introversial

Stephen’s Gawking

2009-09-08T20:43:00.002+01:00

What does Stephen Hawking do in Amsterdam? Black holes.

That little joystick always leads him down the same alleyways…

Tube Pervert

2009-09-07T19:05:00.003+01:00

Are you always trying to see a bit more tit or a little sliver of thigh on you way to and from work?

Do you quiver with desire when those semi-clad pretty young things on their way to a hard day of painting their nails and texting their friends from their desks hop aboard the tube?

Are you stumped at ways in which you can get a bit of eye-candy without being ousted as a tube pervert?

You need to buy the award winning self-help book 'Tube Pervert' now!

Tube Pervert will help you catch a glance when other pervs are limited to having a lonely touch through their pockets. It will tell you what are the best vantage points, the most secretive stances and the cleverest distractions to make sure that, however many stops you are on for, you get a right eyeful.

Praise for Tube Pervert:

"Before Tube Pervert, I was limited to getting my jollies by bringing on a copy of Nuts or Zoo, but now I can get a real glimpse of some twenty-something arse all the way from Piccadilly to Cockfosters!"

Mr A, Barnet

"Last week I got to gawp at a young ladies' red thong right through rush hour! She knew nothing!"

T, Lambeth

"You would be amazed at how many old ladies wear stockings! I know, because I read Tube Pervert!"

Barry S, Wembley

"Ah used to get chased by gangs ah Dads, but not anymore - Thank you, Tube Perverts"

Gary, Ealing

"Rush hour is the closest I've come to having full vaginal intercourse"

Bernard T, Wycombe

We're taking this cow & no one can stop us!

2009-09-05T16:57:00.001+01:00

Blob's here!

2009-09-05T16:54:00.002+01:00

Here are some pictures I'm doing for a children's placemat at work for some kids to eat stuff off.

Dusty Night Terror

2009-09-02T22:20:00.002+01:00

“Who are you Sir?”
“My name is Mr Cherrick,
From Ryman, Hucklwitz & D’Troth,
We represent the interests of a Giant Moth”

R'mance

2009-09-02T22:19:00.001+01:00

“Yeowgh!”
“Shh you, why all that din?”
“I said two, but you put all your fingers in”

Caption Competition

2009-09-02T22:05:00.003+01:00

Submit your best captions for the chance to win a delicious prize, a hand drawn picture of you & any celebrity of your choice in an erotically charged situation.

We Found it in the field.

2009-09-02T21:59:00.002+01:00

Welcome to Introversial. Again.

2009-09-02T21:05:00.002+01:00

In 1666, Samuel Pepys* documented London in all its seventeenth century glory. Well, sort of:

"I went out to Charing Cross to see Major General Harrison hanged, drawn, and quartered; which was done there, he looking as cheerful as any man could in that condition."

He was like the blogger of his age. Pepys was most famous for writing an account of the Great Fire of London, but he did more than that. He had a go at women, he talked about farting and he drank too much. He was like a one-man Nuts Magazine, circa 1670.

He documented the ups and downs of the day, mused a bit and generally wrote what he knew. This is what Introversial will do - it will be a diarist of its day, but will probably write less about houses that were burning down with children in them. And maybe more about farting. And if, fingers' crossed, there are some more hangings at Charing Cross, Introversial will be there, documenting for the ages.

Also, Pepys did drink in the Cheshire Cheese on Fleet Street a fair bit, as does Introversial. If that pub was serving the same toxic piss as it is now then somewhere in London there may be some missing chapters of old Sam's diary, where he yells at his wife, craves a kebab and then pisses himself.

We don't know what Samuel started his diary, probably why this blog has been created - a mix of boredom, narcissism, egomania and the desire to get his point across. He, like Introversial, probably got bored of his desk job, saw what other diarists were up to (farting, shagging, burping and such) and thought he would have a pop at it. So here it is, the diary of its day. In 450 years from now, kids may be dissecting this very post and writing a little comprehension on it. On a computer made of lasers in space.

Introversial in London is the same as Pepys diary. It sees what other bloggers are doing and scoffs in the face of mediocrity and badly spelled anecdotes - the time is now to create a fucking good blog that's funny. Welcome to Introversial.

*pronounced 'Peeps', as in "The paedo peeps into the little girl's bedroom from the vantage point of a big tree"

We are all going to die

2009-09-02T21:04:00.001+01:00

Set your coffee down gently. Okay, I have some terrible news for you. Terrible, horrible news. We are in the midst of a pandemic in this City, one which will pretty much bring society to its fat bloated knees. In a bitter twist of irony, it’s the tiniest being on Earth that is the most powerful.

SWINE FLU. N1H1 motherf*cker.

It’s here, in London town, ready to finish off what the Black Death and the Nazis started.

It wouldn’t be scary if it was just flu oh no. And it isn’t scary if the virus just has a code (SARS? Please, that only killed the Chinese.) We had Bird Flu, but that just screwed up Bernard Matthews. No, this monster needed a name that envisages terror. The pig, the animal people most want as a pet but don’t have, is now the source of the world’s most deadly virus.

This is how it starts, the old apocalypse, a gentle stream of news reports providing the hacking, snot-filled background music to your everyday life. You’re not really listening that hard to the Swine Flu warnings as you’re more concerned with buying a load of coloured jeans from Uniqlo and going up to Shoreditch to eat a soft cheese sourced from Peru. Then it turns out you have an acquaintance that’s caught it, but that doesn’t really phase you as whenever you met this kid he always had an off yellow tint, he was never one of Gaia’s foot soldiers.

So, you buy a magnum and forget about it and oh look, Peaches Geldof went a disco last night. Thanks, London Lite. All the while micro terrorists are zipping through the tube lines and handrails, declaring a tiny Jihad on your immune system.

