There are many rumours about British sex. All of them are true, even the ones that contradict each other.
When it comes to the British and sex, we’re as varied as the rest of you. Some of us like missionaries and some of us dogs; some of us like dogs so much we dress up in fluffy suits and start barking. Some of us enjoy pushing things in, some like taking them out and some like doing the okie cokie although too much shaking it about can somewhat break the romantic mood.
But mostly, when it comes to sex, we like not talking about it. We treat it in a similar way to death. This doesn't mean that the whole family gets together to mourn after it happens (at least not normally,) but rather, although we appreciate it has to happen, and sometimes we're even glad when it does, we'd really rather not talk about it thank you very much. Comedians can make great use of this embarrassment when warming up a crowd. Next time you’re at a posh restaurant stand on the table and shout the word ‘Sex!’ very loudly and you’ll see what I mean.
Because it’s programmed into us that sex is so dirty and sinful it goes without saying that Teenage Pregnancy is on the rise. In fact, if things keep up at their current rate the next generation will be born before their parents. It’s a shame really that we can’t use Chav offspring as a form of currency as the world’s economic problems would be solved in a day.
To solve this the government has come to the rescue. Believing the parents need educating, they've done what the British Government always does when faced with a crisis. They’ve created a TV program about it - Sex... with Mum and Dad. The ellipsis is essential; it’d be an entirely different program otherwise and shown much later at night. For a painful hour, two sexually-deficient teenagers drag their legal guardians in front of a 'sexologist' (surly a more made up role than 'Vice President') who encourages them to speak openly about their sexual worries. The show apparently demonstrates that by talking to your teenagers you can encourage them to have a normal sex life, which means they might be able to keep their depravities to themselves until they are old enough to handle them – around 57 for example. The problem with the show however, is that the parents are too embarrassed to watch it while their offspring, made to feel bad about sex since they first discovered their genitalia, watch anything with sex in the title as a form of rebellion. The whole idea has somewhat backfired. And, with more and more schools relying on practical lessons to engage the interest of the ADHD generation, Sexual education classes are proving somewhat counterproductive.
And so, in the end, the British learn about sex the way they learn about everything else – through practical experimentation, largely involving Shampoo. And they end up, just like their parents, having sex behind closed doors, secretly, privately, rigidly and as quietly as possible so as not to wake up the children. Maybe this is the reason that the British are reluctant to talk about sex. Because, when it comes to sex and the British, there really isn't much to talk about. Sex, in Britain at least, is sex - whatever else you may choose to call it. And, of course, like all four letter words, we’d really rather prefer you didn’t mention it at all...
Unless, of course, you're gay. But that is a story for next time...
Friday, February 1
Anglo Sex-ton
Friday, January 25
Sex on the Blog
I think about sex a lot.
As a homosexual, homophobic, red blooded mammal of the male variety, it comes naturally.
For example, if I converse with a man about, say, the weather, it's essential to put up a front, allowing them to see me either as a perfectly harmless straight bloke, or as gay as an Enid Blyton picnic, depending on what they find acceptable. (Generally, I choose the former; acting excessively camp makes me want to take myself outside and beat myself up as an example to others.) Woman, however, are less fussy about that kind of thing, and I can discuss the current meteorological situation with them without first having to check my belt buckle is facing the right way, or whatever daft system homosexuals are using to 'identify themselves' these days.
So it helps to be aware of sex. That way, I can avoid going up to the wrong one and mentioning Madonna.
As to the other kind of sex, I try not to think about it. It's said that men think about it all the time, but that's not true. We think about it at set times, once or maybe twice a day at the most. The rest of the time we're too busy deciding what channel to flip too during the ad breaks.
And I certainly don't write about it on this blog. This is probably to my downfall; sex sells, and he's a much better salesman than I am. Just having the word sex on this blog will increase my Google score tenfold, and if I include the words 'slut' and 'porn' (or 'Pr0n' or whatever the devil the kids call it these days) I'd have the top ranking site for months. But sex is taboo here. You see, my family read this blog and talking about sex in front my family would be like chatting about Chinese box kites to a Pro-Wrestler. It's just not the kind of thing that comes up in conversation.
In fact, the entirety of my sexual communication with my parents came, quite appropriately, during one of our traditional weekly bible studies, a tradition, which if my memory serves me, lasted for about 6 weeks. (Of course my memory has never served me once, not even so much as got me a beer from the fridge. But I digress...) We were reading one of those family friendly passages that mentions harlots and sodomy and other such wholesome things when, an ignorant child, I asked what a prostitute was.
My dad sighed.
"A prostitute,' he said, 'is someone who has sex for money.'
I nodded wisely. To my immature self, sex simply something enjoyable and extremely naughty, I couldn't think of a better job. It was fun, exciting and profitable. So naturally it was easy to see why God hated it.
My sister pushed a bit further.
'He doesn't know what sex is, does he?'
Now of course I knew what sex is. We had books in school which described the reproductive rituals of Daddy and Mummy robot in great detail. Sex, as far as I was aware, was a kind of horny metallic struggle.
Under pressure, and seeing a chance to embarrass my parents, I shook my head.
My dad turned peach. 'Surely you know what sex is?' I shook again causing him to increase several notches to Virgin red. My mum, realising that if this went much further my father would clash with the curtains, stepped in.
'Sex,' she said, 'is when mummy and daddy get together to make a baby,’
And with that, my dad turned back and carried on reading.
And that was that, the entirety of my sexual education. In a way now, I'm glad they didn’t teach me the ins and outs of reproductive sex. It would have been quite a waste of their time. And so I don't talk about sex on this blog. I wouldn't want to force my family into admitting I actually know about it....
But there's another reason sex is Taboo for the Freelance Cynic, one that I'll serve up for your lustful pleasure next week. It will take me at least that long to gain enough courage to talk about the filthy topic again anyway.
After all... I'm British.
- Si-Kick - My Predictions for 2008
- Eeek-mail - Or how the internet almost got me fired
- Taking note - Or my Static Obsession
Wednesday, January 16
Si - kick
It is traditional, around this time of year, to do things that are bloody ridiculous. Amongst other things these include making new years resolutions, attempting to lose the Christmas pot belly, and getting the pine needles out of the carpet.
