Lager Guided Darts

December 11, 2007

Last Saturday Eric Bristo entered me. Not in the biblical sense you understand, that would have hurt, and he didn’t actually get inside me like one of those serial killers who wears their victims skins over their own faces. Anyway, in either sense he would have split me in two, my bulls eye will never be ready for the Bristo.

Back to the matter in hand….  Daleks were not built to walk up stairs, Gary Glitter wasn’t designed to be a children’s worker and Keith Chegwin wasn’t engineered to be a barman. My own dysfunction is an inability to play any sport. I occasionally go running where I can guarantee to win every time as I only ever go out on my own.

I am worse at sports than Eddie the Eagle on crutches or Tim Henman after a multi limb amputation. The runt of the sporting litter if you will, the last little piggy in lycra to suckle on the sports milk of genetics.

But last weekend something mysterious happened, a magical moment, my moment, not a goal at Wembley or an ace on Centre Court, but I won a pub darts competition against my mates. I can only put this down to the butterfly effect, or that I slipped into another dimension for a few minutes in time.

More probable though was that after my eighth pint of lager, iron bru cocktails (amaretto dropped into lager) and other such glamorous drinks is that I had forgotten who I was and therefore had gained some sporting confidence.

Thank you Eric, but you can get out now, and please can the hangover go away.


Orca the Red Canoe

December 4, 2007

I am a Bachelor of Science, which means that while bluffing my way through University, I also learned to speak on important matters such as Time Travel.

We all know that time travel is impossible unless you own a flux capacitor, can bend space & time, find a wormhole, or have a red letter day planned on the Starship Enterprise. FACT. Until yesterday that is, we now have to add Orca the Red Canoe to the list, chosen vessel of missing canoeist (now found) John Darwin.

I deduced this amazing fact as last night on the news I saw John ‘Time Traveller’ Darwin in a Global Hypercolor T-Shirt, not seen anywhere since 1987. Lost his memory my arse, he has been whizzing about watching dinosaurs, seeing Gordon Brown being thrown out of number 10, and shopping for bad T-shirts.

Dab a Granny

December 3, 2007

People have some weird fetishes.  Fetishes by nature are weird. I’m not sure how I would feel if I discovered I had one, and if I did, I don’t think I would want to tell people about it here.

I did discover today though that I absofuckinglutely DO NOT have a ‘watching old women on the toilet fetish’. Having just bought some petrol at the services, I headed towards the gents, which was out of order. I gave the disabled / women’s toilet a good push. I think you know what is coming next (that would be you if you are very very odd).

There was Granny, trousers round her ankles, little skinny white legs, crouched on the throne with a wad of tissue in her hand “dabbing” her Granny privates.

I am scarred. Possibly for life.

If you are twisted and have arrived at my site because you have googled ‘toilet fetish’ then Twenty Majors readers (link to the right) have been making some interesting comments about a video called “Two Girls, One Cup”.

I’m off to try and erase this memory forever.

My Tradesmen, Jokers in Disguise

November 30, 2007

Step 1) Install new 50 Watt kitchen spotlight bulbs, old ones to dim
Step 2) Realise current fixtures can only cope with 20 Watt bulbs
Step 3) Darkness, hair burnt
Step 4) Electrician quotes for new spotlight fixtures to cope with 50 Watt
Step 5) Pocket £600 lighter, burnt again.

Me: “So what actually are you doing”
Sparky: “I’ll use these units with a transformer”
Me: “A transformer, where does that go?”
Sparky: “Don’t worry, its hidden, you won’t be able to see it”
Me: ” So it’s a transformer in disguise?”
Sparky “Yes”

Hmmm, I might have possibly have been taken for an expensive ride, but at least I have Megatron hidden in my ceiling.

Christmas is Coming – The goats are off to Africa

November 27, 2007

Last year, with my blessing, Mum bought me an African goat, not actually for me you understand, but to help a poor African farmer. I didn’t even get a thank you goat note. I trust the farmer made best use of it and enjoyed many a baked goats cheese souffle with piquant red onion and not wasted it on just providing milk for his family and stuff.

“Another goat for Christmas this year, to add to the herd?” Asked mother.

“Charity begins at home this year Mum, I have just moved into my new house remember? So unless that goat knows how to renovate old floors boards, plaster and build a loft conversion then frankly I am not interested”*

Maybe I can send the farmer a gift list this year? The brochure would read – This year there are many struggling corporate workers in the UK, house prices have gone through the roof, do your bit to help them, can you do one of the following:-

Build a 56” TV from goats shit and rain water?

Build an espresso maker from mud and bamboo?

Build an American style fridge from a dried up well and a goats skull?

I look forward to your gifts

*I am not a heartless shit and have done my bit this year raising £3000 for the British Heart Foundation. No goats or African farmers were hurt in the writing of this post.

Punter TV – Fast Food for the Soul

November 26, 2007

“Punter TV” is Strictly Come Dancing, X Factor, and I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here. Like fast food for the soul, I am overwhelmed by a temporary feel good factor, which will soon disappear and leave me feeling sick and full of self loathing.

As I tighten the belt around my arm, slap my vein and get further jacked up on Ant & Dec, MSG (from my takeaway), and my second bottle of Rioja, the worry that I might be damaging the spark in my synapses fades into a hazy blur.

I shouldn’t feel guilty about deleting parts of my massive brain. I wallow in the comfort that six million (current viewing figures) other people are also destroying their brains, and the other 54 million are probably out binge drinking. I promise myself that next week I will read a book instead.

Public Transport – A Class System.

November 22, 2007

Occasionally I am forced out of the leather clad, air conditioned bliss of my car and on to stinking, vomit stained, graffiti decorated public transport. My nearest main train station to my Royal Borough town is Slough so the genetic quality of the passengers cannot be guaranteed.

My owl like vision (ignoring my lazy eye, short sightedness, astigmatism and colourblindness – maybe its me with the genetic issues?), honed in a vacant seat. The once plush blue velour double seat stood out like an oasis in a seat wilderness, tempting me in to quench my sitting down thirst.

I sat down and familiarised myself with the immediate surroundings. It seems I had sat next to an escaped genetic experiment. Try and imagine a walrus that had mated with that big happy genie from Aladdin – this lady was the result, she had lost the blue skin though. She was so fat and so bald I was half convinced it was a post-op Big Daddy.

“Sweets Mummy Sweets, sweets , sweets sweets” shrieked the woman’s toddler.

“Why is you always asking for sweets, why can’t you be asking for chips or somefing”

As this distant descendant of Jabba the Hut continued to verbally abuse her child..

“Shut up innit, I don’t need your bullshit today”

I foraged deep into my “bag o’ bovverds” to try and find some sympathy for the obvious terrible socio-economic background she had come from, but the bag was bare.

I will write to Great Western trains to suggest they operate the carriages in a tax bracket system, 40% at the front, working your way down the carraiges to the unemployed on the roof, thus meaing I wouldn’t have to suffer such an unpleasant journey in the future.