The Government are setting up committees and hotlines and getting a lot of grief for not giving clear guidelines for pregnant women. This debate doesn’t seem to have much to it – pregnant women should avoid public transport at peak times and crowded areas. Hardly rocket science is it? Not getting on the tube while duffed up should be good advice anyway. There’s no place for a bump at rush hour - I’ve seen someone pour a frappe in a Louis Vuitton handbag and that’s worth much more than a baby*. It’s difficult down there at the best of times, especially without the threat of a highly contagious disease breeding in amongst the squalor of London.

If this is the end of civilised London society then it won’t be all bad. I’ve long since held the notion that I would thrive in a post apocalyptic landscape, living in Big Ben, living off tinned peas and firing buckshot at mutants. I’d marry the one of the only beautiful girls left in the world, then chuck her when a slightly prettier one comes along (don’t judge me, it’s Darwinian).

So this is it. Some reports suggest 100,000 people will die, some say slightly less people will die of Swine Flu than regular flu. But who cares? This is it, the end of days. Go and tell that girl in accounts you want to do horrible things to her in the break room, steal something from Boots, tell your Mum you hate her, rob Topshop, do anything – because tomorrow you might have quite bad flu.

*We’ve looked into it.

Fizzy Milk

2009-09-02T21:02:00.002+01:00

Fizzy Milk.

The wheel reinvented, Jurassic Park set loose. That's right, Fizzy Milk. Coca Cola is set to launch Vio, a carbonated milk.

Coca Cola "scientists"* have developed the drink at the firm¹s laboratories in Atlanta, Georgia. The only thing it will curdle in its 8oz aluminium bottle is the boundaries of your mind.

The Times says one of Coke’s copywriters claims it tastes “like a birthday party for a polar bear”. I would have thought that tasted more like butchered seal and ozone, but anyway. Perhaps a better tagline would be “like a birthday party for a polar bear who’s mind has comprehended it’s approaching extinction with acute lucidity”.

It comes in four “natural” flavours: peach mango, berry, citrus and tropical colada (straight from the Colada tree). It has 26g of sugar a bottle, and 1.5g of fat.

This is it. Seriously, It¹s the End of Days.

Some of you readers will be already reaching for your gas masks and baseball bats, ready for the impending maelstrom of discontent. And good on you - science has finally destroyed nature.

Someone takes a sip they think: “Huh, Fizzy Milk? not bad”. Then, a week later you¹re having a coffee, avec fizzy milk, when some axe wielding lunatic comes smashing through the window of a Café Nero screaming GOT MEEELLLLLK?’

Milkmen will be pushed from their cabs as the hoards upend his cart, dancing naked on its ruined, milk-stained corpse. Cows will be set alight, punched to death and garrotted as the fields are stained with red.

People will come to fear the moustache, a sign of the fizzles, a madness induced by the realisation that everything is nothing, up is down, milk is fizzy.

Someone has a lovely bottle of fizzy milk. Then they start thinking “Wait a sec, why can’t I ride my bike into the sea?”. The financial markets fall, everyone sinks into depravity and primitive stupor. Statues of the Virgin Mary in the Vatican begin weeping fizzy milk. Soon you'll be having sex with your pets while your Mum, caked in her own defecation, watches while drinking a fizzy latte.

Everyone starts chanting, “Fizzy Milk Fizzy Milk Fizzy Milk Fizzy Milk” in anticipation of the arrival of a giant moth to take everyone away. It never comes.

I can¹t tell you how dark this is.

*Not really scientists. Men and women who try and cure cancer are scientists; people who put the rover on Mars are scientists. People who fanny around with sugary liquid aren't scientists. Their "lab" will look like Professor Burp's Bubble Works and they will all wear over-sized top hats.

Credit Crunch Tales - Terrance of the tree house

2009-09-02T21:01:00.000+01:00

Terrance lived in the tree house for several reasons: solitude, the escape from modernity – but mainly it was because of tax and a hefty credit card bill.

Terrance had certainly lived the high life. He was only an assistant at a local B&Q (a bad one at that), but that didn’t stop him living like a millionaire. His house had all the mod cons – SkyPlus, HD TV and a six-slice toaster. Women would be showered with gifts, friends would receive expensive birthday presents – but the dream had to come to an end one day.

The credit crunch came and Terrance fell off the debt merry-go-round. After narrowly escaping a bailiff, Terrance retreated to the local forest. He spent a few nights sleeping rough, but soon realised if he was to carry on his Robin Hood lifestyle he would have to find a new home. He found an old oak tree and planted his flag.

Running away from his troubles, Terrance became a tree person.

Terrance’s idea of problem solving was escaping to the woods. He had done this when he failed his GCSEs, when his Dad left and when his football team had been relegated. He even ran away for a week when his Mum told him he couldn’t have a second slice of gateaux. But this was the first time Terrance had decided to become full-time feral as a means of solving his problems.

His days at B&Q were not wasted – stealing supplies from the warehouse, for which he still had keys Terrance went about building a tree home. He built a fairytale home where he could run away from his debt problems and live tax-free. But it is a lot harder to build a liveable home inside a rotting tree than Terrance thought. In the end, after several attempts to make it like an ‘arbour-Ikea’ Terrance settled with a mouldy shit hole with windows.

He tried to make pets of the squirrels that shared his domicile. They didn’t acquiesce – they bit him, stole his cereals and pissed all over his toaster. Since then squirrel and the man have led a cold war of attrition in that old tree - Terrance ate one of their babies in the spring, so the squirrels gave him rabies by September.

Terrance can’t go back to the modern world now. He has sunk too far into the wood - he is a Wildman or Sasquatch, a myth that financial advisers tell their indebted clients. And he still owes Barclays around £7,000.

Maybe if you wander down to the woods one-day, you will see Terrance in his little home. He hasn’t had a job for a while, and can’t bring girls back to his tree home, so he spends most of his days unkempt, searching the wood for discarded porn.

Political Satire

2009-06-11T18:50:00.002+01:00

Gordon Brown’s had a tough few weeks, there’s no denying that. Apparently the odds aren’t that great that he’ll be the Prime Minister by the weekend. He’s even taken to giving press conferences without a belt or shoe laces, looking forlornly out of the window trying to catch site of Albion.