It is also tradition, around this time of the year, for psychics, in between scamming naive members of the public and choosing the wrong lottery numbers, to make their annual predictions.
And so, as yet another attempt to make myself famous, I got out my playing cards, shuffled them with the left, more psychic side of my body, and dealt out my predictions for 2008. However as all the cards predictions were along the lines of ‘the Queen of hearts will gain 10 Diamonds from a Black Knave,’ I put them away and just made up some predictions instead.
- A crop circle will appear near a Barn in Baltimore in the shape of a letter M, or possibly a W. Maybe an E. This will lead many enthusiasts to set up camp nearby and release countless books postulating about the letter’s meaning
- In the latter half of the year, much to everyone’s surprise, archaeologists will unearth evidence that suggests man once had 3 toes on each foot.
- The war in Iraq will continue unabated.
- We will find conclusive evidence that Alien life exists.
This will later be proven false by scientists. - Throughout 2008 this blog will raise it’s popularity until it receives an average of 25 comments per post.
- At least one reader of this blog will be E-mailed by a Nigerian millionaire.
- Weather patterns will continue to be disturbed in 2008, causing the UK to suffer the wettest summer of recent years. There will however, still be a hosepipe ban.
- The hosepipe ban will be ignored by all but the most loyal of UK Citizens.
- Religion will continue to suffer in 2008. However the alternative medicine market will peak in the middle of the year, when it will be announced that Chi has been shown to exist.
This will later be proven false by scientists. - A new Hobby Magazine will be released.
- People will finally begin to get bored of Facebook and stop bugging me to add on applications.
- The rapture will continue not to happen.
- There will be no major terrorist attacks in the UK or the USA this year.
- In August 2008 a cure will be discovered for cancer, and announced in big letters on the front pages of the Sun Newspaper.
This will later be proven false by scientists. - In the Olympics the UK will win at least 2 gold medals, both in events nobody cares about.
Saddam Hussain will continue to remain Dead. - Intelligent Design will be taken to court in the South West of America
- The person elected as president in 2008 will have a penis, possibly kept in a desk drawer.
- Old people will find it increasingly difficult to climb stairs.
- A reader of this blog will comment on this post, saying how brilliant they thought it was.
This will later be proven false by scientists.
- Eek-mail - Or how the internet almost got me fired
- Taking Note - Or my stationery Fetish
- Claims, Stains and Octogenarians - or the worrying world of Insurance
Saturday, October 27
Eek-Mail or How the Internet almost got me fired
I always thought it was an urban legend. After all no one really did things like that, no one could really be that stupid.
Of course, I always pride myself on being the exception to any rule.
I had a client who couldn’t get to a phone so we were communicating exclusively by E-mail. This was a definite benefit as I had to turn her claim down and I wouldn’t have to listen to her yell at me.
So in a concise professional email I explained the reasons we were repudiating the claim.
An hour later she replied.
To: Simon@theOffice.bizReview and get back to her? What, does she think I’m in customer service or something?
From: Client@HerHome.com
Subject: Ref Claim
Dear Simon (Hey! We're on first name terms now. )
i understood that the externals were covered but believed the internals to be covered under accidental damage. Please review and get back to me.
Dutily, I asked my senior to repeat what she had already said and emailed the client back, adding a couple of in-depth explanatory paragraphs and signing off with - ‘I trust this explains our position,’ the polite way office workers have of saying ‘Shut the f**k up.’
Twenty minutes later she replies, again.
To: Simon@theOffice.bizAs you can imagine, I was somewhat annoyed by now and my idea of a nice weekend was one that didn’t involve her. I clicked reply, and stared at the screen for 20 unproductive minutes while I worked out what there was left to say.
From: Client@HerHome.com
Subject: Ref Claim
Simon (not Dear Simon any more I see)
I am well aware that my externals are not covered but believed the internals to be so. Please review and get back to me.
Have a nice weekend.
Finally, I gave up and emailed my senior instead.
‘I have explained this repudiation to the insured twice and she still keeps insisting we should be covering the internals.I clicked send and watched as my e-mail disappeared into the bounds of cyberspace. There was just one problem. I hadn't changed the address. I’d just sent it sent straight to the insured.
Maybe you can explain this better than me?
She works week days so we can only contact her by e-mail.’
Naturally, I did what any internet savvy person would do in this situation. I panicked. For a brief, horrific, moment I longed for a simpler time before technology when I could have got my hand stuck in a postbox whilst trying to get the letter backI was overcome with nerves, I'd screwed up. I'd made a classic stupid mistake and sent a mildly insulting e-mail straight to the person I was mildly insulting.
I had a desperate and inexplicable craving for dark chocolate.
A moment later she replied,
From: Client@herhouse.comI jumped up, stabbing for the off button as if my monitor contained a naked picture of John Goodman, ridding my screen of her cyber-terrorism. Gingerly, I rang my senior and reported the mistake, checking the number twice before I dialed. And then I left the office.
To: Simon@theoffice.biz
Subject: Ref Claim
I think you meant to send that to your supervisor.
I'm working from home on Monday if you'd prefer to talk on the phone.
But as I walked home, the last words of her reply stuck in my mind like a record suffering from an ugly scratch.
'Do have a nice weekend.'
Roll on Monday
Wednesday, October 24
Taking note
I have a stationery fetish. More than that even. I'd call it an Obsession but I think Calvin Klein has that copyrighted.
After the book store, the library, and the private club down the road, the Stationery store is my favourite place in the world. You can drop me off in a stationery store and happily pick me up 5 weeks later, and I'll still have a tantrum and refuse to leave.
I love stationary. I love ink flowing from a pen for the first time, I love the smoothness of unsharpened pen and I love the perfect white of a blank sheet of paper.
And most of all I love notepads.
There is something magical about a new pad. You've felt it no doubt, that thrill page that runs up the arms and into the brain like a pair of athletic earwigs, when you open to the first clean page. Every new pad has the potential for greatness. By the time it has run out of pages it could contain a best selling novel, world changing philosophy, or the recipe for Kentucky fried chicken. It could be the pad that changes the world.
