Three things I noticed at lunch today

I had lunch today. Blimey, that's a thrilling start to a blog isn't it? Never mind your "Call me Ishmael" or "The sweat was lashing off of Sick Boy" nope, "I had lunch today" is the way to go.

I only bring it up, the point - not the lunch, because I rarely get away from my desk for lunchtime. I've taken to bringing in crackers and cheese recently and reading the internet, so I don't tend to walk round the office building. Today I did, and thank goodness for that, because three different things happened that I could then tell you about (beckons the reader closer with hand in comedy 'let me share a secret' mime).

1. Men. This is a fact. If you use your mobile phone while standing at a urinal, you just look like you are trying to take a picture of your own penis. Fact. Businessman in suit today, happily 'multi-tasking' next to me, just looks like a perv. I'm not the perv, by the way - in case it looks like that.

I'm sure it's very innocent, but doing what you do also implies that you only need one hand to - as it were - steady the ship. If there were women in the toilet, you wouldn't be impressing them. Actually, if there were women in the toilet, you're probably in the wrong toilet.

2. Women. Get your purse ready. Queing to buy a newspaper, so I could have something to read at lunchtime, the woman in front took about 60 seconds to get the 47p she needed to pay for the transaction.

Now, I know purses/wallets can be a bit tricky, but it was the fact the woman had to wait to be told how much her purchase was, before she then decided to get her purse out of the bag, opened, coins rattled through and selected, before she actually paid. To be honest, most shops to tend to expect you to pay at the end, so don't appear to be surprised - as if they would chalk it up on a tab for you. Bartering for goods, using livestock as capital, isn't the done thing anymore.

3.Everyone. Doesn't matter who you are, you cannot fail to be intrigued by one of the greatest statements I've ever heard. Passing people having a clearly very important meeting, one chap said - with the straightest of all faces, and with utter seriousness - "In this climate, sausages are more important than ever." Single-handledly the funniest and most intriguging thing I've heard in ages. Financial climate? Cold climate? Why are they so important? What are they NOT telling us about sausages, that makes them so darned crucial. I expect a full ITV1 expose before the week is out. Either that or a lovely hot-dog.

Anyway, that was my lunchtime, thank you random people I saw - you were delicious.

Thank you. Idiots.

Just for clarification, the title refers to two seperate things.

First up, the thank you bit. Thank you to the many people who got in touch about the return of this blog (I sound like Points of View) and said such nice things as:

- You've spelt something wrong
- That really wasn't about anything that blog, was it?
- Yeah, what the second bullet said

Still, it did the job. Like slipping your extremities into a hot bath first (toes, in case you were worried) it's got me acclimatised to writing again.

It also inspired me to blag a blogging gig with www.whatculture.com - a rather splendid website covering film, tv, gaming, music, memory loss, sport and memory loss. The startling news was that the first blog I posted there got just over 10,000 hits in two days. I even got nice comments from strangers, not a single mention of a lack of content or speelling errurs.

I'd love to show you more, but as I write the entire site appears to have gone down. I have that effect on websites.

Now, the idiots bit. Principally dealing with idiots on the phone. I was inspired by a brilliant story today that someone told me about working on a customer service line and getting a call from a customer complaining that the disposable barbecue they had bought had no meat with it. When it was explained that the picture of meat on the front was for illustration purposes the caller said "That explains why it was so cheap. I'd better go and take the other one out of the freezer."

Lovely stuff, I was surprised they didn't complain that the fire wasn't actually included either

The phone is a wonderful way of introducing you to idiots. In the past I've told you how we used to get phonecalls at home asking if we were 'The Chicken Cafe' (we weren't) but recently I've been getting a lot of phonecalls from a company desperate to offer me 'Gas Futures' - which I believe are a nonsense financial investment.

Now, were it the other way round, offering me 'Future Gases' I'd be interested (perhaps a gas that can make your eyes go spirally, and reverse gravity - I'd be up for that.) but I'm led to believe that these people - shock - just want my money. At first, I was slightly angry, but then I decided that if they thought I was a fool who could be parted from his money, I'd get some fun out of it. So far I've dealt with the calls in the following manner:

1st call - I hung up, wasn't falling for that

2nd call - Half recognising the number, I did my usual way of screening calls - I pretended to be my own answer phone (I'm very convincing at this, I even dothe beep). They hung up.

3rd call - Now knowing the number I put on a high-pitched voice and pretended to be my own secretary. This time they talked for a while asking if I could call them back.

4th call - Secretary again. Mr Colman was in a meeting and then playing backgammon (I genuinely said that without laughing) they left the message again.

5th call - Answered in the poshest voice I could manage and kept using the phrase 'This is splendid, you must tell me more' before pretending the phone wasn't working by saying "I am not receving you. Can you hear me?" three times before hanging up on them.