Is it too late for him to claw back his leadership when he’s facing attacks internally and externally? It’s definitely touch and go and we all know that no amount of Alan Sugar will make the situation any sweeter. People don’t want to hear about the Prime Minister’s concern for the singing potato, Susan Boyle either – tell us more about the chap who claimed for a moat.

Here are three tips to Gordon Brown if he wants to last the night out:

1. Master the smile. He never seems to have grasped the concept of the smile I know he grew up in Scotland but this is ridiculous. It wasn’t made apparent until he was stood next to Barack ‘the zillion watt smile’ Obama at the G20 summit. If he want’s people to like him simply try and smile without looking like you’re trying to relearn it after an accident.

2. Stop talking about celebrities. As already mentioned, appointing Alan Sugar is a gross error. His appointment as business czar isn’t necessarily the way to go about it (I’m fairly sure a large proportion of the county must watch The Apprentice and think he’s a cunt). Also, 'the people' aren’t that endeared to Susan Boyle, we like watching her yes, but in the same way we’d be fascinated by the discovery of a hairless calf with one eye screaming “kill me”.

3. The easiest quick fix solution, it’s been staring at him in the mirror all along, like a sad looking marble. Simply pop out the eye and wear a patch and for added affect wear some dark velvet gloves. No one will fuck with the Neo Pimpernel.

Politics, Performed in style of John Hegley

2009-05-26T19:55:00.000+01:00

Gore-den Braun
As in Eva Braun, Hitler’s Bird
Small with blond hair
I bet she wore real fur
A tenuous link to Margret Thatcher*
Apparently she wasn’t that good at her job, Sir**

*Pronounced ‘Fat-Churgh’ to tie in with the above line.

** I was born in ’84; I’ve heard she stole milk and something about the Falklands, can’t say I’m that clued up. It’s embarrassing really.

Pie Rate

2009-05-26T19:54:00.000+01:00

He saw that I’d stopped eating my pie
I tried to stay cool
But we both knew I’d noticed he only had one eye

‘I like my women like I like my coffee…’

2009-05-25T18:35:00.002+01:00

Me & Lee were messing around the other day (As in word play, not “God, my wife must never know of our forbidden love”) and came up with a few different takes on the old “I like my women like I like my coffee…” setup. For your information we’ll be coming soon to a Working Men’s Club near you, as this line seems to intrinsically lead you down a misogynistic/racist one way street:

I like my women like I like my coffee…

Ideally not fully of semen.
White and cold to the touch…
Slow roasted.
Immediately after a game of rummy.
Thrown against a wall.

Yeah, I think there’s a reason this sort of joke has died out a bit. Either that or I’m just a massive bigot.

I did a politics degree...

2009-04-07T21:18:00.003+01:00

The Government?
I doubt they’d ever repent,
They seem positively hell bent,
On letting our economy ferment,
Like some hideous yeast,
Infection

Sean...

2009-04-07T21:02:00.002+01:00

Sean is possibly my best friend
With him I would totally commit to a week long cruise
Although, our friendship was tested when I dreamt he had boobs

The Electric Ballroom

2009-04-07T21:01:00.000+01:00

“Hey man, how’s tricks, are you free later?”

“Yeah man, what’s the skinny?”

“Fancy heading down to the Electric Ballroom in Camden?”

“Not really”

Red Nose Day

2009-03-15T12:23:00.003Z

(As a disclaimer before I enter into a rant, this isn't about charity for one second. To prove this I made sure to donate £10 to Oxfam before slating Comic Relief)

For all of you not in the know, Comic Relief was invented about 25 years ago by some British comedians to give to African charities. They sold red noses, did silly sketches and it was wholly honourable. Now it has become BBC's biggest 'charity event' of the year and has taken over every facet of consumer media for a few weeks every other years.

Celebrities like Kate 'yes, I can laugh at myself, honestly' Moss and Jonathan 'I better be getting paid for this' Ross do oh so hilarious and fantastically altrustic things so as to help raise money for African and UK charities. Big corporations like Subway, Walker's Crisps, Sainsbury's and British Telecom are now in on the scam and sell a load of Red Nose related shit, a small percentage of which goes to charity.

A few years ago they took just four of the participating celebs and guessed at their total worth; Sting, Bono, Chris Martin and Paul McCartney totalled in the region of £1.5bn. That's just four of them - add to that maybe 100 'celebrities' and you would probably have a total well over £2bn. This year Comic Relief raised £40m.

Now I am not knocking raising money, far from it. Any attempt to make people give more to those who need it more and slightly level up the global financial see-saw should be commended. And that £40m came from the wallets of the British people, who have had to bail out a few banks in the last three months. It's the hypocrisy of Comic Relief that needs to be highlighted and stamped out.

Subway is a global, multi-billion dollar firm. It makes fucking billions every year from selling unhealthy sandwiches to the masses, no doubt buying their produce from the cheapest source at the expense of the poorer half of the earth. Now that's capitalism and you can argue about that all day, but offering 31p in a pound by flogging cheap Comic Relief ringtones and then trying to say its a 'giving' corporation is disgusting. All it did was get more people in buying special 'Red Nose' meatball marinaras for £3.29. And how much of that £3.29 went to charity? 5 fucking pence.

Sainsbury's too needs to be shown for the two-faced shitting empire it is: slowly killing the UK farming industry, making thousands unemployed while at the same time selling coffee, sugar, bananas, beef and spices that have mark ups of thousands of percent but only cost them pennies - at Africa's expense. But giving a few pennies to the very continent it is screwing over through Jamie 'I'm even more obnoxious with this fucking nose on' Oliver and his over-priced foods.

Comic Relief, like most celebrity charity events, allows these horrid uncaring people seem caring while at the same time improves their profile and most importantly gives them yet another stage to promote their self-brands. There is no honour in it and there is no grace - the two things that charity should be based on.