It never is though. A few pages in my writing stumbles into an messy four word pile-up, marring the beauty of the canvas. Leaves are torn out, floating to the ground as if ripped from a tree by a frustrated October Wind. Over the pages my handwriting decays until it reads like a intoxicated man declaring his love of underwear. The bindings bend and clog with the fragments of torn pages, the corners crease, the ink runs, and before long my dream pad has become a collection of half finished to-do lists and stick men doodles. In short, the notebook is no longer any good for anything except… well... notes.
Every single pad I’ve ever brought has gone this way, and I've brought a lot of pads in my life. Every new idea is too precious to live on the same pages of as a failed endeavour, so I buy a new pad to nurture it in, and put up fences so it won’t be disturbed by the neighbours. Then, like always, the idea falters and gets left on shelf to ferment, the pad once a infinite canvas of possibility now reduced to emergency toilet paper.
I've never made it to the last page of a pad. In fact I'm pretty sure I've never made it to the tenth page of a pad. My Bookcase has a whole shelf devoted to unfinished notepad, crammed in side by side. I get through more pads than a pre-menstrual woman, and have less to show for it. I wouldn't be at all surprised to discover I’m single handily responsible for Global Warming and...
Wait! That's a great idea! What if there was one person who wrote so much rubbish and wasted so much paper that he caused the ice-caps to melt, and whole nations to be flood, and became public enemy number 1. Living as an outcast on the edge of society, fighting for every scrap of paper, writing to keep himself alive for another day...
Quick, somebody get me a new notepad....
Saturday, October 20
Claims, Stains and Octogenarians
On my first day in my new job, I handled this claim.
'My husband was in the bathroom when he fell and banged his head on the cistern, which cracked, pouring water over the floor. I rushed to help him, and stepped on some cracked porcelain. I did not notice this until I had walked into the bedroom, and my foot had bled on the hall and bedroom carpet. '
Now despite what this blog may make you believe, with its sparkling, acerbic wit and Oscar Winning mood swings, I’m actually quite sensitive. Really! Try tickling me!
When I read the claim I felt like I was in that bathroom. It was my boyfriend on the floor, me in shock, trying to stop the water, trying to help him, running to the bedroom for the phone, my heart racing, the blood spurting from my foot unnoticed as a hero ignores his mortal wound until his damsel is saved.
And besides, they were old, sweet people. They needed my help. They wouldn’t lie to me.
My senior looked over my shoulder. 'Yeah right.' he said, 'like you wouldn't notice you had a bloody big piece of porcelain in your foot.'
Now you may think the odds of someone faking this are somewhat slim.
'Forsooth Roger, I find myself rather tired of one's bedroom carpet.'But the more claims I've handled the more I can imagine it. In the last month I’ve had people claim their stolen 18 year old Television was HD ready, their burnt down council flat was full of priceless artworks, and their defrosted freezer was stocked with Caviar and Salmon. Every day someone is trying to screw the company out of money. And my job isn’t to help people as you may expect. My job is to work out who is lying.
'Tis true Maria. I believe, also, that the lavatory be naff.’
‘Rather naff indeed.'
‘You know, one believes we can purge of the twain with one stone.'
'Mercy, no?'
'Verily, with naught but a head-shaped hammer and a vile of blood. Hurry now, bring me forth a knife and one's Home Policy Booklet.'
After all, who knows how many people sit at home every night, plotting to commit insurance fraud.
'Geeze Brian, what we going to do tonight then?'But maybe you think that I'm being too cynical about this. Maybe you think that deep down Human Beings are honest, kind people.
'The same thing we do every night Peaches, try to defraud our Insurance.'
Well my naive friends (who I must come 'visit' one day) let me give you one more example.
A few days ago I was called up by a lovely, old Gentleman, the kind who hands out sweets in the bus queue. With a wonderful chortle he told me that his wife had been saving up £2 coins. But the purse she was saving them in had 'gone missing.' This sounded perfectly reasonable. Old people often save up change at home, it keeps the queues in the bank short, and the glass jars market afloat. They are also famous for losing things: normally their memory.
Then I asked how much money was in the purse.
‘About £800,’ he said.
For those who don't know, a £2 coin is roughly the size of a quarter, 1 1/8" in diameter and 1/8" in height. It is the largest coin in the English currency. Yet his wife apparently had 400 of them in her purse. Call me cynical if you must (in fact I rather enjoy it) but I find that hard to believe.To give some idea of scale, a pile of 300 £2 coins would reach up past my waist. Any purse containing them would have a volume of over 40 cubic inches and weigh over 8lb. It’s not the kind of thing you take with you when you go go to Waitrose to buy a new glass jar. Losing something like that would take a highly concentrated effort, detailed planning and, at their age, a forklift truck.
And so he's cheating us, claiming for more than he lost just like everyone else who ever made an insurance claim, including me.
And yet, knowing that he has cheated us, I’ll pay him the money. I'll sign the cheque and move onto the next liar, cheater or master criminal.
Because that, after all, is my job.
Wednesday, August 22
Harry Potter and the Endless sequel
There was a campaign in Waterstones, when the final Harry Potter book was released, to encourage J.K.Rowling to change her mind, and write more Harry saga's.
I'm curious, as book 7 ends 19 years in the future, after Harry has grown up and married Ginny, and long after Voldermort has been destroyed, exactly what kind of novel worthy adventures Harry can possibly have...
Harry Potter and the Wand of Impotency
They lay in bed. A heavy silence hung in the air as if the room had been hit with the silenco curse. He bit his lip, and looked up at the ceiling. Next to him Ginny sighed and rolled away. It had been the same for the last month, everything was going wrong. His spells had been shooting off too early, his attention wandering, his duties unfulfilled. Clearly he been cursed, but who by and why? And could the blue pills really make everything ok again....
