Tuesday 14 December 2010

Christmas Appeal - lets all confuse people this festive period

Christmas eh? Always a bit predictable? Sherry, sprouts, asleep by 5pm, slight hangover at 7pm, world record ‘put Ferrero Rocher in mouth’ before heading to bed looking for bonjela.

So here’s something that almost anyone can try, as long as you have a computer and the ability to make no sense whatsoever. And if you all do it, we can really mess with people’s heads. But in a lovely fun way that won’t cause any divorces or punch ups this festive season.

It’s sort of the anti-EastEnders.

A few Christmases ago I was at a works Christmas do and drunkenly ended up defacing the jokes that came out of the crackers with crayon. The next morning I found I still had a pristine joke/motto and hatched a plan. Here’s the plan:

-Take the paper (here, I’ve made you a blank one to copy and paste on the right).

-Paste it into photoshop, paint or powerpoint and then just add the joke

-This is the key bit. The joke shouldn’t make sense at all. I don’t mean poor quality Joe Pasquale level joke. I mean it shouldn’t have any basis in comedy or preferably reality at all (perhaps Pasquale was the right comparison)

-Make the first part Christmassy if you want, (if you're stuck use words like ‘snowman’, ‘santa’, ‘presents’)and then add a totally nonsensical answer.

-Make about eight of them and print them out

-Get your hands on whoever’s crackers (steady) you’ll be pulling over Christmas dinner and unwrap it so you can get to the contents (Since we were children we all knew how to successfully unwrap the cracker without breaking it it's like a junior version of The Hurt Locker).

-Swop out the actual joke for your amended one.

-Replace the cracker.


And that’s it.

On Christmas day 2007 the jokes in our crackers contained the one on right as well as the following:

“What did one snowman say to the other snowman? I’m sick of religious fundamentalism”

“What do you call a man with a limp at Christmas? Nigel Anderson”

“How many presents can you get in car? Probably about 12”

“Why did the man do the thing with the stuff? Because of the Alan key”

“Where does Santa get his hat? Leicester”


What happened next was beautiful to watch, especially with older people. They pulled the cracker, they read the joke and I got to watch their faces, the checking of the cracker box for information, the re-reading or just seeing my mum read it twice and then just put it back in the cracker silently and pretending there hadn't been one in hers.

Honestly. The most fun on Christmas Day since I got a Darth Vader Star Destroyer.

That’s my gift to you. Please take it and pass it on this festive season. Because cracker messing is just for Christmas, so make the most of it.

Tuesday 19 October 2010

My drug shame

Sorry I haven't blogged for a bit. Stuff happened and, well, that's about it. Anyway, all's good now and all I can say is that they won't find the body - so we're all ok.

My lack of blogging meant I failed to share a story that I had published on the highly amusing www.b3ta.com site. They were asking for 'your drugs stories' and rather than the time I played 3 hours of 'loopin louie' whilst eating wagonwheels (you can draw your own conclusions) I went for a more wholesome tale. So I sent the below. It is utterly true btw, and I thought it was worth sharing.

When I first began driving I borrowed my mum's car a lot. Enjoying the freedom of the road I soon stocked up on indie compilation tapes and sweets and visited friends around the country.

One evening my mum came back from work and asked to sit down for a serious talk. She pulled out a small white tablet embossed with a letter on it and said to me, with tears in her eyes: "I found this in my car. I want you to answer me straight. Is this drugs?"

I took it off her, looked at it (I'd obviously dropped it in the car) and told her the truth in a calm tone of voice.

"No. It's a Smint."

Thursday 16 September 2010

What a load of rubbish

I've been down in the dumps recently. ACtually, that joke doesn't work as well these days when you have to say "I was down at the recycling centre today" - honestly, progress is ruining old gags. Thankfully someone I work with told me he was going to speak to someone about getting his eyes lasered and I did the old "I've come to get my eyes sorted" - "That's as maybe sir, this is the butchers". Some gags progress can't touch.

Anyway I digress.

I've been down at our local rubbish emporiums recently, shifting the usual from the garden - leaves, branches, Myleene Klass's still twitching corpse - and it's been hard work, thankfully the hourly trips to the dump offer comic gold.

Firstly there's the brilliantly random signage. They've got a big area for scrap metal so they've painted in 3 foot high letters "SCAAP", forgetting that the letters A & R are not the same.

Then there's the brilliant sign on the landfill skips that say "NO CHILDREN". I'm very close to walking up with a smallish bin-bag and asking the men at the dump 'I need to recycle these children, if so - which area?'

And the men who work there are brilliant, sometimes helpful, sometimes overly interested in my rubbish. I brought an old lawnmower down and some chap immediately said "I'll help you with that". But when I passed the area for electrical goods later it wasn't there, I imagine it's on ebay by now or he's riding it round the back of the dump. I once got rid of a pool table and I was assailed by about half a dozen workers who were all determined to "get rid of that for me". It's like The Wombles meets Shameless.

The final thing about the dump is that it instills that primal spirit in me - I am man, I have been to dump - making me feel I could easily pop home and assemble furniture or perhaps kill a mammoth before tea.

I didn't by the way, as I wouldn't know which recyling bin to put a mammoth in after I'd killed it.

Thursday 19 August 2010

Criminally bad timing

Just a quickie today - a story of bad timing that, thankfully, has ended up with me just blogging about it rather than being in a cell or something.

The other day me and the missus were out gardening. I was doing my manly "mow the front lawn with ipod on" and she was in the back, decimating weeds. Lisa then spotted that one of the trees in our garden was dangerously branching out onto the road over our wall and that the stem was splintering away.

We decided to take emergency action and cut the branch off. As it was about 12 foot long it was left precariously balanced on our fence - half in our garden, half now all over the road. We couldn't shift it from the just garden, so I climbed over the fence - next to our For Sale sign - using a stepladder, swung the ladder over the wall and got down the other side. (Bear with me).

I grabbed the long branch and leaves and moved it off the road and then shinned back up the ladder to get it back over the fence.

So there I was. In the scruffiest clothing I had, unshaven, up a step ladder, by a fence, next to a for sale sign...when the Police video van happened to drive by. Spot me. And reverse up the road.

