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*bring bring* – *bring bring* -*bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* -*bring bring* – *bring bring*

“Thank you for calling. If you are looking for X, please dial Y, if you are calling for Z then you must please hang up and call 1890 CUNTBAG.

No yas bastards, I’m losing the will to live!

Please listen carefully and choose from the following options:

For XY, press 1.

For XYZ, press 2.

For ABC, press 3.

For DEF, press 4.

For ZAX, press 5.

If at any time you wish to speak to a customer service representative press zero.”

*presses zero*

*bring bring* – *bring bring* -*bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* – *bring bring* -*bring bring* – *bring bring*

“Thank you, the call centre is closed at this time (12.45pm, seriously). To return to the main menu press star.”

*presses star*

“Thanks for your call, goodbye.”

ARRRRRRRRRRRGH.

I will ram my fist up their star if I ever manage to get hold of them.

Every so often we get sent email from community groups or cops with warnings to people about various scams or things that the public should be aware of. We then post them up on the notice boards in work.

The latest is just too scary for words considering the implications if things had gone wrong..   It read as follows.

A woman went into a petrol station to buy some petrol.  After filling her tank she proceeded to the kiosk to pay for it.  An observant guy behind the till told her.  Please don’t pay for your petrol right now madam.  Just walk around the shop and pretend your going to buy something else.  He told her that he just spotted a male climbing into the back of her car and hiding down behind the seats.  So he wanted to keep the woman out of danger until he phoned the police.

The police arrived and found the man skulking behind her seats but the sickening part of it is, that because he wasn’t armed, all they could charge him with was tresspassing.

It’s sickening that the cops couldn’t have some legal powers to at least charge him with some kind of intent.

This bastard didn’t climb in there and hide down just to get a lift home now did he?

So let this be a warning to everyone.  If you go to pay for your petrol, lock your car up on the forecourt.  You just don’t know what fucking weirdo is lurking out there.

I have been getting my haircut at the same place for about five years. The barbershop is owned by an Italian who insists on giving you alcohol when you go for a snip. It does not matter what time of day you are there, he will offer you beer or wine and will feign offense if you eventually settle on a coffee.

The highlight for me is getting my hair washed. There are a couple of young Polish girls who give the best head massages, which is something I had never experienced before getting my haircut there. Getting my hair washed by a fit woman is the second most enjoyable thing I can do with a woman in two and a half minutes. However, I do still remember the first time I went in and they asked if I wanted a wash.

“I only washed it this morning, it’s perfectly fucking clean you cheeky twat!”

Oh how we laugh about that now. Getting a wash from one of the Polish girls is now part of my routine whenever I get a haircut.

Anyway, I went in to get a haircut last week, around noon, a time I do not normally go. Because of this shift work, I had no other option. The Polish girls were conspicuous by their absence.

“I’ll have to wash your hair as the girls are at lunch.” said the guy who cuts my hair, nonchalantly.

This was disappointing in the extreme. I am very confident in my sexuality, but I really did not want to have my hair washed by a man. It is just not the same. Plus, if I liked it, it would probably make me about 10% gay, and I do not want to get bummed on thirty six and a half days a year.

My dilemma was in whether or not to voice my concerns. I did not want to offend the barber, as he is very good at cutting my hair (which he does whilst we talk about football and other perfectly heterosexual things). Also, barbers and hairdressers are in that small segment of service industry professionals that you really should avoid offending before they have performed their service for you. They are right up there with chefs and prostitutes.

So I let him wash my hair whilst I kept my eyes wide open and did my utmost to cover all of the days sports news with him.

From now on I will always do at least one walk-by to ensure the Poles are on duty.

Right don’t laugh!

But how da fek can man do stuff like build planes, shoot people off into space, or give someone a new heart and lung transplant but he can’t invent something to make changing a duvet cover easier?

I kid you not.  I spent easily fifteen minutes trying to change mine.  And don’t give me all that, “but hold the corners and just shake it inside out” crap.  I’m six foot three inches tall and still my arms wouldn’t spread wide enough to get that king sized fucker shook on properly.  I spent ten minutes wriggling about on the friggin bed trying to find my way back out of it!

Bloody womens work, made me look like a right tit.  I’m sweltered now and have to have another shower after that. Lucky I don’t have to be at work til two!

No, I’m not talking about car insurance or life assurance here.

Is honesty the best policy in everyday life?  When someone asks us a direct question, is it sometimes best to tell a little white lie, than to be totally truthful?

I think sometimes that little white lie is the way to go.

“Yer-Man, does my bum look big in this?”

“Well to be totally honest with you, I think it looks fucking massive sweetheart.”

Or

“I bought this new coat toady, do you like it?”

“Were there no mirrors in the shop you bought it in?”

Or

“Would you like a glass of my home brew Yer-Man?”

“No thanks, I’d rather guzzle down a pint of your dogs vomit, if it’s all the same”

A woman called to my door just before I went to work yesterday afternoon.

“Hello”, I said.

“Hello”, she said. “How are you today?”

“I’m fine”, I said, “and you?”

“Very good. I’m here today to tell you about the new range of cosmetics from Mac.”

“Apple are making cosmetics now?”

“Oh you, you joker. But seriously, they have a new range out full of all kinds of stuff which is cosmetically fantastic.”

“That’s good. Would you mind if I asked you a question?”

“Go ahead.”

“Do I look like the kind of person who uses a lot of make-up?”

“Well…”

“Do you think a fantastic new blusher would give my five o’clock shadow a healthy glow?”

“Erm…”

“Could a tinted foundation of some kind bring out the subtle tones in the bit of redness under my nose from this cold I have?”

“Uhm…”

“Might I be the kind of man who wants his full lashes curled and long-lasting?”