Other releases from Bloomsbury and J.K Rowling
- Harry Potter and the Parent teacher Conference
- Harry Potter and the prostate exam
- Harry Potter and the Christmas Shop (Also available in Latin)
- Harry Potter and the Babysitter's Club
- Harry Potter and the Mid Life Crisis
- Harry Potter and the First Born's Special Announcement
- Harry Potter and the curse of tax return
- Harry Potter and the noisy neighbours
- Harry Potter and the Scooter of Mobility
- Harry Potter and the Three Wands Home for Elderly Wizards
- Harry Potter and the Size 40 Briefs (Cooper Green)
- Harry Potter and the Faltering 401k (Linda)
- Harry Potter and the lazy hair folicles (My Reflecting Pool)
- Harry Potter and the Overcrowded Medicine Cabinet (My Reflecting Pool)
- Harry Potter and the Damned Kids Who Won't Stay Off Of His Lawn (WebMiztris)
Thursday, August 16
5 Reasons to be Nice to Telemarketers
The Moaning meme is haunting me.
Being a telemarketer, I have been thrown into Room 101 by my fellow Memers so often that I’ve had an escalator installed. This attack on telemarketers seems somewhat harsh, so I have taken it upon myself to defend my profession.
With my sales skills, I should be able to end the unfair prejudice for ever.
5 Reasons to be Nice to Telemarketers
- We can afford our own alcohol.
Every person in a call centre is one less person on the street begging. Being of a higher class than the homeless however, we do our begging via the phone. And unlike the street-beggars we tell you straight out where your money is going – we’ll be buying alcohol so we can forget the hellish way we earn a living. - We hold back the evil advance of McDonalds
If we weren't calling you we'd be flipping burgers. And, with our brilliant sales skills, healthy eating wouldn't stand a chance. - We offer free counseling
Where else can you find hundreds of people who actually expect to take your abuse? In fact, we wait till you’re at your most stressed before ringing, just so you can scream, swear and threaten us until you’ve released all your tension. And we take it all with an empathic smile. It’s only after you've hung up that we start swearing back. - We call your parents more than you do
It's us who listens to their meandering stories, us who waste our lives away as they hunt for their paperwork, us who help them remember their birth days, us who coax them back to sanity in a gentle but firm tone of voice... - We call your parents more than you do.
Once we get them talking they tell us everything...
Be nice the next time we ring you, or we be ringing the tabloids instead...
And if none of that works …
Monday, August 13
5 Reasons To visit Britain
Britain!
Home of Cockney Dialects, drive-by insults and David Beckham's right foot. (His left foot lives permanently in his mouth) But Johnny-Foreigner knows only a little of the wonders of the island that formed, robbed and lost the empire. And as a Brit, it is my job to educate you.
Culture
Britain is a Cultural cauldron, and boasts some of the finest minds of our time, most of which are in maximum security prisons, or have been shot, lest they open the average punter’s mind and cause a revolution. To make up for this the country mass produces bland commercial literature and music, under such names as J.K.Rowling and the Spice Girls.
Theatre is the UK’s primary cultural export with almost all their best plays are exported to Broadway where they are rapidly improved and made more glamorous by American Producers.- Shopping
British is a haven of brand name shops, it’s high-streets being identical to every other high street in the Western World, at three times the standard retail price.
The shopper after something different may treat themselves to the fashion styles of Marks & Spencer or Primark, the stores largely responsible for the Unique British Fashion which has alienated it’s residents from the rest of the fashionable world. 
Cuisine
Despite its reputation, British cuisine is the finest in the world, serving anything from beef pies to chicken pies and everything in-between.
Having no style of its own, Britain has stolen several others and claimed them as its own, and a typical British pub will serve anything from Curry to Pizza under the banner of ‘Good old-fashioned home cooking’ which is another way of saying ‘burnt and stodgy.’
England is especially proud of its meat, which is ‘home grown and bred,’ and as such prey to a large number of diseases, such as Foot and Mouth and BSE. As such British Cattle are now almost as mad as the home grown and bred British Residents.- Weather
Where else in the world can tourists enjoy 12 hours of glorious rainfall every day and yet still have a hosepipe ban?
The British are obsessed with the weather; it is their most common conversation topic. However, with typical British reserve they refer to monsoon rains and artic blizzards as ‘a bit wet,’ and ‘a bit cold’ respectively. It is believed that the British have over 30 different words for rain, most of which are unprintable. 
People
From the Inbred royals, to the underground beggars, the people of Britain are what make it great.
Locking themselves away in the homes, they emerge only to earn money, either by work or mugging elderly civilians, which they use to get drunk. Alcohol is the main social outlet, and a major reason for Britain’s rapidly growing population.
Don't forget to sample some of our watered down ales to make your stay complete!
Tomorrow we might not be here.
Tuesday, July 17
Home Remedies
Inspired by this site, which recommends holding a raw steak against your eye, or imagining cigar smoking women, I have decided to recommend some alternative home remedies of my own.
It’ll be nice to know I’ve made the world a better place.
Corns
Corns are useful for guitar playing, but only if you strum with your toes. They are normally caused by ill fitting shoes, so to prevent walk everywhere in slippers. It may also help to start using a plectrum as well.Depression
Forget paying out for expensive anti-depressants or counselling. As Jean-Paul Satre could tell you, depression is ‘other people.’ Avoid them! Mix up 2 pints of larger with 6 shots of Vodka and soak your throat and stomach repeatedly. The depression should temporarily disappear within 30 minutes to an hour.Hay fever
Hay fever is caused by breathing in pollen to which the body is allergic. Thus, to avoid hay fever, stop breathing.Head lice
Head lice are parasitic creatures much like us, and can be killed the same way. Varying methods for removing Head Lice are lethal injection, firing squad, or hanging.Poor Sex Life
However, the most effective method is suffocation. Hold your head under water for an hour, or until all the head lice have floated to the surface.
Go to your e-mail and open the first e-mail entitled ‘Do you want a Bigger Penis?’ Take with a credit card. Sex should improve within 6 – 8 weeks.Tooth-ache
(May have side-effects if you’re a woman)
Toothache is caused by cavities formed by bacteria.
Detol kills 99% of bacteria. Dead.
Gargle 3 items a day until the symptoms disappear.
Wednesday, July 11
You're addicted to grub...
Food, like crack cocaine, is addictive.
I say this from first hand experience. I am not overweight because of a genetic disposition or a poor metabolism. I am not overweight due to a sedentary lifestyle or poor self-esteem. I am not even overweight because of global warming. I’m overweight because I eat too much.