Charity is important, and the Government should do more to make sure the haves give a lot more to the have nots (maybe tax multi-millionaire fuckers like Gok Wan and Cheryl Cole a bit harder, for example). But don't try and scam from the indebted and the poor through corporate bullshit and celebrity endorsements. Comic Relief is another thinly-veiled way for those who have everything to look saintly while those who have not continue to be the victims.

CHICKEN AND RIB TIME! Kebab and Burger Centre

2009-03-09T19:20:00.002Z

It doesn't make sense does it?

Every day I see this sign outside the restaurant as I come out of Manor House station and it drives me crazy. Think about it. 'CHICKEN AND RIB TIME!' says to me this place sells chicken and ribs. And that's fine, there definitely aren't enough places in London that sell fatty meats. If I wanted chicken or ribs, I would definitely consider an establishment that is promoting itself as a place where both chicken and ribs are ready to go, ready to eat, any time. All the time. There is even a picture of a chicken, holding a rib, looking at his watch. Perfect.

But then they are telling me it's a 'Kebab and Burger Centre'? This makes no sense, my Turkish friends. You just told me, not three inches ago, that your restaurant ticked along to chicken and ribs. It's 'CHICKEN AND RIB TIME!' for God's sake. And now it's a place for burgers and kebabs too? Does the watch-wearing, rib-guzzling chicken know about this?

Why not call it 'CHICKEN AND RIB AND BURGER AND KEBAB TIME!' or the 'Chicken, Rib, Kebab and Burger Centre'? Or just 'Takeaway Hut' or 'Top Foods'?

So what are you better at 'CHICKEN AND RIB TIME! Kebab and Burger Centre'? Is it chicken and ribs, or is it burgers and kebabs? I mean you are a burger and kebab centre. But you are also a place where it's chicken and rib time.

It bugs me so much, every night, that one day I am going to smash that sign to fucking smithereens. The go next door for a kebab, because they are just called 'Manor House Kebabs', and you know what they are good at.

Heroin Chic

2009-03-08T22:13:00.006Z

There are certainly a few odd looking people in London. Big, fat, weird, smelly, scary, skin-diseasey odd looking people.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not penning this from my ivory tower. The whole 'scratchy beard, pale complexion and hobo hoodie' look I sport definitely harks towards some sort of serious chemical dependency.

That said, undeniably there are some curious looking folk within zones one to six. Public transport seems to bring out the best of them, especially the Number 29 from Wood Green. It’s a bendy bus, so you know people aren’t paying to get on.

Here are some of my favourite spots, so far:

· Future Lady: I saw her today on the way to the tube. She was dressed like someone who had travelled back in time to prevent a nuclear holocaust and was desperately trying to replicate the fashions of the time, to minimise any anachronistic slips. Giant head phones.

· Bad Mum: reading a copy of ‘What Every Parent Needs To Know’, using a map to the Child Appeals court as a book mark and drinking a can of extra-strength lager. Good luck with that one, Chief.

· Japanese uber-tasche:A tiny little Japanese fellow who was immaculately dressed, with possibly the best moustache I have ever seen. It was grey, and curled up at the sides. Me and Lee followed him down Bond Street for longer than was cool, trying to think of elaborate ways to outflank him and photograph his facial horns. He must get that every single day.

· Shoeless: He just didn't haven't shoes on, on the steps of Nelson's Column. He looked, well sad.

Dermatology

2009-03-07T09:08:00.002Z

"When the horns came through, the skin condition made a bit more sense"

The Gods of Fate

2009-03-06T07:10:00.003Z

Have things got bad? Have I had to seriously consider what a penis might feel like against my gums while fingering a filthy £20 note? Well yes, they have.

Why is it that when you’re in the straights you feel more desperate? Is it the loneliness? The claustrophobia? The unexplainable horniness?

I decided to tempt the Gods of fate today. The soul crushing drudge of working through the recession in a complaints department made something snap, and I brought a scratch card.

I delay it; not straight away, you see. I like to divide up the fictional money in my head, imagining how the £100,000 would be spent: How many hookers are too many? Are you alright not giving to your div cousin? Do people still have a problem if you wear mink?

After finally imagining travelling India and living a life of intellectual pursuit, there’s scratching to be done. Using a pound coin is a no-no, for two reasons:

I don’t want to anger the Goddess of Luck by being brazen with my wealth.
I don’t have one (sob).

Best go with a 50p, not too flashy but not embarrassing like a 2p.

Scratch. £100,000. Scratch. £25. Scratch. £400. Scratch. £1. Scratch. £100,000. Gasp. Scratch. £900. Fuck.

Then comes the self loathing. It’s instantaneous and heavy, like a giant bird shit on your head while all the cool and attractive people laugh at you with their white teeth and muscles.

“Do you want a can?”

2009-03-01T10:27:00.002Z

This guy on my bus last week was a full blown nutter. I’m not a fan of that word; never the less, this big mad-fox-eyed Shaun Ryder look-a-like managed to plunge the number 29 to Trafalgar Square into a state of panic. He was a real life nutter.

Everyone had a strained look of “I’m really trying to pretend this isn’t happening, although I am acutely aware that this might end in me getting kicked to death” as he paced down the bendy bus. It was happening though, but luckily it didn’t end up in an old lady getting a kicking.

When something like this happens though, my mind instantly leaps to all those photos from the internal cameras on public transport where some anaemic looking, shirt wearing office worker (i.e. me) gets stabbed in the neck with a William Hill pen 47 times for politely suggesting to the maniac that maybe listening to Dub music really loudly and yelling might not be for the morning commute, it might be suited slightly better to say…3am, in Fabric.

Anyway, aside from randomly shouting at people, calling them “trannies” and declaring “Yeah, I was raised by Yardies, bruv” this chap was having in-depth conversations with himself along the following lines:

“Do you want a can mate?”
“Yeah, I do, can I have one of yours?”
“Yeah mate, no problems bruv”

This is the sort of teeth gritting tension you don’t get on the tube, only the bus attracts this level of terror-inducing psychopath. He managed to shut off an entire section of the bus and keep everyone firmly away from his vicinity. And all it took was an external/internal monologue, some wild golf ball style eyes and a lifetime of substance abuse.