I couldn't have looked more suspicious if I'd had a bag with 'Swag' written on it. Or perhaps be brandishing a candle stick yelling "I'm coming for you Colonel Mustard."

Thankfully a quick chat to explain I was the homeowner and trying to shift a dangerous branch was more compelling than me trying to break into a vacant house. But, my lord, I felt guilty. After a few minutes they were satisfied with my explanation and I was able to get back into the garden.

I found Lisa hiding behind one of the trees, having remained utterly silent throughout the whole incident. She whispered to me "I didn't know what to do, so I just hid the saw." I think we've watched too much CSI, with priority number one being 'hide the murder weapon'.

Thinking about it now, whilst the Police were right to stop why would a burglar also be tidying branches up - presumably a very thoughtful horticulturarly-minded one - and be armed with a saw (not the best weapon for burglarly, unless the homeowner is ostensibly wooden.)

A best of all? They didn't find the body we'd just buried...

Friday 13 August 2010

Balls

If you've come here expecting a testes-related post, I apologise, it was just a ruse to get you to read about my sporting prowess. Actually, the idea of a testes-related post did lead you here then I'd be considering therapy about now.

I'm not the best sportsman in the world, but I'm not the worst. Last night I played cricket for the first time in 10 years. I've not really played much before, in fact the last match was for charity and I ended up nearly breaking the ribs of a batsman. Not with my bowling, he was on my team and I ran into him with the handle of the bat. And I got run out. Oh, the unfairness.

Anyway, last night I made up the numbers in a game and something happened I'm now convinced that I am blessed by the sporting gods, but only for about 2 minutes in whatever sport I play. Everyone had to bowl in the 20 over match and after 9 overs (i.e. the rest of the team had bowled) my turn came. I stepped up, chucked a half decent, possibly spinning, ball down the pitch and the batsman launched an almighty slog at it. It sailed majestically over my head and towards the boundary. But not far enough to the boundary, as I watched in amazement it dropped into the hands of a fielder.

Colman's lifetime figures. 1 ball. 1 wicket. 0 runs conceded.

As the fielder trotted over, beaming, I announced to the team my retirement from the game. They didn't take me seriously. They should have of course, because in came a huge man who - after prodding defensively at the next 3 balls - hit me for two sixes in a row.

Colman's lifetime figures. 1 over. 1 wicket. 12 runs conceded.

So I wasn't the Phil Tufnell I was hoping for, but that one moment of unexpected joy sums up my sporting career. I've never won trophies or medals, but I've always had a few great moments. Let me stress now, I haven't made any of these up, if I was going to do that they would be a lot more impressive.

Football
Asked by a bloke I drank with in Torquay if I'd fancy playing for The Kents Cavern pub, I sat on the bench in the first half before coming on at the start of the second. The game kicked off and a few passes later and our winger was bearing down on goal, but as he went to shoot he was tackled and the ball shot across the pitch straight into my path - first time shot, goal. In under 25 seconds on my debut. First touch of a ball.

Rugby
At school we had sports tops that were reversible. Red on one side, red with a big white stripe on the other. As we warmed up in a class v class match it started to rain, and when it came to kick off I realised I had to change my top. Sadly the rain had made the top so wet it was proving impossible and I had one arm in the top when the ball was punted forward straight to me. I caught it and, with just one arm in my top, somehow managed to sprint full pelt (I was 11) and beat the ENTIRE opposition team before touching down. All with one arm in my top.

Darts
My brother and I used to spend a lot of time playing darts, as it was a lot cheaper than pool (skinflints eh?). Usually our games of 301 took about 20 minutes, often getting down to a double 1 finish. Then one night I threw a treble 20, a treble 20 and, without hestitating, another treble 20. A 180. I leapt in the air whooping, so much so that a nearby dog went mental with fright - whilst my brother was on his back waving his hands in the air sharing the emotion. Yes, we had been drinking.

Golf
Well, pitch and putt. And this really isn't made up. The Three Hammers golf course in Wolverhampton runs alongside a dual carriageway. On one hole I sliced the tee shot, it flew off, hit a tree and pinged out through the hedge onto the road. There was an almighty crack as it clearly hit a car. Bricking it, I ran off the tee - sure that the next thing I would hear was a crash. I didn't. Instead I got to the green to find my ball sitting there. It had sliced, hit a tree, gone through hedge and hit a car at the exact angle and speed to put it back over the hedge and onto the green. I putted in for a birdie.

So those are my sporting triumphs. No, I've never won a cup (or that many games of anything really) but the mad highlights reel that plays in my mind has those few moments listed above and that's good enough for me.

Monday 19 July 2010

On wearing a kilt


I wore a kilt last weekend. Alright, plenty of you reading will find this an utterly common experience and half of you probably wear things like dresses and skirts all the time. I know for a fact two of the blokes reading this do. But as it was only my second time I thought it was worth talking about.

Anyway, it was my second Scottish wedding where I've worn a kilt. It wasn't a cunning survival plan to stop the Braveheart like masses tearing me to shreds - Englands performance in the World Cup has tempered the traditional north/south hatred. We're now all as bad as each other.

No, it was a choice thing. I wore a kilt a few years back and was thoroughly happy to do so. Here's a rundown on my kilt wearing information for those of you considering.

It's comfy..once it's on
I say comfy. By that I mean once you are strapped in. And that takes some time. Once the kilt is on, the dress shirt, the waistcoat, the socks, the shoes, the laces, the heroin needles, the metal belt, the shortbread, the deep-fried mars bar, the imitation plastic knife, the stock 'flashes', the sporran and the jacket. I had help from the wife this time, last time I did it on my own. It was like watching a laboratory mouse try to assemble an IKEA dressing table when he's been given the instruction manual for a 1982 Sony Walkman. But as I say, once you are in it's all very comfy. It holds you in place and makes you stand upright. And yes, the breeze is lovely.

Sporrans are cool
You can get more in a sporran than you think (no sniggering) - it's positively TARDIS like. But when you fumble for loose change you are aware that people might think you're doing something dirty. People will also hit your sporran (men and women). I think this is a custom, it could just be a way of warding off sexual predators.

