore Amiga this weekend and see if they both still work.

I finally asked my boss for a pay rise on Wednesday. It went along the lines of: “Er, Philip, can we discuss erm, not necessarily now but you know in the next day or so, my, erm, salary? Specifically it increasing?” I’m so eloquent. I chased him up about it today and he said he’d talked to the MD and they’d “be in touch”. Be in touch? Eh? I think roughly translated that means we’ll drag it out until the middle of next week that way we haven’t got to worry about it until next pay day. I deserve a pay rise because I really am ever so awesome. Plus all the extra shit I have to do, which I’m happy to do because what’s worse than being balls-out busy is being bored out your mind, but at the moment I feel like a bit of a patsy doing all the extra crap for nothing. I know I moan about my job and it has its moments enough that every 6 months or so I threaten to leave and join an agency and stuff, but oddly I do quite like it here. I will deny that though if you tell anyone.

Apr. 4th, 2007


Fishmonger Humour

He probably waits all day for some idiot to set him up for this:

Me: 2 herring please. Is it gutted?

Fishmonger: Well, it's not happy mate.

Made me smile anyway.

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