"I really love metal!"

2009-02-27T06:51:00.001Z

“Work for Bread”

2009-02-24T22:57:00.004Z

I got really depressed the other day at work and walked all the way to the BT tower, for a bit of fresh air. It was a nice walk, serene even.

Work seems to have become an actual ‘toil’ recently, a word that conjures up images of Russian peasant women, covered in dirt and ploughing away in barren fields grafting for a loaf. Okay, it might not be exactly like that, but it’s been a bit much recently. Long hours and bigger work loads have led to staff morale dropping through the floor. Not that it was ever massively high anyway but I distinctly remember that there was a period where people weren’t randomly bursting into tears in the kitchen and weren’t being as short with each other:

“Let me hold that door for you”

“Yeah, you will wanker”

Its all fun and games though isn’t it, what other options are there around? Not much, although I have toyed with the idea of making extra money on the side by dressing as the late husbands of wealthy widows. It won’t be hard work I imagine, dressing in old suits, going for walks along the pier and listening to the wireless with them at Bridge club. And even if they did want to rekindle a certain carnal fire…I’d still probably prefer it to coding invoices.

21st century disorder

2009-02-24T20:16:00.006Z

Lady Greenfield, professor of synaptic pharmacology at Lincoln college, Oxford, and director of the Royal Institution, is warning that social networking runs the risk of making people: "devoid of cohesive narrative and long-term significance."

"As a consequence," she adds, "the mid-21st century mind might almost be infantilised, characterised by short attention spans, sensationalism, inability to empathise and a shaky sense of identity."

God, the future sounds grim. I mean it's quite like this already; there are people in my office who have all these traits, plus a really loud voice.

But taking a step back, aren't we already like this? I mean I don't like reading anything longer than a pamphlet, I lie about celebrities constantly (really, ask me about what Cliff Richard does on holiday) and I don't care about almost everyone. I also have a very shaky sense of identity. Well I spelt my name wrong recently.

Maybe I am already one of the first victims of the Internet? Maybe my brain is too far gone, my life just a series of Twitters and YouTube clips of monkey masturbation. Soon we will just be reading electronic copies of Jade Magazine, named in honour of St Jade of celebrity, Facebooking about Zack Efron's nipple extensions and filming ourselves blogging about Bebo. We will define ourselves by our status, Google will tell us when we can shit and Apple will fight Microsoft in a vicious robot war in space. We will pray to the Gods of the little broadband indicator in the top corner of the screen, ordering Ebay vouchers off of Amazon and Skyping all our followers on webcam.

Or maybe not. Maybe Lady Greenfield should realise people always have been self-loathing, egotistical, vain, stupid, naive twats, it's not the Internet's fault.

Philip

2009-02-19T21:26:00.004Z

Philip works in London, he loves London.

He wakes up at 6:45, kisses his wife on the cheek and hops in the shower. He dries up and puts on a suit with a shirt a tie - blue shirt, white shirt, pink shirt, grey shirt.

He eats his cereal, drinks a glass of orange juice and reads the Daily Telegraph. He tries to finish the suduko, but he can never get there before 8:15, when he walks down the street, left, right and along the alley way to the train station. He waits halfway down the platform, near the sign post and gets on the 8:28 to Waterloo. He sometimes gets a seat, sometimes not. He reads the London papers, emails some of his colleagues on his blackberry and even listens to his ipod.

He gets off at Waterloo, gets on the underground and takes the Bakerloo to Marylebone, where his office is only a three minute walk from. He walks into the office, waits for the lift and takes it to the third floor. He walks to his desk, usually at about 9:15 and begins his day as an accounts analyst.

At 11am he will have a banana. 1:30pm he will walk down to Regent's Park, call his wife and eat his ham sandwiches.

Philip gets back to Waterloo at 5:45pm, back on the train and then home. He kisses his wife as he gets in, sits down and watches the evening news. He and his wife will eat supper, talk about their day and then go to bed.

Philip takes off his tie, takes off his shirt and brushes his teeth. He returns to the bedroom, takes off his trousers, peels off his garter and stockings, takes off his thong and puts his pyjamas on. He turns out the light, kisses his wife and falls asleep.

Yoghurt on a packed tube train

2009-02-16T20:29:00.004Z

Yes, dear blog fan, yoghurt on a packed tube train. Just imagine it.

I was on my way to work this very morning and had just bagged myself a seat. Feeling particularly chuffed with myself, I looked round and noticed the woman in front of me pull out a big tupperware container full of yoghurt. It was huge, big enough to fit about 4 hearty sandwiches. Certainly too big for yoghurt.

Anyway, she then opened up the container and began spooning the goop into her mouth. It was smelly, probably probiotic or something, full of friendly bacteria and bifidum digestivum. The train kept bouncing around, as trains hurtling through ancient tunnels tend to do, every bounce and knock adding to the mess on her face. Round this fully-grown woman's mouth, on her hand, her bag and even a little tiny bit on the pole next to her. The more we rolled along, the messier she got.

Our eyes met for a brief moment. I glared, hoping to get across how completely and utterly disgusted I was. I don't think my distain got through as she carried on eating regardless, flecks of yoghurt splashing round her mouth as someone innocently and understandably bumped her spoon-wielding arm.

After a few minutes I couldn't bear to watch the macabre show in front of me, like a sad 'You've Been Framed' clip that has gone on for way too long. Luckily it was my stop and I hopped off, a little saddened by the fact that you can't choke to death on yoghurt, no matter how hard you try.

“I love you so much I want to put you in a little box under the stairs”

2009-02-16T03:16:00.003Z

So, what better day is there to end up in Victoria Station, tears streaming down your cheeks, looking at a faded ‘If you don’t like your life you can change it’ poster?