Don't go to the toilet
Honestly. Hold it in. Whatever it is. To do one thing requires a lot of sporran rotation/kilt pleat holding. To do anything more than that requires a team of four, chicken wire and high powered magnets.

It stays with you long after you've finished
The kilt is a comfy thing, but you feel like you're still wearing it a day later such is the weight and tightness of the whole ensemble. It's like you've looked at a kilt shaped lightbulb all day and all you can now see is that silhoutte. But in muscular form.

I'll do it again
Sadly the chance of more Scottish weddings hangs with two cousins and at 10 and 14 they are still a little way off being married yet. But I guess I'm available for parties dressed like that, so maybe I'll get a gig doing Scots-a-grams.

Maybe not.

Friday 9 July 2010

Beating a bit of bully

I don't know quite why, but I started to think about bullying the other day. By that, I don't mean I intentionally laid out a five point plan to cause misery to people for their dinner money, more the topic of it and how I've encountered it over the years.

When I was at school I got bullied three times. Once at Primary school by a lad called Andrew who punched me in the arm because I told our teacher, a nun, that he stole some marbles. That sounds like the plot of a Roddy Doyle book, I know, but even at the age of five I clearly knew that the truth deserved telling despite the threat of violence. That and I could never lie to a nun.

At secondary school I often had to get the bus and that was the point at which I discovered 'the bigger boy' - a 15 year old called Mark who didn't like me for what seemed to be the sole reason that I asked the bus driver to drop me on the corner and not 50 yards along at the bus stop near Mark. He pushed my head against the window once, which is quite an achievement if you've ever since just how massive my noggin is. I think he stole my 12trip tickets, with 3 trips remaining, as well. I saw him about 10 years later on a moped near a job centre. Clearly he'd used up those 3 trips.

My favourite (if you can have such a thing) bit of bullying was from a boy called Ryan at secondary school. He was massive and regarded as an utter psycho. Thing was, his father was a bit of a crook and one summer he set fire to his own yacht as an insurance job. Ryan was alledgedly caught in the fire, breathed in smoke and it messed up his vocal chords. As a result he had to have an operation and wear a button on his throat. When he wanted to talk he had to press it, to press onto his vocal chords. It was like having a Bond villain in your class.

Anyway, one day he decided I needed a kicking and he chased me across a bit of the playing field, kicked my legs out from under me and pinned me to the floor, putting his legs astride my arms so I couldn't move (steady on, this isn't going anywhere funny.). However, to then threaten me he had to push the button his throat and tell me "I'M GOING TO BATTER YOU" but the fact he was out of breath meant his voice buzzed too much, like being attacked by R2D2 and I burst out laughing. That somehow put him off and he left.

Of course, that was silly old school days (happiest of your life apparantly) - since then I've met a few people at work who have been just as bad. One woman who went from boss to psycho in two minutes and never looked back, making my life a misery whenever she could. She's dead now of course. Of course she isn't. I haven't cut her brakes. Not yet. She's old anyway, and looks a lot like the villain in Terrahawks, so perhaps that's enough for me to know.

And remember - the way to deal with bullies is, of course, to stand up to them.

Either that or anvils.

Monday 14 June 2010

Sticks and stones

I've not got the stupidest name in the world. To have a stupid name you need to be in a haircare advert, you find people called Demetrius Pombo or Doutzen Krouze. It wasn't like that when I was young, we had Vosene and we were happy.

But my name has always caused minor issues. It's not stupid, it just isn't spelt like it sounds. If I had a pound for everytime it was spelt Coleman rather than Colman (no e) then I'd have £5,235. Sadly I'd probably get it in the form of a cheque made out to Mr Coleman and be unable to cash it.

As the years have gone by I've had various methods of explaining it to people. I used to say "Colman, as in the mustard" but as most people seem to buy supermarket mustard these days they look at you puzzled "what? as in wholegrain?". Latterly I've been saying "Colman, like a teetotal clubber - without an 'e'". But people just think you're mental.

Anyway, names is what I wanted to talk about, or rather the names I've been given over the years. Yes, contrary to my gentleman-thief-spy-bon-viveur appearance these days I wasn't the coolest cat at school. I developed early (stay with me), by that I mean I was the first person to have spots. So early on I was Pizzaface. Cruel, but then I did have large deposits of dough for cheeks, tomato coloured skin and pepperoni for eyes.

Then I developed dark rings around my eyes, I still have them. Instead of looking like some sort of superhero with a mask I got called Chi-Chi, after the giant panda in a Chinese zoo. Again it felt unfair, although I did get through a lot of bamboo and have no knowledge of reproduction at the time.

The good news that I've come through all these names with no real pyschological scars. In fact, I love pizzas, especially with sliced panda on top.

As I've got older, and people have been kinder, I've found that people called me TC a lot, mainly after the cartoon Top Cat. Fittingly, I even had a gang at the time. And lived in a bin, constantly thwarting the plans of the local police officer. No I didn't, that would be silly.

What's more silly, and why I shall never worry about my name, is that I've known plenty of people over the years who I am most glad I am not, simply because of their monickers. So thank to the following - Pat Mycock, Mustapha Arshed, Roger Boyes and Cliff Wanklyn (that last one always seems like an obscene extreme sport)- for making me feel normal.

Thursday 3 June 2010

Radioactive sausages in the glovebox

There are few things I'd like to do less than crashing to death on the motorway.

The wife's car developed an interesting fault the other day. If you went over 20mph and then tried to brake, as the car slowed down it also switched off. Completely. Yes, you can be doing 70mph on the motorway, come down the sliproad and before you've reached the end of it the whole car can go dead. Shortly followed by you.

It was like a low budget British version of Speed only without bombs, buses or Ted from Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure (and if you don't know these films - please do see them, they are great).

There were three main solutions to the problem:

1 - once travelling over 20mph, don't stop.
2 - do number 1 and crash the car, claim the insurance
3 - get it repaired

Call me old fashioned, but we went for the third option. So I drove the car the 2 miles to the garage, pausing only for the 11 times it stalled. I must have really annoyed the people behind me. Good, some of them were BMW drivers.