If you put a plate of chips in front of me, and an ounce of heroin in front of Pete Docherty, the result would be somewhat similar, except Pete would probably know when to stop. If you give me food I will eat it until my belly fills, my heart panics, and people begin to ask me if I’m pregnant.
The other difference between myself and a heroin addict is that the junkie, a drain on society, gets free health care, free counseling, free morphine injections and a free appearance on Trisha when he is a ‘reformed sinner.’
The fat person on the other hand, who drive our economy with their purchases of custard doughnuts and Garfield Comics, get ridiculed, teased and a lifetime membership to Weight Watchers.
Something must be done to readdress the balance. So as it seems that only bad people get help for free, is the change the publics image of food addicts. I will have to beat BMI the bad boy way.
Locking myself away, I’ll gorge on takeaway and watch day time TV. This is pretty much what I do now anyway. But as my funds are swallowed up, and I can no longer fit in my work clothes, I’ll need alternative ways to fund my habit.
You’ll see me raiding the Post-Office on pension day, forcing old ladies to give me their snacks and sweets. Their pension money, will be exchanged for food at a ‘shady’ corner shop after sun-down.
The paranoia will build. I’ll hoard food in my bedroom, liquefying and injecting it directly into my upper bowel for an instant hit. In desperation I’ll lie outside Burger King, rummaging through the bins, threatening to sit on people unless they give me their take-away.
Before each meal I’ll snort salt, rub pepper into my gums, inject vinegar into my veins and smoke a rolled up sachet of tomato ketchup, then shovel the food quickly into my pre-condimented body.
And finally, in desperation when no other source of food can be found to satisfy me, I will grind up my leftovers, mix them with talcum powder and sell them by the ounce at a massive profit.
And then, after selling my soul, gaining 10 stone and earning an eternity in hell, the police will arrest me. In a court appeal I’ll be psycho-analysed and put back on the street with free counseling, free medical support, and free samples of slim-fast!
Fat is back. Viva la Revolution.
Monday, June 18
[Un]Intelligent Design
A respected argument for 'God's existence’ is 'Proof by Intelligent Design.' I.e. 'When we look at the world around us it looks designed. We do not know anything that looks designed which does not have a designer. Therefore there must be a designer, and we will call that designer God.'
I'm not sure why we should call the designer 'God' rather than, say, ‘Cecil.’ But then I’m not a Philosopher; such things our beyond my intelligence.
The proof is logically sound and infallible. I often wonder why it isn't used in courtrooms, 'When we look at the Defendant we see he looks guilty, therefore...'
The difficulty with ‘Proof by intelligent Design’ is that many things which appear designed also appear ridiculous.
Take me for example.
Every day go through an almost identical routine. Firstly I lock the door and leave my flat. A few moments later I unlock, go back into the house and check the windows are shut. I leave again, then turn back and check the lights are switched off. I exit once more, go back to double-check the door is locked, and then, finally, I head to work. I'll be halfway there before I realise I left the iron on.
This is not intelligent. In fact, I am less proof of ‘intelligent design’ than I am proof of a ‘vicious joke’. Something, it seems, is wrong with the theory of intelligent design.
Evolution, however, is just as disappointing. My morning routine, should have evolved out of existence decades before 'the iron' even existed and been replaced by a stronger, manlier gene that closes the windows before leaving the house and understands the off-side rule without needing a 'Shoe shop' analogy.
The fact that my paranoia still exists says evolution no longer works, and it is no longer only the ‘fittest genes’ which are being passed on to the next generation. Almost anyone can have children now, (even ugly people get laid thanks to Friday night 'happy hours') so natural selection fails and the gene pool gets weaker with each generation.
Evolution must evolve to survive, and I've got a horrible feeling I’m the outcome of evolution’s evolution
Having established I am not the fittest of the species, Darwinian selection has decided to end my bloodline, not in the conventional way (Death), but with the last weapon left in it's belt. It is, after all, harder for a man to reproduce when womanly bits make him feel as horny as a castrated camel.
Yes, homosexuality, it seems, is nature’s counter-attack to the Weekend pub crawl.
And suddenly the idea of a creator God with the IQ of a Texican President sounds surprisingly good to me.
I'm left with two conclusions. Either I'm a failed product of Darwinian selection, or I'm the creation of a 'God' who forgets his keys a lot and considers 'worrying' one of the beatitudes. 'Blessed are the worriers for they shall be ever late to work.'
Either way, 'When I look at things around me they appear to be entirely discouraging. Therefore...'
Logically sound remember...
Infallible...
Monday, June 11
Winning Friends
One of the problems with being a dyed in the wool cynic is that I’m allergic to dye and hate wearing wool. The two together make me break out in a rash, which is especially annoying when I wear my black knitwear Y-fronts.
But also, my cynical persona, which when edited for internet viewing makes me seem suave, intelligent and captivating, is somewhat less appealing in the real world. People don’t stay close friends with me for very long. Obviously they feel threatened by my generally superior personality, and fantastically good looks and thus fade into the background like ex-Big Brother Housemates. This does wonders for my ego but is less welcome when 50 party invites get returned to me marked ‘ADDRESS UNKNOWN”
So I brought ‘How to Win Friends and Influence People.’ I have a dangerous obsession with self help books, which was largely the reason I had to buy a new bookcase. Normally, like all self help book addicts, I read the books once and then put it on my bookcase to make me look smart and self actualized. But this time I’ve decided to follow the exercises and see if it pays off, or at least makes up for the £9 price tag. .
Maybe, if I can master all the techniques, I’ll be the next Richard Branson and not the next Bristol suicide.
So over the next few days, or until I get bored, I will be trying out one tip from the book a day, recording my success, my failures and my general good looks on this page here.
And it begins today with Principle 1: Don’t Criticise, Condemn or Complain
Damn Dale Carnegie taking away the three highlights of my day...
Friday, June 1
YSM
A few days ago, I spent half an hour in a private room with an attractive young man, for a mere £8,000.
I’ve been looking for wedding loans, but like most Englishmen, I hate talking about money, and can only approach the subject after an hour of small talk and 40 cups of tea. This is difficult for me as I hate small talk and am a strict coffee drinker.