Yes, Valentines Day! Nothing quite says ‘Jesus, I didn’t think I’d still be looking at your tired old face’, like being herded into a restaurant and staring at other, more successful examples of functioning relationships. Then again, it can be an exciting time for new love, getting to know the girl you met during that mad confidence trip you had (which oddly coincided with the burning nostril you had the following day):

“Do you want some olives?”

“No, I don’t like them”

“Really?”

“Yes”

"I did not know that. Fascinating."

Electrifying stuff. This year Valentines Day unfortunately landed on a weekend, meaning that people sort of have to be out any way. This led to a lot of blank stares and a lot of couples realising they would have had more fun at home watching blue collar saturday night TV without the cheap flowers, bad poetry and fizzy wine. Because let's face it, if you are in a couple, Valentine's is shit.

But it also saw a larger volume of lonely, desperate ‘we’re alone and completely not bothered, let's get fucked up! Wooo! Who needs love! fuck romance! More tequila!' crowds that are completely bothered and are weeping inside. Girls dancing to the beat of their biological clock, and boys drinking their way to another evening alone with a kebab and poor quality porno. Because let's face it, if you are single, Valentine's is shit.

There does seem to be something ever so slightly tragic about it all, a day to celebrate all that we strive for and never reach. But I suppose going out and bursting into tears is better than doing it in your own flat, where you’re really near the gas oven.

“Let’s stone the fat one to death”

2009-02-09T17:21:00.003Z

Who’ll win, the Tigers or the Sharks? I literally don’t have a clue but I’ve just spent an hour wildly glued to the drama of Channel 4’s Shipwrecked, back for a rip roaring 100th series.

I’ve never really seen it before; I think I caught some of the first series years ago. Like all reality TV though, it’s been warped into some grotesque spectacle making the original incarnation look like a Victorian ankle showing in comparison. I remember watching a chap having to drown a chicken in the beautiful ocean; he didn’t resign as a recruitment consultant in Swindon for that. Still, I remember the look in his eye immediately after he did it. It was a fascinating mix of wild eyed masculine emancipation and loss of an innocence he didn’t know he had.

The producers of the show clearly felt the same semi-sexual voyeuristic thrill I felt and decided to take the show in that general direction. The new series therefore takes a finely profiled collection of narcissistic clothes horses and puts them on a beautiful apparently empty (aside from all those wires and production team members) desert island. They then fanny about doing things that they look like they’d struggle with anyway, like washing and feeding themselves which they all seem to have done for them in the real world.

Thus far we’ve been introduced to a selection of interesting folk, none of which you’d trust with anything important, you probably wouldn’t risk putting them in charge of a tin of beans. We’ve had a chap who described himself as being without sexuality, like some sort of giant, Liverpudlian flower. Although, when he says he has no sexuality he really means he’s gay, the panic that flashed across his eyes when he was asked the question was magic. Also, this one’s borderline brain dead, if it wasn’t for his hyper emotional reactions to fairly mundane, obvious things (“Oh my…GOD”) like new people visiting the island then you’d be forgiven for thinking you were watching a pickled foetus in the bowels of the Natural History Museum. Also, on hyper emotional reactions, selecting a leader isn’t the most devastating, emotionally complex and demanding issue, it’s easy, pick the one who has laces that they tied themselves. I’d love to expose this tribe to some real emotion. See how they cope when they find out that a serial killer has battered their family to death (“No...WAYYYYYYYY, wait a minute, I’ve got a text”).

There also seems to be a few posh people on, having not seen it much, I’m not sure if this is a theme. Lot’s of big house, polo playing arseholes who pronounce ‘really’ as ‘ra-AGH-herrrrrr-lay’ and it takes them literally about a week to knock a sentence out. They all see themselves instantly as the leader of the dirty proles. The thing is that they are equally clueless, but in a different, more aggressive way. Y’know, the sort of tone that got centuries of colonial expansion done, and managed to pay off the family of that girl who cried “rape” at Joshua’s polo party.

Anyway, it lit a flame in my chest watching this show and Introversial will be following the heartache, bitching, and incessant conversations about nothing over the next few weeks. I’m hoping that this group of people will be the ones who break reality television. We all know its coming, one day something will horribly wrong and television will have to rely on proper television shows again. Hopefully, this series will end with Mark (big hair, androgynous and a body like a toddler) running wild eyed into the ocean to embrace an icy death after having raped and killed Sonny (literally nothing behind the eyes, could potentially have shredded wheat for a brain).

Twitter

2009-02-08T12:19:00.002Z

"Shall we put the blog on Twitter?"

"What the fuck is Twitter?"

"I don't know."

"Let's not then."

(If you understand Twitter, please enlighten us. It seems like something we should be doing, but we don't understand it and it scares the bejesus out of us.)

Pitch

2009-02-07T13:02:00.002Z

"So what's the movie about?"

"It's about a dog hotel."

"A dog hotel?"

"Yeah, you know, loads of dogs in a building, causing havoc."

"Ok....I'm not convinced...."

"Well, you see these kids make a hotel for all the dogs..."

"The kids make this? Oh right, is this a Pixar thing, because that would work. Talking dogs, maybe set in the future? We could really go to town on the fur, maybe get John Cusack in, even Nicole Kidman. It'd be a smash!"

"No, this is real. We use real, trained dogs."

"Ok, so let me get this straight. The kids make a hotel for all these dogs and they just run round for an hour thirty? No talking dogs, just some kids cleaning shit up?"

"Yeah. I call it 'Hotel for Dogs'"

"Get the fuck out my office."

From the wilderness

2009-02-05T21:39:00.005Z

Do you know what I absolutely hate about London? The immigrants. Wait a sec, not really. If you want that sort of stuff you won’t find it here. Well, possibly from Lee (does every punch line need to be “Yeah, and then they went home”).