I left the car in on Tuesday and had a phonecall on the Wednesday. I knew it was going to be costly when the garage man started with. "Morning Mr Colman. How are you today?". In asking for my state of mind he was clearly looking for me to say something that would indicate how I might take bad/expensive news.

Perhaps I should have said "Not good, I've just been made bankrupt" and he would have taken pity on me. I didn't and he broke the bad news, £800 worth of bad news. Seems the engine was, erm, the linking things were..oh I don't know, it could have been radioactive sausages in the glovebox for all I care. Expensive radioactive sausages at that of course.

I went back to the garage today to pick up a courtesy car whilst the sausages/engine/whatever was being repaired. I imagined as I walked in that the man who ran the place would be wearing a crown whilst the mechanics drank champagne off the back of my expense. They weren't of course. It was Prosecco.

Still, at least it can be repaired. When the engine literally fell out of another car on a motorway the repair bill cost twice what the car was worth. So I got it towed to a nearby garage, ordered it to be scrapped and got hammered on cheap lager at a snowdome in Tamworth waiting for a lift.

And that, I can assure you, is one of those few things worse than crashing on the motorway and dying.

Wednesday 2 June 2010

The 98% rule

When I was young I believed a lot of things. I believed that the programme Manimal, about a doctor who could change into different animals at will, was possible. I believed that playing Laserquest in a lime-green shellsuit was a good idea. And I believed that the majority of people were nice.

That last one, I’ve learned over the years, is the only one that I really got wrong and instead I have the 98% rule. The 98% rule, formulated by me, my best friend and a lot of booze basically says this.

Of all the people you meet, only around 2% are worth bothering about. The other 98% aint.

That might seem a rather cynical viewpoint, but I urge you to think about it in a positive way. There’s so many people out there who can’t wait to argue with you, punch you, stab you in the back, nick your spare change, kick you in the balls or just run off with your favourite video and never return it – there’s so many of them that you should just accept it. Accept that 98% of the people in the world are simply not worth getting upset over. Most people will let you down – get used to it and minimise those people from your life.

Instead, focus on those 2%, the ones that make you laugh, lend you a pair of trousers, cover for you, remember that you like cola bottles, read your work and generally make your life a bit better. If you focus on them more you can get so much more out of life, I guarantee you. In fact, go to your social network page now and look through those ‘friends’ who just wanted to be added for no real reason – and get rid of them, your life won’t be any worse. Similarly, if you’re reading this and don’t know why you really know me, then get rid of me.

So after 6 months of blogging is this my mantra? My manifesto? Obviously it hasn’t had enough hilarious lines in, it’s something approaching me being serious for a change (I’m not dying, don’t worry) and if the 98% rule helps you understand me a little better then great.

Monday 17 May 2010

Josh Homme, Bill Paxton and me

So, today is my birthday, well it has been for the last 17 minutes. I know I wasn't born bang on midnight but the rules of birthdays are that you celebrate from the first second of the day in question. It's quite odd.

Anyway, I thought I would reflect on the good/bad birthday experiences of my life. So here are the five most memorable birthdays for me:

5 years old (I think)
Birthday party at 8 St Margarets Close, Torquay. As with most people at that age there were about 4,324 people there (you make a lot of friends when you are 5) and my best present was a brand new tent. It was my camping phase (no laughing at the back). Anyway, why can I remember this so much? Because Louise Godfrey fell over a guide rope into the tent and broke it. I'm sure Bear Grylls never had to put up with this.

12 years old
1987, my birthday was on a Saturday. I got a Spectrum 128 computer (brilliant) and Coventry won the FA Cup. My birthday treat though was saved for the next day - a trip to Torquay's English Riviera Centre, freshly opened. For the first time in 20 years Torquay had a new swimming pool and this one had a water slide. And a wave machine. Brilliant. Except it was so popular we had to queue for an hour and it was so busy the wave machine was just a mechanism to be smashed into other people. We only got half an hour too, stupid coloured wristband system...

13 years old
What do you give a boy obsessed with his Spectrum 128 computer (told you it was brilliant) - you give into his demands to see some 'Medieval Jousting' the other side of Paignton. I imagined speedy men on steeds, Ivanhoe style spearing and perhaps a few severed limbs. Instead it was a second rate circus with one man on a horse and a couple of blokes who clearly wanted to be shakespearean actors but might have been on The Bill once hitting each other with wood.

27 years old
I went to see The Mummy Returns at Halifax's only cinema, on my own. There were four people there, and three of them worked in the cinema. Not the best

29 years old
Woke up in Wolverhampton after massive boozing and curry session. Drove to Halifax where I got changed and drove to Ilkely for a job interview (highlight was the girl interviewing me saying - "It's great working here - there's no pension, but every Friday you get free fruit". Drove to work to find out the flight I had booked to Edinburgh was for 7am, not pm. Had flight rescheduled and got to Manchester airport far too early. Sat in 1st class lounge with unlimited booze for an hour. Got on plane where I told them it was my birthday, got more free booze, landed in Edinburgh and got to hotel. Had more booze. Met up with film crew I was filming with. Had a drink.

Up to now this just sounds like the story of a man getting utterly trollied. But all that drinking gave me the courage to chat to the girl I had been thinking about for the many years since I had met her one day in Edinburgh. Gave me the the courage to tell her how beautiful she was. Gave me the courage to kiss her.

And that was the girl who this very moment is telling me that I can't go in the kitchen and peek at my presents. Yep, I kissed my wife for the first time on my birthday. And no matter what is sitting in the kitchen at the moment (no, I'm not peeking) it can't ever be as good as that.

Unless it's Buckaroo of course.

Thursday 15 April 2010

Something to smile about


It's been a rather harrowing week as one of our cats, Mr Seth, has been in and out of the vets. Poor little fella has had real problems breathing and we had to rush him to emergency vets on Sunday night and then have more blood tests yesterday.

The good news is that he seems to be doing much better and the frightening wheeze he had has gone. He does have little shaved bits on his legs where they had to take his blood though - he looks like an advert for Immac (or Veet, as it's now known).

I can now look back on that quite distressing night in the emergency vets to say that for once I was able to get through something horrid with a classic funny moment.

Whilst we were there a man came in to collect a lost dog. However 10 minutes later another man, furious, turned up saying it was his dog and he wanted the police involved. Thankfully the police had already been called as the furious man was a known local loon and had rung before coming down.