In England, if you wish to express your level of wealth you complain about how much everything costs; burglars frequently canvas potential targets by sitting in pubs and seeing who complains the loudest. You do not however, sit down with a complete stranger and discuss it in an open and frank conversation. But having as much financial knowledge as George Bush, I was forced to go ask advice from my bank's loan advisor.
And the thing that scared me most can be summed up in three letters - YSM.
Perhaps I better explain.
My loan advisor is a good looking twenty something male, about 6’, slim build, blue eyes and blond hair. Talking to him petrified me.
It wasn’t his looks that were the problem, In fact, being largely self-absorbed, it wasn’t until I’d left the bank I even realised he was relatively good looking.
The problem was that he belonged to that group of homosapiens of straight men under 30. For ease I’ll call them Young Straight Male’s or YSM for short.
Now most YSM’s are wonderful people, and have given me hours of 'entertainment', often unconsciously. And I’m sure that if you engage them for long enough they enjoy witty conversation about the later works of Mozart. But it can't be avoided that when you first meet them, their talk is limited to roughly four things - sport, cars, woman, and any mixture of the above.
The only thing I know about sport is that I don’t watch it. The only thing I know about cars is that I don’t drive one. And as most straight men don’t keep up with the gossip in Heat, I’m at a loss when talking about women. And so conversation is a dangerous game as they gradually discover my sexual preference and I struggle to appear as manly as possible.
The conversation with my ‘financial advisor’ went like this. The italics represent what I wish I’d said, the roman the wuss answer I actually gave.
‘So getting married huh?’
(Yes! To a lovely, sexy, gorgeous man.) ‘Haha! Yes!’
‘My lady keeps trying to pressure me into that too.’
(Afraid of commitment are you? Typical straight man!) ‘Ah!’
‘I swear she’s planned the whole thing out in vivid detail already.’
(Well you weren't going to actually put any effort in to it were you?) ‘Sound’s familiar.’
‘So, how much was you thinking off.’
(How much you got Punk?) ‘Um, About £8,000,’
‘Expensive Bride huh?’
‘Sound’s about right.’ (Sound’s about right.)
‘Well let’s have a look, but it shouldn’t be a problem. You see the game last night?’
(Unfortunately, I had better things to do, like cleaning out my ears and examining the cotton buds for anomalies.) ‘Um, Nah’ I was out.’
‘You support Arsenal?’
(Well I don’t know about the ‘nal’ part) ‘I’ve watched them a bit this season. Don’t normally though.’
‘Oh? What kind of repayments you thinking about?’
(I have no idea! I’m useless when it comes to this kind of thing. Perhaps you could be a big strong man and help me decide.) ‘Uh…’
‘About £300 a month?’
(Did I ask for your help big mouth? Go back to your TV and watch your brain dead football playing idols chase after a ball like the dogs they are!) ‘Sounds Great.’
‘I suppose you’re paying for it all then are you…?’
It goes on like this. Sometimes I wish I was as camp as a Baz Lurhman movie, at least that way I wouldn't need to get into these kind of conversations. Straight men would avoid me like the plague...
He gave me his card. It had his personal number on it. In a few months time I’ll ring him up an meet up to arrange the loan. Maybe this time, before I meet him, I’ll watch the game, pick up a copy of Auto Trader, and practice fluttering my eyelids.
After all, he is kind of hot.
And I can always do with more 'entertainment.'
- Funny Article
- Building Bridges - READERS' FAVOURITE
- Shelved
Saturday, May 19
Intervi-ewww
I applied for a new job recently. I had to. My current one is killing me.
At present, I spend 7 hours a day annoying old women by offering them home insurance. It’s impossible to hit my target and, being a bad loser, is sending me running for cliff edges like a bewildered lemming.
So I applied internally to work in claims.
I’m meticulous at interview preparation, especially when trying to escape death. So I re-read the Job Spec, asked others what to expect, worked out answers to all possible questions, mentally rehearsed them, clipped my nails and arrived 5 minutes early.
And the first question he asked me was ‘What do you know about the company?’
I was stuck. Being an internal interview I wasn’t expecting this. After all, I already worked for the company, why should I regurgitate a cheap sales pitch to impress my interviewer? What kind of internal interview quizzes you on why you want to work for the company you’re already in?
I mumbled out an excuse instead and waited for him to move on.
‘What achievement are you most pleased of in your work?’
Now I could win it back. In my previous job as Duty manager of a chain store, I had years of customer service skill. Over 3 years I was promoted quicker than any of my peers, given more responsibility than those 3 times my age. I was the first person called on to handle customer complaints, was in charge of some of the busiest sale periods, respected by over 20 staff, and, most excitingly, held the store keys.
I opened my mouth to speak, when he added, ‘…since you joined our company?’
And I was flummoxed again. I sell insurance. I annoy people. I exaggerate features and benefits to hide the fact that our price is 3 times higher than other insurers. What could I possibly say I’d achieved?
‘Um, I managed to overcome my stammer, which was threatening my sales call when I first started.’
He paused for a moment and said, ‘O.K.,’ then turned back to his notes.
It was the same throughout the interview, ‘What experience have you gained for this role since you joined our Company?’ ‘How hove you shown Passion for your work since you joined our Company?’ Even ‘How do you cope with a busy day in your current role since you joined our Company.’ I make outbound Calls! How can any day be busier than another? I have days where people shout at me more often if that’s what you mean.
At the end of the interview I hadn’t had a chance to mention any of my relevant experience, the reason they should employ me, or even the fact that I have an NVQ in active listening, am a brilliant empathiser, and really want to work in customer service. Not a single question I had prepared for came up. I wanted to shout, ‘Do you know what an Outbound Sales role is like, you ignorant jackass? Do you really think I go home every night with a passionate sense of achievement burning in my soul? Well I don’t! I go home with a burning anger and take it out on my boyfriend!’
He stood up, thanked me and pointed the way out of the building. I left the room and got lost, before heading back to my office, the failed Computer Science graduate who spent his life talking to geriatrics for £8 an hour.
I’m expecting to get feedback next week. I’m dreading it.
He’ll come into the feedback room, sit me down and offer me a coffee. Then referring copiously to his notes he’ll look at me and, in so many words, call me an idiot.
Still, it’ll only be since I joined the Company...