“…”

“I’m very sorry, but I’m really not in the market for any cosmetics.”

And not a word of a fucking lie her face fell and her shoulders slumped. Like she honestly thought she might still be able to make a sale from her suitcase full of face-crayons and powder boxes.

I don’t mind someone chancing their arm trying to sell me something I don’t need. Let’s face it, most of us buy stuff we don’t need all the time but this was just ridiculous.

“See that gate over there that you came through just now?” I said pointing to the gate at the end of the path.

She looks over her shoulder.

“I suggest you use it and don’t slam it on your way out” “Have a nice day”

I like to think of myself as a bit worldly. Someone who is willing to accept the individual tastes of people very different to himself.

However, there are a number of pastimes, hobbies and activities which leave me completely baffled as to their levels of popularity. I simply fail to see even the slightest attraction in them, and sometimes, normally in the wee small hours, I wonder if it is just me that does not get it?

Or maybe I am completely right, as usual, and what I am witnessing is really just a case of the Emperors new clothes?

Take the opera for example. I have been once. I went to watch Puccini’s Madam Butterfly in an open air amphitheatre in Verona (that is in Italy for the heathens among you). It was a beautiful summers evening, and I have been told by opera aficionados that this should have been a truly life changing experience, yet I was bored rigid. It was the night of a thousand years as far as I was concerned. Boring, boring, boring, although the female sitting directly infront of me made the tedious night well worth it. Phwoarrr talk about Hot! …..anyway.

I will grant you that some of Puccini’s songs are good, but I’d rather listen to a CD to be honest. People will try and tell you that opera ‘is about the drama though’, but you only have to flick to the back of the programme to see how it ends. You don’t get that at the local multiplex when you go to see the new Will Smith film. Plus it was all in Italian. Do I look like I know fuckin Italian guv? Sing in English! … OK you all know I’m kidding.

Another pastime I fail to understand peoples affection for, is horse racing. The sport of Kings? Well no, in reality it is a sport based on running races for really big dogs ridden by men in tight-fitting brightly coloured silk outfits. It is all a little bit homo erotic for my tastes. So thanks, but I’m really not interested. Only thing horses are good for, according to my mum, is a bucket fulla their shit for her roses.

And finally, topiary. The ‘art’ (and I use the term extremely loosely) of fashioning farmyard animals out of hedges. Really. People spend actual real cash money on getting people to turn their bushes into cocks. An utter waste of time and effort as far as I can see. I think there was a documentary on TV last night about turning bushes into cocks. Transexual something or other.

They never mentioned topiary once!

I am achier than Billy Ray Cyrus’s breaky heart. My back hurts like that of my village’s coalman in the 1970s and my knees are sorer than Monica Lewinsky’s (note to self – try to think of some more up-to-date references), but I have laid a new kitchen floor.

All the kitchen furniture, including the fridge, was in the living room. There was still tacky glue everywhere so I had to wear plastic bags on my feet when cooking, and I’m fairly sure that the cooker is stuck fast to the floor, which will at least be a good excuse for never cleaning behind it again.

The biggest difficulty was that once I’d opened the adhesive and started spreading I had to finish the whole job there and then, so it wasn’t until 1:30am that I laid the last strip. Aching, I removed my sticky clothes and washed my hands, peeling huge wodges of tacky glue from my fingers and was just about to go to bed when I found a sticky problem. My DIY jeans had their knees ripped years ago, which meant that my bare knees were now completely covered with dried glue.

I have really hairy legs, and despite stoically not complaining about the back pain at anything less than three minute intervals all day it just hurt too much to pull the glue off. (Ladies – please don’t bother trying to trump me with any “You don’t know what pain is till you’ve had a bikini wax” stories. It is a well known medical fact that men’s knees contain more nerve endings than women’s loolahs.) I tried opening the freezer door and freezing it solid like chewing gum so I could chip it off, but other body parts were in danger of becoming brittle as well. There was only one more thing I could try…

And that, Gary, my bezzy mate who stayed over at mine, is why you found me in the shower at 2am this morning shaving my legs. Honest! lolol…

“DJ, Gonna burn this Goddamn house right down”

No apologies for the bad pun in the title heh!

Have you all seen the adverts with all the naked supermodels on the Internet.?

Apparently they are making us aware of the fact that wearing fur is murder. You know, whilst in the nuddy. This is an excellent way to make your point. The most memorable time I ever got naked was an afternoon of passion in a forest but thats for another days blogging.

But enough about my nakedness, back to the naked supermodels. I am in agreement with them. Sort of. I believe that if people want to wear fur, then fine, but they should have to catch and kill the animal themselves. That way, it would not only be a fashion statement, but also a trophy of sorts. A bit like decorative medals in the military.

I am pretty sure that mink coats would be less popular overnight. Those little fuckers actively seek out fights with snakes.

SNAKES!

The crazy little bastards. As such, I don’t imagine an ageing middle-class woman in need of fashionable winter wear would hold much fear for the mink. Plus the fact it takes several minks to make a coat, so even if the elderly huntress managed to catch one of them, I’m pretty sure she would change her mind and decide a mink scarf would suit her much better.

I am not a hypocrite though. Yes, I do have a leather jacket, but I think it is made from the skin of a calf, though I can’t be 100% sure, as I got it whilst on holiday in Turkey years ago. Of course, I would have no qualms about catching a calf to make the jacket. They are not dangerous, and pretty tame, so the actual chase would be quite easy. And I suppose I could always eat the wee beefy morsel.

If this rule was brought in it would make it much easier to tell who you should not mess with. I would have a new found respect for anyone wearing the skin of a bull and would stay well clear of anyone in Crocodile shoes, and not just because they look like an utter fucking twat. But because they is well arrrrrd!