And in amongst all that, all I could think of was that at any point the policeman should have just said "Lost dog? I'm sorry, we simply don't have any leads".

That gag kept me going inside for quite some time. I love when you can actually do jokes that you've only ever read in Children's jokebooks. I once managed, in a geography lesson at school, to have the following exchange with my grumpy teacher.

Teacher - What came after the bronze age?
Me - Was is the saus-age?

Even he laughed.

Anway, I've just shared those poor quality gags with you and with Seth, who is on his cushion next to me. He either doesn't get it or really couldn't care.

Doesn't matter to me, as long as the little fella is here I'll always have something to smile about.

Monday 12 April 2010

Wooaahhhh...my mouth is on fire

Yes, you are supposed to read that headline in a Kings of Leon style.

I like my takeaway/restaurant food. You'd know that if you've ever met me, or phoned me after I've just done something strenous like get up from the sofa or lick a stamp. Alright, I need to lose some weight, I know. I'll get round that that in a minute, just after tea in fact.

Pizza is great, especially as if I ever see a sign for, or order from, Dominos I feel the need to sing in a Latin style "PIZZZUSS.....DOMINUS", like it was dramatic choral music from a Dan Brown story. That's what gluttony coupled with a Catholic upbringing will do for you.

Having lived in the Midlands and the North however, I'm a curry fiend. Last weekend I was out in Scotchland with my lovely wife and some chums on Saturday and they suggested we go to their fave local currey house. Being the big man that I am I decided to go for a Chicken Madras. Hot, yes, but normally not anything too severe.

Good lord was I wrong.

Seems this curry house have mislabelled their food somewhat. Where it said "Chicken Madras - Medium Hot/Hot" it should have said "Chicken Madras - You know that thing that the Terminator in Terminator 2 kills himself in, you know, the molten metal, it's basically that.". I'm suprised the chicken was able to remain whole. The waiter should have had a welder's mask on as he brought it. And hands made from asbestos.

After 4-5 mouthfuls I had downed an entire pint of very cold lager and was using the edge of a poppadom to scrape my tongue to remove traces of the devil's curry. I sweated so much I had to use a bit of naan bread to mop my brow. And everytime I tried to laugh it off it felt like my eyes were being heated from the inside with 78 seperate bunsen burners.

I could still feel it as we left the establishment. Thankfully for the future of my mouth, and my lust for food, there was a nearby ice-cream shop still open (this is Scotland, that's how they roll) and a few big scoops of mint-chocolate chip sorted me out. They should use that stuff to stop forest fires frankly.

So in short, yes, the curry was too hot. Either that or I am an utter girl. And a big one at that.

Thursday 8 April 2010

Argggh! It's a crisis! Don't panic.

I went on a crisis communications course the other week. It was in London and, amusingly, I was late due to the fact there was a security alert on the train I was travelling on. For a minute I thought it might have been part of the course - in which case I was very impressed with the 70 odd actors and stunt train that must have taken ages to set up. Yelling "I know you are all actors, you can stop pretending" was a possibilty, but I held off just in case it was just coincidence.

Anyway, the course itself was where you are given a crisis situation and you have to work out how you would communicate it. The case study was of an explosion outside our offices in Leeds. Of course, an explosion in some parts of Leeds could be very significant - causing millions of pounds worth of improvements.

They kept adding in more detail and heresay and gossip in the form of emails and phonecalls and we had to keep our head. In the end it turned out the whole thing was done by terrorists who worked for our company. My idea that it might have ended with the villain being the helicopter flying, parachute trained priest who then becomes Pope was clearly not the right outcome. It is the main thrust of Dan Brown's Demons and Angels though - and that's all you need to know about that film.

Of course 'crisis' means a lot of things to a lot of people. On the train on the way back I thought up some other possible crissisis, crisees, crisi..oh, you get it, and the main ones I came up with were running out of toilet paper, bacon fries being banned and Myleene Klass turning out to be immortal.

What I did also remember was a crisis communications exercise that formed part of a job interview I had. I was given a situation where I was told 'ok, the company pay roll hasn't run - what do you do' and had to justify my decisions. The only thing was that they kept making it more difficult, to the point where it just got silly. Sample conversation from that interview

Them - OK, so you've done your intranet story, but you need to let HR know.
Me - Right, I've sent a mail to them and all the relevant people
Them - Ah, but email has just gone done and you don't know if they've got it
Me - OK, I'll ring them on the phone
Them - They aren't answering
Me - I'll walk round and see them
Them - They're not in
Me - I'll talk to people who work with them and find out where they are
Them - The person you need to speak to is dead


It was at that point I actually burst out laughing, which is never good in an interview. It was also the point at which I realised I didn't want to work for a company who had recruiters who asked such stupid questions. Fortunate I didn't work for them in the end, their offices were destroyed the following week when Mecha-Godzilla trashed it due to not getting paid.

In closing I can say this. In a crisis, get a megaphone. Get your mate to then drive you around the roads you live yelling 'DON'T PANIC' at loud volume. You'll get noticed just like we did, but mainly by the police...

Monday 29 March 2010

Loss

I didn't know it was British Summertime this weekend until I read it in the paper on Saturday. It always takes me by surprise and is usually accompanied by the 3 seconds of thinking "is it the good one? The one where we get an extra hour in bed?" followed by the realisation that, no, it's the one that robs us of an hour from the weekend. It's effectively a tax on summer.

My mate Rusty had a great idea this weekend. It seems we've all been forced to give up this hour at the weekend, in our own time so why don't we just move it. Instead of losing an hour on Sunday morning, we should just all take the hour forward at about 3pm on the Friday. Imagine that. One minute it's 2.59pm, the next it's 4pm and just about the weekend.

It would probably cost the economy £10bn or something, but surely it would be worth it just for that extra hour. Plus it would really screw people's heads on a Friday afternoon and probably make Outlook's Calendar explode.