6th call - Secretary. Mr Colman in another meeting, then his weekly game of of Yahtzee.

7th call - I pretended the phone was cutting out, by missing out every third word when I talked to them. The bloke manfully tried to give me info, but we both knew it wasn't going to work

That's as far as I got. I'm eagerly awaiting the next call because I might tell them that I'm dead, and that - ironically - it was in an explosion involving a future gas.

I do hope they call soon. Idiots.

Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?

And we're back.

Yes, a brief look at the site history will confirm I haven't written anything here since May. There're are plenty of reasons. For one, I've been doing stuff elsewhere that I'm not able to post online at the mo (that sounded exciting and mysterious in my head, written down I sound like I've been recording a martyrdom tape).

Another reason, soppy as it is, was that whenever I've had a mo to visit this site I see the last blog about the dearly departed Mr Seth and don't want to go any further. Yes, it's just a cat, but if my absence on this page tells you anything, it's just how much that bundle of love meant to me.

And I assumed that, as I wasn't coming here then no-one else was. Until I stumbled across the stats page of the site, that I didn't even know existed. Someone's been here. Quite a few different someones in fact. This blog has had about 300 hits in the last few months. Different users it seems too. Who the ruddy hell is that? Have people run out of internet to read? Someone suggested it was 'internet robots' which either means (a) automated search engines or (b) ACTUAL ROBOTS, PROBABLY TIME TRAVELLING ONES.

I'm sure I should feel honoured, but instead It's quite disconcerting to find people on my turf when they've no reason to be.

So the only remedy is to start writing again, which I will, that and welcome anyone to the site who hasn't come along before. Seriously, pop your shoes off, pull up a chair, here's a Tabboo and Lemonade. And if you need somewhere to start then, according to the stats, some of the most popular blogs on the site include

Roger Moore and the IKEA tiger - Particularly enjoyable when compared with the recent genius of Skyfall

Sausages don't say Phwoar - The stupidity of self proclaimed ideal Christmas presents

Farewell friends - How not to feel bad about defriending people on facebook

Beating a bit of bully - Advice on dealing with idiots, which involves the use of anvils

Timolsky in need - If just to look at my legs in tights

See you soon, whoever you are.

A cat's life

The day after your birthday is always a bit of a downer, and when you also have to say goodbye to one of your best friends too…well, you can mark that down in your diary with a massive colon + left hand bracket. Put it in 1000pt font in fact.

That was what happened today, as our beloved eldest cat Seth finally had to admit defeat against illness. For you non-animal lovers, you might as well log off now, as I come to praise our furry friend in this blog post.

Cats have risen to prominence on the internet over the last few years. Amusing LOL-captions and the ability to play keyboards are great. But Seth didn’t need that – because he was too busy cuddling and spreading love.

This was a cat who we met over four years ago, when he was picked up by the RSPCA wandering the streets with a dodgy hip and nasty skin complaint on his back. No-one knew where he had come from, but he knew where he wanted to be. His first act was to bound up to me, climb on my shoulder, and grab hold for dear life - and from then on he was family.

Given the fact he had been on his own he could have been forgiven for dis-trusting humans, but he clearly had a better nature than most of us ever could. From day one he wanted to cuddle and to be cuddled. He would follow you from room to room, rarely savaging carpets or sofas when he could spend his energy climbing up higher so he could get you to rub his head, chin, back or belly.

When he was happy, you could hear it. Seth had something in his throat that gently rasped – the happier he was, the more he rasped and coo-ed, sounding like a high-pitched pigeon (ask anyone who met him) – when you heard that noise, you knew he was totally happy.

And he was happy a lot. Whether it was hiding behind the hot water tank, stealing slices of ham bigger than his own head, levering doors open with his paw, grasping a catnip-filled banana, or just meeting new people, he purred like his life depended on it. And if you ever worried he would miss you if you were away, you could be sure it’d be worth it for when you came back – as he charged towards you on a one-cat mission of headbutting/headrubs.

And all this with a myriad of illnesses. A wonky hip that sometimes meant he could hardly move one of his legs. A skin complaint that brought dozens of little scabs to his back and neck. Asthma (yes, cats get Asthma – but no little blue inhaler) that saw him rushed to the emergency vets. A thyroid operation that would have finished many cats off.

It was kidney disease that eventually did for him, but even up to his last day he didn’t complain – he took the myriad tablets and the prescription food, he enjoyed his ‘spa’ days when he was given fluid and attention by some of the nicest vets you could meet, and even when it turned out he was about five years older than we first thought he just shrugged it off. And then did a poo in one of my slippers.