Saturday, May 12
Building Bridges
There is a street corner in Bristol where the Beggars and Charity Canvassers hang out. A corner I walk past twice a day. And a corner that I hate.
Beggars, for one, confuse me. My Christian upbringing tells me to help them, but the 'anti-drug flyers' around Bristol tell me ‘don’t’. Thus, ignoring them makes me feel guilty and giving them loose change makes me feel even worse! The only way I can avoid the guilt is to pretend I haven’t seen them, or to hurry past, avoid eye contact and mutter, “Srry mate.”
Charity Canvassers, although more annoying, are easier. Doing a similar job as myself I utterly detest them, and make fun of them whenever possible. This is remarkably easy; most of them open their patter with the same line (i.e. “Hi I’m Gary from Greenpeace.") to which there are at least three possible replies,
• The short and sweet - “Good for You!”
• The baffler - “Really? What a coincidence! I’m Simon from Bristol.”
• Or my personal favorite - “Wonderful! I had no idea you people looked so clean!”
Any such response causes them to think and gives me time to get away. And I can generally make it home, past beggar and canvasser, largely unmolested and with a morally intact opinion of myself.
But yesterday it went horribly wrong.
I was walking past the corner, accelerating wildly so I’d be harder to stop, when a woman carrying an umbrella walked towards me. The umbrella is an old trick used by canvassers - they offer you shelter, numb you with pictures of starving Ethiopians and then steal your wallet. As such I had no intention of talking to her.
'Excuse me?' she said,
“No Thank you!" I barked out and strolled into the middle of the road.
Her words trailed off behind me, “Do you know the way to…?”
She'd been asking for directions; I'd brushed her off like a pushy New Yorker and she'd only been asking for help. I was halfway across the road before I realized what I’d done, and I had no idea what do about it. Should I turn back and pretend I hadn’t been rude? Should I carry on walking, ‘tutting’ loudly at the ‘bloody tourist’? Or should I shout sorry over my shoulder and run away like a schoolgirl playing kiss chase, making it difficult for her to get a positive ID?
Thankfully, the lights changed and I darted across the road.
I felt like a deserter; like an evil, bitter old man who hates foreigners, and spends his weekends at rallies for the National Front. And I went home that night with my moral righteous in a state of crucifixion.
If we meet again I’ll make it up to her. I’ve got it all planned out. Pacing past, staring at the ground, I’ll wait till I’m just in earshot. And then, avoiding all eye contact, I’ll wave in her general direction, and mutter, “Srry mate.”
Thursday, May 10
Shelved
So I ran out of bookcase space again.
Normally, I go to Amazon and sell some old books to free up space, but generally speaking this causes me pain. Firstly, I always want to reread the books about 2 days after selling them, and secondly I almost always spend more money on new Amazon books than I make selling the old ones.
So I decided it would be cheaper, and less painful this time, just to buy a new bookcase
Being British, and thus overly keen on DIY, Ikea is my best friend, and I can waste whole hours walking up and down the aisles, wondering at the cheap prices and the efficient Swedish Design. And being English I enjoy gorging on the cut-price hotdogs and loading my pockets with the free pencils. It’s the perfect day out!
I found a 6’ bookcase that was cheap enough and tacky enough to please me and then faced the real problem of getting it home. I don’t drive and refused to pay the extra £5 cab fare. So I decided, being the strong man I am, to carry it, and started to walk home with 20kg of flat-pack resting on my shoulder.
I got about 8 steps before running out of energy. My shoulder was killing me, my legs buckling. I turned to see how far I’d come and banged the box on the sides of the exit door.
I still had at least a half hour walk ahead of me.
Lifting the box again I struggled forward, three or four steps, followed by a 10 minute rest, before trudging homeward again, until finally, after what seemed like years, I reached the house, stumbled in the door and collapsed. Any belief I had of myself as a macho-man had faded along with the sensation in my shoulder. The carpet I had crumpled onto was wonderfully soft, the relaxation running through my body like heroin through my veins, And then the bookcase fell on top of me…
So now I have a new set of shelves in my room with space for all the new books I want to buy. But I won’t be buying any for a while. It may have been cheaper to buy a new bookcase, but it certainly wasn’t less painful.
And at the moment, just the sight of a new book makes my shoulders ache...
Thursday, April 26
Wheels on Fire
18:16
I was walking past the construction site.
A man was leaning against the wall. He stared at me as I went past, then walked to his car, a Peugeot 205, old and grey, parked up on the opposite side of the car park. I paid him no attention. My thoughts were tired. I was nearly home and looking forward to getting out of the bluesy rain that tapped on the streets like a lazy Fred Astaire.
The car started its engine, and I moved towards the side of the road, closer to the building site, to let it pass. It pulled out of the parking space, and crawled towards me, moved to be just behind me. But it didn't go past me. Instead it kept pace with me as I walked, always just a few feet behind.
I turned to face the driver. He was staring straight ahead, dressed in an old grey suit, his hair balding. He seemed not to have noticed me.
I stopped; the car stopped tool as if it was attached to me be some unseen force.
The driver was still looking straight ahead, immobile, as if he were just another part of the vehicles mechanics. The engine was running, but the wheels was glued to the ground as if they had never had any intention of moving. I waved him past. He didn’t notice, or at least made no effort to drive on. So I started walking again.
I’d got about five steps when the headlights on the car flickered on, illuminating me in a circle of light, like an actor under the spotlight. The engine was revving into life. I turned, squinting against the lights and saw the driver head on. A flash of recognition ran through my skull and tried to find something to link too.
The car was growling, the engine roaring. He reached down, released the handbrake and the rear wheels began to spin.
I jumped out of the way just in time. The car crashed through the metal fences around the building site and skidded to a halt. The driver, fuming with rage, threw the car into reverse. There could only be one reason he was here. I checked my coat pocket, making sure the PDA was safe. He would never get the files.
He reversed the car out of the fences at a suicidal speed, skidded the vehicle around to face me and slammed it back into drive. He was revving the engine again, playing with the accelerator like a volume control, building my fear with a crescendo of noise.
I began to run, not daring to look back. The brake was released; there was the screech of rubber on tarmac as the tires hit the road. He was accelerating towards me. The door to my flat was suddenly in front of me, a few feet away. I reached for my keys, fumbling to find the right one. The car was getting closer, biting at my feet like a dog on my trail.