I should point out now, this idea may have been fuelled by a lot of booze, so may not have been properly thought through. Other ideas that have been come up with in the same way include - cars made of foam rubber that means people never die in car accidents, humans evolving their hands into remote controls for TVs and/or their fingers as cutley and the idea that if everyone had to wear hats, it would solve virtually all the problems in the world. If you'd like to know more about these then please consume 8 units of alcohol first and meet me by the quiz machine.

The final part of this story was that I did get the benefit of the extra hour in the end The missus updated her phone, putting it on an hour herself, but the phone clearly also did it itself at some point. So when her phone alarm went off at 7.30am it was actually 6.30am. Take that BST.

Monday 22 March 2010

Keeping up with the I-joneses

I love my tech. Heck, I still love ceefax (tesco value internet I call it). But new tech, like the phone I am blogging on now, tickles me like I'm Elmo (sesame street, not Brush Strokes). I love the fact I can write this nonsense whilst sitting in a hotel foyer where, I'm pretty sure, the England ladies football team are currently meeting.

My tech allows me to can check film times in Truro (amazing eh - a cinema in Cornwall) or get a recipe suggestion just by putting in the ingredients (ham, cheese, bread - ah, coq au vin). So I should be all very happy shouldn't I thankyouvermuch.

Except all these whizzbang things need taking care of. My iphone is also my ipod and has the facility to show the album cover of the music you are listening to. But my image library was sparse, so the nice little disply was full of blanks.

So I manually added the covers. I started at 10.30pm on Saturday night and by 1.45am Sunday morning had to give up. Partly because I had run out of beer to keep me going but mainly because my eyes felt like they'd had salted peanuts rubbed in them.

I finally finished my album cover odyssey at some point on Sunday afternoon and was able to happily flick through the entire collection in a nice OCD manner for some time. That was after I bought a new protective cover for the phone. Oh, and for the screen. And sorted the charger. And arranged the wi-fi. By which point it was next thursday.

Honestly, it's like having a child. Only you can put them in the drawer and forget about them if you want to, but without social services getting involved. Oh and they have built-in GPS - the tech, not the children. Saying that perhaps that's the next thing wifi-gps-4g kids. Start queuing for them now.

Friday 12 March 2010

Sex and violins

Because i'm an evil planet destroying type I drive a car. Actually, I mainly do it because it's handy, easy and relatively inexpensive. The planet destruction is just an added bonus.

This week though I've been back to various forms of public transport. Car in for MOT meant the bus yesterday, and on wednesday a meeting was easier to get to on the train rather than drive.

As a student, and a man with very little money, I used to live on public transport. I knew bus numbers, I recognised fellow passengers and I never stood forward of 'this line' or distracted the driver. And it was fun at times. Mainly beacause of the things that you observe. Here's my top 5 "lack of my own car" moments

5.I fell asleep regularly on my commute from Torquay to Exeter on the train. One morning I fell asleep 2 minutes into the 40 minute journey and woke up as the train was pulling into the right station. Well, I woke up. My left leg didnt. I'd been sitting funny and it was completely numb and asleep. I managed to limp at high speed to the train door where I then foolishly led with said leg. I fell straight out onto the platform where I had to be helped up by people who clearly thought I had a serious motor condition.

4.Getting on a bus in Nottingham with my chum Daive who said to the grumpy bus driver. "Are you going to the city centre". "Yes". "Can we come with you?". Putting it that way seemed so much nicer.

3.A violin once dropped out of the overhead rack on a train and hit me full on the head. No more explanation needed really.

2.I've mentioned this before, but I nearly got arrested at Birmingham New Street as a student. I dropped a bag that had the processed ham from M&S that was the staple part of my diet at Uni. Sadly the bag fell onto the tracks under the stopped train. So I lay down on the floor to reach under the train to get my bag. Within 10 seconds I was being hauled up by British Transport Police who were convinced I was trying to kill myself. Thank the lord this was the early 90's - these days I'd be in a terrorist prison. The Ham bomber they'd have called me. Porksploder. Or something.

1. This is utterly true, and whilst it's not strictly public transport it's worth telling. Again in Nottingham, me and 4 friends were waiting for a bus on a saturday night. A people carrier/taxi pulled up and asked us if we wanted to go into town. It was a big new people carrier and it wouldn't cost much so we agreed. Inside it was filled with TV screens and 30 seconds into the journey the driver said "You chaps will like this", pressed a button and the screens switched on displaying 8 women indulding in hardcore pornography with a whole manner of household objects. The longest 10 minutes of our lives, each of us sitting in the 'porn taxi' open mouthed wondering quite why this taxi driver thought we'd enjoy it. Sometimes I struggle to believe it really happened. "You chaps will like this"? If we were sex offenders, perhaps.

Friday 26 February 2010

On toilets

If you're of a nervous disposition, or don't want to acknowledge that we all have to go to the toilet, then stop reading. Not that it's going to be in any way filthy, I'm here to talk about the wonderful toilet experiences there are.

No, that sounds wrong. Let me start again.

Public toilets are funny things. I'm inspired because we moved desks at work recently and we have brand new toilets to go to. Listen, in my world that's exciting. It's also important, as we spend a lot of our time in the toilet and I need to know I'm safe. My brother always says "You can always tell where your true home is by the toilet you picture when you need to go." Try saying that next time you're in court and asked to confirm your address.

Anyway, a few observations about toilets that may (or more likely may not) interest you.

The trapped man
In our new toilets there are two stalls. And the times i've been in there so far the first stall is always locked. I'm now thinking that it's the same bloke in there all the time and he's become trapped. I struggle not to laugh at that concept everytime I go in the toilet. And laughing in the toilet is not considered good...

Toilet etiquette

This is something that men understand and women should know. Basically in a gents toilet if there are urinals and they are free you should always ensure that you have left at least one urinal space free. i.e. if there are 3 urinals, you go to the nearest or furthest. This then allows any stranger coming in to take up a urinal with an acceptable gap. If someone else then comes in they can use the middle urinal as they are forced into that position - it is not of their choice - thus making it a neccessity. Ask any bloke and he'll confirm most of this.

The Avengers theme tune
I was once in a toilet where someones phone went off in a stall. It played the entire soundtrack from The Avengers. He made no attempt to turn it off. Seriously. Go to youtube and listen to the music and tell me at which point you might think "Hang on, this bombastic brass and strings spy theme really doesn't go with the location I'm in."