You can think a lot about the day a friend dies, but it’s better to remember the many more days that they lived, and we’ll be doing that a lot from today, and probably forever. There are too many to talk about here – the night he stayed out and how we drove around the estate at 3am trying to find him only for him to arrive home at 6am and give us a row for not letting him in earlier; or the day we had a visit from the RSPCA to check we were nice people to get another cat – to which Seth walked into the room with the inspector, looked at her, and immediately just rolled around on his back to say how much he loved living with us; or when a supposedly old and fragile cat was spotted about a mile from his home climbing up a sheer rock face like a veteran Sherpa.

For all those moments, and thousands more, we shall always be grateful - even if we’re sad along with it.

So, if you’ve made it this far, thank you. And if you want to do something in honour of our furry friend, stick your loose change in an RSPCA collection tin and make sure that the other Seths out there get picked up, re-homed, and spread the love.

Seth Colman, thank you for everything.

A cut above

I had my 'holiday haircut' today. That's the 'oh my god, we're going on holiday tomorrow and I currently look like a hobbit' haircut. That means I have to get it cut, or the holiday photos will look like I was only stopping off somewhere nice on the way to Mordor.

Sitting in the chair today I thought two things. Firstly, I'm going quite grey now. Maybe I'll look old and distinguished when it finally takes full hold. Sadly, I'll probably look like Philip Schofield - who now has hair so strange a white that I'm pretty sure is just a computer effect, and he wears a green swimming cap for them to add it on in post-production.

The second thing I thought was about the various places and people who I've let loose on my hair. Here's (hairs) who I can (comb) remember:

- Age 8-10ish - Joe Westlake. A barber shop above a Butchers - never sure that was a good combination, especially if it was one in the same chap. My brother would take me along.The highlight was the 'spray' that Joe Westlake would offer to you the end. A distinctly 'adult' perk, that made up for the booster cushion, it was a fine mist of something like brut, musk, and bacon (I may be guessing on the last one). Years later it turned out that Joe was, and always had been, a massive alcholic and was likely drunk doing our hair - maybe he'd been drinking the spray?

- Age 16ish - Robert and Ruth Hair Design - Despite the name, you were unlikely to get the squeaky voiced male proprietor or his oddly shaped business partner. My brother and I (yes, we were brothers in hair as well) would get ours cut by a girl who worked there called Anita. Thus began the joke of saying "Your hair is nice, that's Anita haircut than last time". Cue laughter for 28minutes and then a few hours on the Sega Megadrive.

- Age 17 - The New Yorker - Centre of Torquay. Run by Italian-American man, and his floppy haired son - who my chum Shaun christened 'Young Sir' as he spoke like a 15th century noblemen/knight. As a result, I couldn't stop laughing at that made up name if he ever did my hair, and once had to ask him to stop for fear of having my head sliced open due to giggles.

- Age 18ish - Baileys Barbershop - A barbers just round the corner of my student house in Coventry. Run by two men - one with teeth that he clearly took in and out regulary, sometimes replacing them at an almost jaunty angle. A housemate claimed I was going to the "Gay" Barbershop. I discovered the chaps were brothers, to which my housemate said. "Yes. Gay brothers.". That's my hair at the time on the right, pictured with Tom O'Connor. Don't ask.

- Age 19ish - Mad Italian Man - In Cheltenham one day. Needed haircut. Italian man spoke little English. Light trim became massive buzzcut. Had to wear a hat for about a month.

- Age 23ish - The Sportsman - Wolverhamptons premier hairdresser for footballers, all the Wolves players come here it claimed. To be honest, they didn't. It was just full of photos of Steve Bull, and that was it. Downstairs to get to it, you would descend to the basement and open a door to find the waiting room - fingers always crossed there was only one person waiting. I turned up once to find 19 people waiting for a haircut. What did I do? I waited. I'm British of course.

- Age 24ish - Hairport - Hairdressers at the Birmingham Midshires head office. Yes, a hairdressers at a former building society. Cheap, and the name always made me laugh - "The hair now departing from your head..."


- Age 26ish - Village Barber Shop - A Halifax establishment run mainly by 'women'. I say it like that, as I'm pretty sure one of them was just a man with breasts and a skirt. A lot of signet rings flashed by your ears as the scissors whirled by. Like a man being asked to land a plane in a disaster film, I just looked straight ahead and hoped for the best.

- Age 31ish - The Barber Shop - Startlingly original name eh? A small backroom behind a watch repair shop in Sowerby Bridge. No-nonsense old school haircuts from man who would say two things "Not working today?" and "She got you doing the chores?". Used to charge £4. 50 for a haircut, and therefore nearly always picked up a 12.5% tip through a fiver. Moved his prices up to £5.00 shortly afterwards, and ruined his margins.

- Age 36 ish - Smartcuts - Bradfords finest barbers. Well, the only one I've been to. The barbers don't speak English and look terrifed when I walk in, they smack your head around like you've gone there for 'being hit on the head' lessons, and there's an old man who just sits in the window and sleeps. Still, £5 for a holiday haircut - suits me a treat.