I’ve been a bit quiet of late, not entirely sure why. It’s resulted in me being an emotionless drone for the past week or so. A bit like Data from ‘Star Trek’, he knows that emotions exist but can only try to emulate them. Like how he has the cat, he’s only stroking it to but could just as easily crush its skull. Yeah, a bit like that.

A few things have got me recently, brought me round like smelling salts. First off, don’t wear sunglasses on your head at this time of year. I know that solar rays may be present even when it’s cloudy but c’mon, not after Monday’s Ice age.

Second, I just ate two of those Jelly Beans. The brand that are pretty amazing and actually taste like the flavours they’re meant to. They have a little recipe book in the inlay where you mix them to make things like ‘toffee apple’ and ‘fruit punch’. Anyway, whichever ones I blindly put in my mouth, they came together to taste exactly like shit.

Finally, Valentines Day is just around the corner. No doubt my schedule will be as free as a bird that night. I’ve told a friend at work to buy me a card and pretend she didn’t. I also suggested that me and my housemates all stay in, shave our faces and turn the lights off.

Soon...real soon.

down with the sickness

2009-02-05T18:54:00.002Z

I have some sort of hideous, disgusting disease this week, and I have been advised to blog about it.

It seems to be a stomach bug, because that's where the symptoms and the pain are centered. I won't go into further details, because it's horrid and smelly and has left me eating just banana bread and going to the toilet 12 times an hour.

I probably caught it by eating a) food off the floor b) gone off food or c) from licking a handrail on the tube. I'm joking! I don't eat off the floor.

It hit a peak around 4am today when I became delirious and was sweating profusely. I got out of bed, and was particularly worried because I had pretty bad chest pains to boot, and they are never good. Especially when you are 24 and eat pork scratchings on a semi-regular basis.

So in my panicked state I did what all sleep-deprived, delirious people do at 4am: I went on a web doctor website. I typed in my symptoms (vomiting, diarrhea, fever and a tightening of the chest) and I got up a few diagnosis:

Ebola

Stomach Flu

Legionnaires disease

Pancreatic cancer

In the cold light of the day, I could probably safely assume I have stomach flu. But at 4am you don't think straight, and my chest really hurt. I started feeling for lumps, but realised I didn't know where my pancreas was. I couldn't rule out ebola completely, because I did stand near this guy on the tube who looked like he lived with apes. And I don't know what Legionnaires is, but it sounds like something off of House, and I watch lots of House.

I would go to the doctor, but London seems to be full of people with sickly kids who have booked before me, so I can't visit one until June. So I am stuck with webMD and the unnerving feeling that I have ebola.

It's very cold rain, for fuck's sake

2009-02-02T19:13:00.006Z

AAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

Yes, it snowed today. No one died, nothing exploded but everyone acted like it did. I honestly heard someone compare today to the 7/7 tube bombings on an imaginary richter scale of tragedy/amazement/excitement.

London shut down. It was like the 9th circle of hell mixed with 'The Day After Tomorrow'. But Dennis Quaid didn't come and save me, oh no.

The newsreader on BBC London this morning was almost cuming in her knickers she was so excited, she really wanted to smile. Most of the tube lines had delays and the buses were suspended. The buses were suspended, people. They did weather reports every five minutes. They even brought out some weather people who never get air time, they looked as excited as the Farming Correspondants did during the foot and mouth crisis.

London was brought to it's knees. Once the greatest City in the greatest empire this world has ever seen, reduced to a husk because of snow. Last year I was in Kocise in Slovakia. It's a fucking shit hole, like all of Slovakia (don't believe me? Go on, go. You'll regret it) Anyway the day I was there the city saw 8" of snow in 4 hours, it was a proper blizzard. Everyone was working, and my train was bang on time, no one complained.

No one came to work today. I mean it was snowing, you can't expect people to brave the arctic weather can you? I went in, as did all my colleagues, but we have a newspaper to print tomorrow, so we had to. No one else's job seems to matter in London, so everyone else stayed home. I am sure plenty of people could have come in, no I know they could have, because I did and I even got a seat on the tube. But a good percentage of London work in sales, which doesn't really matter. They were not missed.

Oxford Street was packed with shoppers, too. They braved the arctic weather. Finsbury Park was packed, too. Packed with drunk people playing in the snow. Well, it was mainly mud by 5pm. So they were playing in mud, drunk.

Some wit drew a cock on the front of the car outside my house. Bet they didn't go to work either today.

Where's the Gap?

2009-02-02T18:42:00.002Z

“What’s happening, why can’t I feel my feet? I’ve never seen anything like this before! The endless blanket of white…”

“None of us have. Get indoors, somewhere dry and warm. You can’t feel your feet because you live in London and therefore you’re wearing delicate little plimsolls. Save who you can but if anyone falls…let the blanket of death envelope them”

That’s how today started, with a suspension of tubes, buses and sanity. Bill Turnbull had a mad look in his eye this morning, giggling away. I don’t think he had any trouble getting into work; he sleeps under Moira Stewart’s desks.

I toyed with the idea of not going into work, staying at home with a load of tinned stuff to outlast the winter. However, being a five minute walk from Finsbury Park oddly meant that it was far easier to get to Euston than normally. Also, if I’m being really honest, it turns out I’m naturally gifted in the snow. Like a beautiful snow leopard, you should have seen me bound.

The rest of London seemed mixed up in a flurry of excitement, panic and wonderment. Loads of people were taking pictures, making snowmen, drinking hot chocolate and laughing. I just ate an old skittle from down the back of the settee; “credit crunch”.

Introversial Loves Paul Burrell

2009-02-01T18:48:00.003Z

The first in our 'Introversial Heroes' series, documenting our favourite human beings on this earth, is Paul Burrell.

For those who are not in the know, Paul was Princess Diana's butler. When she was alive he did really important things like iron her bra, make her some mint tea and pick up after her budgie*. Paul, like all of us, really really loved Diana. But unlike all of us, he stole loads of boxes of her stuff and kept them in a cupboard for years. And wore her underwear.