Pyschic cleaners
Here. At work. Everytime I want to go. The cleaners are there and it's closed. I have an extra 3 minute walk to the next one...and they are also being cleaned. I'm getting paranoid.

Toilet roll practical joke invention

The only invention I've ever come up with that I could go on Dragon's Den with is a toilet roll that looks like it's full but when they tug on the paper only one piece comes off and the toilet roll turns out to be plastic or explodes or something. Once I can get the right backing from Theo Paphitis I'll be home free.

There you go - hope that wasn't too grimy for you. Now, wash your hands.

Monday 8 February 2010

Walk a mile in my brain

There's an old saying that goes. "Before you criticise someone, walk a mile in their shoes". Great advice of course, especially if you are a shoe thief.

In a similar way I'd like to invite you into my head. Yes, come on in - there's plenty of room (MEGALOL etc.) Seriously though, I started having a think about how I view things and how my brain works, and I thought it worth sharing.

Here's how it works, answer a, b or c and then tot up for the end score. It's like a Facebook quiz, only with adding up at the end.

1. You are in an office and someone is packing their belongings into a large crate with the word 'Rentacrates' on the side. Does your brain say:


(a) Oh, they must be leaving
(b) I wonder where they are going
(c) That person must be a Greek man called Rentacrates (as in Socrates) who lives in a crate and has his name emblazoned on the side.

2. You are driving down an industrial estate and see the head offices for Sara Lee Cakes and McAfee Computer Viruses. How do you picture the insides of the building?

(a) Modern, fresh offices.
(b) Lots of computers, probably quite swish
(c) The Sarah Lee head office is made of icing and sponge with people covered in sprinkles. Meanwhile McAffee employers are wearing haz-med suits running round with nets trying to catch giant monstrous versions of viruses

3. You see the sign 'Dogs must be carried on the escalator'. What's the first thing you think?

(a) I don't have a dog, so not to worry
(b) Good sensible safety advice
(c) They must be carried? Does that mean I must get a dog before I am allowed travel on one? Where am I going to get at dog from in Next? That's just crazy

4.When someone asks for 'the bill' in a restaurant, what do you say?

(a) "How much do I owe?"
(b) "It's ok, I'll get this"
(c) "Do we really need to get the police involved?"

5. You see a dog in the street. As you walk by do you:

(a) Pat its head
(b) Avoid it
(c) Do a pretend dog voice, a bit like Tommy Cooper, and pretend it said the words you just said in the voice

Right. Tot up your scores.

Mostly (a) or (b), be thankful and sleep soundly. Mostly (c), welcome to my head, please make yourself at home.

Thursday 28 January 2010

He's in here, the perv

I've spent the last two days on the road. No, not literally lying across the tarmac (although I did do that whilst once very drunk in Greece) I've been up and down the country and managed nearly 900 miles in around 36 hours.

That means my average mph since yesterday at 9am has been around 25 miles an hour, and that includes sleeping and standing still. Scary.

Anyway, along the way I amuse myself with the radio, music, podcasts, crunching up 5 extra strong mints and swigging a mouth of ice cold water (try it, it's like a cold version of poppers). But sometimes I get the amusement laid on for me by the general public and the things they write on the back's of dirty lorries and vans.

The last 36 hours have been particuarly good. Here's my faves that I saw

SLAP MY TOP...you goblin - you've probably seen Slap My Top before. Apparantly it comes from a radio 2 DJ. For me it's a nice familiar sight, what I enjoyed the most was the addition of 'you goblin'. No sense at all, perfect.

I wish my wife was this dirty....she it! - another common one (example right) but this time someone with the simple job of adding 'she is' gets it wrong. Unless his wife is Information Technlogy of course, in which case it should be IT in capitals.

He's in here, the perv - funny at the best of times, but this was adorned on the back of a Group 4 truck that carriers prisoners. They even drew an arrow pointing to the door and had drawn an extra handle in the dirt too (either to facilitate the escape of the perv or add an extra layer of security - I couldn't decided). Nice one. Although I hope he has been proved a perv and this isn't just slander.

LOL - seriously, in 4 foot high letters. I did, by the way.

So thanks to the British public and their now dirty fingers, you do make the hours pass a lot more enjoyable then any amount of Radio 1 ever could.

Monday 25 January 2010

What me? Worry?

I caught about 14 seconds of one of those 'Should I worry about...' programmes on telly the other day. If you're not aware of them, they were made about 5 years ago and feature Richard Hammond asking various experts 'Should I worry about..." stuff like drinking too much, eating too much, punching yourself repeatedly in the face with a potato masher, that kind of thing. Ironically they never did one called 'Should I worry about the safety of BBC planned rocket powered car events' - I guess the title was just too long.

Anyway I wasn't disturbed by the programme but it did immediately set off the other worries that inhabit my brain like unwelcome drunks at a wedding reception. Always lurking there, waiting to just stumble onto the dancefloor and make a mess

I've talked before about the things in my head I struggle not to say, for fear of offending people, but these are the thoughts that just stay there and tell me to worry about the most trivial things.

I worry that the car will need new tyres everytime I drive it I worry that people don't believe I don't drink tea or coffee. I worry that the slide in standards of punctuation is in someway a crime that I only want to fight. I worry that I don't know if it's pronounced Tesco or Tescos. I worry about stupid stuff. So much so that I don't tend to worry about the big things like death, mortgages, the fact that Paddy McGuinness is considered 'an entertainer' So perhaps my little worries aren't so much to, well, worry about if they are keeping these other ones at bay.

Although saying that, I'm now worried that they aren't. And I'm worried that this blog won't ever end unless I just cut it right here and now.

Although now I'm worried I should have written more.

I'll stop now before I start worrying you'll come round and batter me to death for this type of nonsense.

Tuesday 12 January 2010

Crisps, nuts and seriously ill children blowing up power stations.

I was talking to my good friend Rusty the other day. Despite the fact he has the memory of a goldfish he can remember stuff from the 1980s, which is good. Anything from the last week, no chance. But 20 years ago? Yep. Anyway, it got us talking about 'how things were different' and we clearly felt old.