Blimey. I went on a bit there. Sorry. I'll leave the country for a bit as punishment.

I propose a toast

We have a new toaster.

I’ll admit, that isn’t the most exciting opening line I’ve ever written, but until I’m chased by a giant killer ninja robot on roller skates (me, and the robot) no opening line will be. But the toaster itself, that is exciting.

In the olden days toasters were just hot slots of fun. You usually had to guess when the toast was done and the only button was the one you twanged down to lower the bread (let’s call it the bread twanger) which then twanged back up at a high velocity to present your grilled bread products.

That was then, when things were simpler. Now there’s something akin to Knight Rider (the car, not the Hasselhoff) sitting in the corner of the room. It’s sleek, black, with a diamond effect to it, and I half expect it to talk to me in a posh camp English accent querying why I’m having a bagel.

It has a bread twanger. In fact, it has two. Independent of each other. Now that would be exciting enough, but then there are the extra buttons. ‘Defrost’ – well, that’s just ‘I’ll keep the toast down a bit longer shall I?’, the old equivalent of holding down the twanger. ‘Reheat’ – which further makes it sound like it’s a piece of military equipment, I'm surprised it doesn't produce stealth-toast.

And, most joyous of all, ‘Cancel’. Actually, that’s a bit disingenuous, as if you cancel something then it shouldn’t happen. I tried cancelling toast that had been going for 2 minutes and it didn’t turn back into normal bread, it stayed ‘a bit toasted’. ‘Abort toasting process’ would have been better, but they probably didn’t have space for that. No space, because there’s a massive numbered (1-5) gauge with the words “TOAST COLOUR” on it.

Can colour be defined by a number? Is the fact that Number 1 is white some sort of inherent toaster racism? Perhaps the numbers relate to a scale I’m not aware of, like tog ratings on a duvet.

Oh, and it’s utterly silent. The bread cooks and then slowly twangs back up like it’s being made by a hitman. In fact, it doesn’t really twang at all. I’m going to need a new name for the bread twanger.

In summary: It’s the toastest with the mostest, a thriller-of-a-griller, and I must admit it really does heat bread up and harden it very satisfactorily.

It’s just a bit scary. So if I turn up dead, grilled together, the colour of 5, you’ll know what’s happened

Thank goodness we didn't get to see his chocolate factory

Over the last month we've been seeing a lot of family. And, as a result, we've ended up playing some traditional games. Yes, harking back to days of old is always the route we take - honestly, I don't know why my mother can't just get to grips with Call of Duty and we could all play online.

First up, a mention for a game of bum-charades. Yes, that's what I'm calling it. Now, it may sound like a euphemism, but it's actually my brother's way of playing charades. He's like a bottom obsessed Lionel Blair, if there is such a thing - which there is.

Yes, he tries to use his bottom to describe every word. He'll point to it and make the 'sounds like' mime, and then use 'sounds like bum' for the 'slum' in 'Slumdog Millionaire' or 'sounds like arse' for the 'pass' in 'Passport to Pimlico'. Thankfully we managed to steal his thunder, because after guessing the first word was 'Charlie' the cry of 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory' came too quick for him to point to his bottom for the last two words.

As well as charades, boardgames have made a reappearance. But here's some sad news. The classic board games are being eroded to make them more 'cool' (as I believe the kids call it). Take Monopoly, which we bought from a toy shop a few months back. We went to play it thinking about all the great things it has - an iron for a playing piece, the phrase 'community chest' and nicking notes out of the bank when no-ones looking.

Oh no. We had bought 'Monopoly City'. A version of the game which, and I swear I am not making this up, that comes with an electronic timer that you use during 'planning permission meetings'. Oh, there's fun. I've rolled two sixes, that means I advance to go, but have to fill in a 'protected tree trimming order' from the local council and then claiming £10 in tax back because it's my birthday.

And Cluedo is no better. Worse even. We all knew where we stood with Cluedo. Mansion, amusingly named guests, the candlestick etc. Apparantly, that was too old school. Now the players aren't called Miss Scarlett or Captain Mustard - now they are 'Vanessa Scarlett - actress' and 'Jeff Mustard - pro sports star' and the weapons include things like 'the sports trophy' and 'the rubber chicken' - alright that last one might be false, but so's the whole game. Why spoil the formula? I was half-expecting to open the murder cards at the end to find a note saying 'He killed himself, ha.'*

Stop messing with these things. They'll be adding testicles to Buckaroo next.

*A quick mention of my favourite Cluedo story. My chum Rusty once had a 3hour game of Cluedo with his very drunken brother. After eliminating every possibility, Rusty was so fed up with the game going on - and there being no logical solution - that he took the murder cards out of the pouch to find that it was Reverend Green, in the Hallway...with the Lounge. There was very nearly an actual murder with a very small spanner that night.