I hit the door running, forced the key in the lock, and turned. The car sped towards me, as if he intended to bring the whole apartment block down. Then the flat door flew open, I fell into the hallway and he turned the wheel sharply right. The car went into a skid, its left side bouncing off the building spitting off stale sparks into the night. The sound of shredding metal went ripping through the air. And I was safe.
And then I was inside the hallway, out of breath, panting. The car that had pulled out of the parking space was driving slowly past my front door, undamaged, the driver careful and slow. From behind the wheel the late-middle-aged man, a normal person coming home from a normal day job, looked at me in confusion, trying to work out why I’d just ran to my front door in a morbid fear the second he started his engine.
Sometimes I let my imagination run away with me.
And so I entered my flat, changed out of my wet clothes and spent another night living my sleepy little existence.
And outside the skies burst open and the rain poured down in its torrents, drowning out the drama of the world around me, and washing the smell of burning rubber out into the night.
Saturday, April 21
Warner Busers
The 20:02 Bus hates me.
I get out of work at 20:00. At least, I do if I’m lucky but working in a sales environment, luck is a highly objective word and can only be used it if I provide dates, times and a list of features and benefits. So it’s probably easier, and more factual, to say that no matter what time I get out of work, I still miss the bus.
I tend to get stuck on a sales call at around 19:55 most nights, so it’s not surprising the bus has gone when I get out at 20:11. But when I do manage to leave on time, even if I race down the stairs, fly out the door, dodge across the road and sprint to the bus-stop, I still reach it just in time to see the bus pulling out.
Of course, I can’t blame the bus for this, you might say, it’s leaving at the time it’s meant to. But, little miss know-it-all, that just doesn’t seem to be the case.
One day for example, I was stuck on a car insurance call with a geriatric lady till 20:03, and deciding that I must have missed the bus, I took a slow stroll out of work. When I left the office at 20:07 the 20:02 bus was still sitting at the stop. Happily, I dashed to the crossing, pressed the button and the bus pulled out from the stop the second the lights changed to walk. It was as if it was waiting for me, so it could shake its whored-out, ad-covered butt in my face as it drove away.
The same thing happened the next 10 nights. Every time I got close the bus would pull away, like a stripper in a nightclub. There would be something to delay me, a busy road, a chatting colleague, a desire for ice cream, and the Bus would sit there until I got near to it then speed off into the distance. I swear once or twice I heard it say ‘Meep Meep.’
Finally, I had a plan. With my trainers on ready, my work bag over my shoulder and my bus fare in my hand I logged off at precisely 19:58. (I’ll probably be fired when they find out.) Having peed ten minutes before, and avoided conversation by giving my colleagues evils, I paced down the stairs, and strolled out the doors at 19:59. The bus was at the stop, its lights turned off, idling, waiting.
I strode to the crossing and pressed the crossing-button. Nothing happened. Cars were speeding past, but the lights weren’t changing. Work colleagues gathered round me at the crossing and started talking to me. Across the street the bus’s engine roared to life, the lights flickering on down the aisle. And still the crossing wouldn’t change, still the cars drove past me, still work colleagues were talking rubbish to me, and I just wanted to get the bus. Finally, the lights changed, the cars stopped and I darted across the road, dodged around the old ladies who were moving slower than the laws of physics strictly allow, and headed towards the bus-stop. The headlights on the bus sprung to life. I sped up. I was closer than I’d been for ages, so close I could almost touch it, just a few feet from the stop. I was going to make it. I was going to catch the bus home. For the first time in days I could actually get home in comfort, in the warm bus surrounded by poor people. I didn’t have to walk anymore. I was going to catch the bus.
And that was when the bus started indicating.
And so I walked home. Forty five minutes through dark subways and dangerous streets wondering what I had done to invoke the torment of the 20:02 to St George. And slowly the rain began to fall, drop after drop until it hammered on the pavement and surrounded me with white noise. And soaked to the skin, water running down my face and falling to the ground, I dragged myself home.
Wondering, once again, why I was destined to spend my life staring at the back of a bus.
- How green can you get?
- The new weight loss scheme
- A profitable cure for Global Warming
Thursday, April 19
Green
Sitting in the park yesterday, avoiding the footballs and stray dogs flying in my direction, I tried to write.
I have a PDA I carry around with me complete with a wireless keyboard, so that if I write away from my computer, I can actually edit and reuse my creations later on without hiring a cryptographer to translate my handwriting. And so with the keyboard resting on the bag, which in turn was resting on my lap, I spent 30 minutes typing away in the green.
Undoubtedly I look like a ponce when I do this. Dressed in my office clothes, squinting at the tiny screen and tapping away on the wireless keyboard, I must look like a junior businessman trying to get a promotion so I can buy a real laptop, or, worse still, like a loner English student.
But lost in the thrill of the sloppily written word, and letting the heavenly rays of global warming tan my skin, I hammered away. And it was then that I found 20p lying on the floor.
Now I appreciate that some of you may not have the same dreams as me and may need some clarification as to the ramifications, the life changing, celebrity making, orgasm inducing ramifications, that this brought about. So let me explain.
I was writing. and I got money. Therefore, I am a paid writer!
Finally after all my years of thinking about maybe one day trying to work my way towards getting the chance to be considered for the option of being paid to write, it just happened to me in the middle of a lawn on a armageddonly warm April day.
I picked it up, thrilled that my dreams had come true so easily, and went to add it to my stash, because of course being a paid author I was incredibly poor and saving every penny. On opening my wallet however, I got the shock of my life; the change pocket was already open; some of my money must have fallen out. And yes, the 20p that had been in there earlier had disappeared.
It was my money I’d found. My own cash. No-one was paying me to write, I was merely a self-invested, self-absorbed, and worse still, self-published writer.
I couldn’t even call myself an ‘author.’
Drying my eyes, calming my breathing, and manipulating my painfully red limbs into movement, I gathered my loose silver together and brought a can of beer to help ease my woes.
Because at least then, like all real writers, I could say I wasted my royalties on booze.
- My failure to look sexy naked
- Losing my DICE
- Not pulling the sexy French Maid