As a result it set me thinking about times past and stuff you just don't see these days. I'm not going to go into all the usual Channel 4's The 100 best things from the 1980's (Del Boy falling through the bar etc.) but just a few examples that stick in my mind.

Seriously ill children blowing up power stations

This used to happen a lot. Always one of the last items on the news where some child with a life-threatening illness was allowed to push down the plunger that set off explosives that blew up chimneys, decommissioned power stations, blocks of flats, Coventry, that sort of thing. Seriously, this used to happen every other week back in the 1980s', and now you just don't hear about it.

I doubt we ran out of sick children, so was it the buildings we ran out of? Did the kids go too far and start blowing up stuff they shouldn't have been? Or was it when the traditional explosive plunger got replaced with a button. It just didn't look the same so wasn't worth covering? It needs bringing back. Get Justin Lee Collins working on a show called "Bring Back Sick Kids Blowing Up Powerstations" and put him in the first one they blow up. I'd watch.

I'll conclude by saying 1980's - knife crime non existent, 2000's - hoodie stabbers everywhere. It must be the lack of controlled demolition by the ill youth.

Peanut Pornography

That phrase seems just wrong. But it's legitimate I promise you. Basicially if you went in a pub and wanted peanuts, specifically 'Big D' peanuts they would be on display high up on a wall. Why on such high display? Because the peanuts were secured on a card background with a topless lady pictured. The more nuts you bought, the more the lady was revealed. Normally she was topless in a place like a barn or a garage or Coventry.

It would take about 32 packets to reveal the full image and most pubs uncovered it from top to bottom so half way through you would unveil the main nakedness. Rarely did any landlord put up a new pack and remove the two packs that were over the breasts, else it would have left a picture of two breasts surrounded by 30 packets of peanuts.

Anyway, this was the 1980's so it was fine. I just tried explaining this to someone born in 1984 and he swore I was making it up. When I said "Big D" he believed me even less.

Oh, apparantly some little pubs still do this and the more modern ones are tasteful. The picture, not the nuts - Big D taste horrid.

Cheese and Onion crisps

You're thinking I've gone mad. Of course Cheese and Onion still exist Tim, you clearly haven't been looking out enough.

Oh they exist. In packets. In blue packets. Blue.

For some of you that won't mean a thing, but for me and my generation we always knew that Cheese and Onion crisps were in green packets - always were. Golden Wonder made them and the packet was green. Then, at some point, Walkers came along with blue packaging and before we knew it the traditional crisp packet for Cheese and Onion became blue. And we can never pinpoint the moment it happened, the tipping point. But it must have happened. Even in Coventry.

I know that these days smaller crisps still hold onto green for Cheese and Onion, but the biggest selling crisps are Walkers Cheese and Onion and they are blue.

But here's the thing. Neither Cheese nor Onion were green anyway were they? Onions tend to be red or white and cheese is mainly yellow or white or sometimes red. But sometimes Cheese is blue. So perhaps Walkers have corrected a mistake?

Anyway, I miss having crisps in a green packet. And I'd like them back please.

Thursday 7 January 2010

Toe-day is the greatest day

In the realms of illness I have, touch wood, never had much to complain about. Most of my ailments have been decidedly middle-class and that goes for the ridiculous tale of the toenail on the big toe of my left foot (there's the name for a book).

Today I can finally put that to bed, because today at 12.31pm my podiatrist 'signed off' my toe as fixed. That might not seem a big thing, but considering this fella has been dogging me since May 2006 I feel like dancing with delight. Dancing being something I can do now, rather than hobbling round like Herr Flick from Allo Allo.

I banged the toe in the pool on my honeymoon and since then I've been having treatment, on and off, for three and half years. That's, like, 1270 sleeps. That's longer than a 'serious' relationship. It's nearly the distance between two world cups, a period of time any man will tell you is FAR TOO LONG.

And it's been painful. Ooh. Like you wouldn't believe. Like someone sticking a little nail in your foot and jiggling it whenever you moved. And laughing at you. Stupid thing. Seriously, If I wanted that sort pf constant irritation I'd buy a boxset of Myleene Klass presenting on TV.

I reckon it's cost me the best part of £500 from check ups and bandages to . £500? I could have had a surround sound system for that. Or one hell of a night out.

Anyway, there's no point harping on about it, because it's fixed. It's done and as my podiatrist said so nicely to me "Hope not to see you again soon."

Toe-riffic.

Monday 4 January 2010

Booze smooze

I'm off the booze.

Honest. I haven't touched any this year. This decade even. Now, that might sound a little trite considering it's only January 4th. It's up there with the old school gag of when people say "what are you giving up for New Year" and you say "School". And you all laugh for 13 minutes. Before getting a C in A-Level Politics.

Anyway, it's probably because me and the wife have both been ill rather than a sheer 4 day display of will power, but I'm quite enjoying the clarity it brings to my health. By that, it means I can no longer blame booze on feeling ropy in the morning, or smelling odd, or whatever it was I was excusing. Now I have to deal with the real me, the non-alco-pop me. I've even kept two cans (not toucans, no) of Fosters in the fridge almost as a tease to myself - and it seems to be working.

There is a serious point to this. A few years back I had a blood test and the doctor said 'oh, everything is fine, apart from something in your liver - you'll be fine as long as you don't drink stuff like whisky'. I went home and poured away the two bottles I'd been given as a leaving present from a job at that point. It put the willies up me - and not much does that. Apart from the woodbeast in Flash Gordon of course..

I'm not sure i'm on the wagon for good, but that I'll save drinking for special occasions such as birthdays, holidays and seeing old friends - rather than days which have the letter 'y' in them. Of course, without the effect of booze in my life I'd never have such great memories as these - all events helped along by alcohol.

1.Punching a plate glass window into my friends face.
2.Wanging a full pint of beer out the door of a hotel because another one had arrived to take it's place.
3.Dancing to Jason Nevins vs RUN DMC and saying 'ooh, this is really good'
4.Claiming, on live radio, that Robbie Williams had been shot dead during an interview with a prospective politician.
5.Hanging sausages on threads outside people's doors so that when they came out of their room they walked into a seemingly levitating sausage


Of course, there's probably a lot more than that. I just can't seem to remember them.