He made a name for himself, after Diana was murdered*, by going on TV and talking about Diana. This developed into Burrell going on TV and talking about folding napkins and eating bananas with a knife and fork. He wrote about 22 books, all about Diana, and he also had a flower shop, with loads of pictures of Diana on the wall. Oh yeah, he also says he's not gay. While in his flower shop, with loads of pictures of Diana on the wall. And while loads of gay blokes keep telling the papers they shagged him, with documentary evidence of the fact.

Problem is, we don't care about Diana that much any more. We, as a caring nation, have new obsessions to pull at our heart strings, like the skinny one with the big head off of X Factor and Karen Matthews, the fat woman who unsuccessfully kidnapped her own kid for money. So Paul has fallen out of favor, so he's not on TV anymore. And that's bad for Paul, because Paul loves being on TV.

So Paul has begun to tell the world he knows something. We don't know what he knows, and he said he will never say what he knows. He is getting back on TV because he keeps telling people he knows something, but he won't tell what. Genius.

The thing is, Paul doesn't know shit. Paul was a big fairy who was good at shining silverware and picking up corgi poo. He realised he had shot his load soon after Diana's suicide* so he had to keep making stuff up. And he really, really loves being on TV.

Introversial loves Paul because he really believes he knows a secret, a secret that could rock the very foundations of this sceptered isle. He just hasn't thought what it is yet. But while he thinks of something he is going to hold onto Diana's stuff for a bit longer, for safe-keeping.

Remember to tune in next time, blog fans for another Introversial Heroes. Each edition will come with a 'cut out and keep' face of our hero, like the one of Paul, up there. After 36 weeks you will have enough faces to poster a very small, sad bedsit.

*These facts may or may not be true.

What have you been up to?

2009-01-31T08:49:00.003Z

"I've just been listening to Candle in the Wind a lot"

Look at it, Richard!

2009-01-28T21:50:00.003Z

I had to add this link to the blog, it's the funniest thing I have read in a long while.

My co-worker said I laughed like Beavis and/or Butthead while I read this. That's how good it is.

Thirteen fucking pounds

2009-01-26T19:47:00.002Z

Thirteen fucking pounds.

Thirteen fucking pounds. £13. For 18 pictures processed at Snappy Snaps.

That's 72p a picture. 7" x 5", matt with no border.

I left 18 of my favourite pics from my recent travels in Snappy Snaps, one of the few remaining photo labs left on the high street, thinking it might be £3.50, maybe £4. It's 18 little bits of paper. They don't have to go to a dark room, they don't need to buy red bulbs. Nope, a spotty twat called Dean can just press print. He doesn't even have to do that, oh no, Dean is a workshy little bastard; dean just 'Ctrl + P's.

So for about 3.45 seconds work, a one hundredth of a colour ink cartridge and and 18 small pieces of paper, they charged me £13.

Thirteen fucking pounds. And some of the pictures come out shit.

So what have I learned? Well, yet again London has pushed me up against a wall and buggered me with its prices. I've also learned that rent is expensive in the West End (their excuse when I asked why they had just raped me) and I have learned that I am still stupid enough to hand over the money.

Dean is probably out now, spending my money on weed and Sainsbury's own brand cookies. While I am here with some below-average print work. Thank you Snappy Snaps, thank you.

A few things...

2009-01-25T22:43:00.011Z

First off,

I'd just like to make a full and personal apology on behalf of Lee. This thing of ours, this torrent of hatred/self loathing with some pretty pictures has become very 'Chris heavy' of late. Lee's gone rouge, off the radar smoking cigarettes and hanging out in Beat nik clubs. I've tried to have a quite word, let him know we have a reading public who want their length of Lee (Hi Rob!). He doesn't care though, tries to say that things like working extra hours, being married and having a social life are what's getting in the way. He knows it's not good enough and will send anyone who e-mails in their postal address a picture of himself topless, looking out of a window at a sunset. It was an early marketing ploy, we've got two cases full of them so please write in.

Also, this morning was one of the worst hangovers of recent times. I had tears in my eyes and a rip in my stomach lining. The reason? Singstar. We've had this PS3 just sitting in a Tescos carrier bag after a house party we had ages ago. Turns out that Singstar is actually the perfect night in for four lads in their mid 20's. Me and Lee were by far the weaker duet. We did decide that although we might not sing the 'Singstar' way, we had the most feeling. The other two were going for 'consistency' and 'tone' but they did not look as good kneeling on the carpet with their tops off. I'm fairly certain I could feel Jimmy Morrison's proud hand on my shoulder, "finally, someone to take over my mantel". All this was going on as we banged through 9 bottles of wine, drank some whiskey and smoked cigarettes, then we started investing in songs. Downloading Bowie and Toni Braxton. I love David Bowie, like asking girls to sing the first few lines of "Jean Genie" in bed like him. Didn't sing it though, too drunk. Too drunk for David Bowie, I literally feel ashamed.

...We've already planned the next one. We're all going to buy £5 worth of songs each, really build up the back catalogue. All I need to do is reign in my showboating.

Tom's Pic

2009-01-24T09:28:00.002Z

Hello,

Have look at the above picture, drawn by Tom Kollmann. We attended the same Cartoonin' class at the back end of this year. I love this picture, it's so grimy, full of movement and feels of a time & a place. The plan is to get it printed onto a t-shirt at some point but at the minute I don't have enough money to buy basic food stuffs. Although I do have £7 sat in scratchcards. Recession proof!

"Lady luck is fickle but a lady is allowed to change her mind"

2009-01-24T08:01:00.001Z

The Fifth

2009-01-22T18:21:00.003Z

Tuesday the 20th of January 2009,

A historic day, I mean...just wow. That's right, Battlestar Galactica finally made it's way back onto our screens. I never thought I'd see the day, hadn't even let myself dream about it. 'Hope', such a soft fragile world, often feeling like a small plant growing from dead, nuclear soil. Even the slightest breeze could take it away. On Tuesday it felt like something in the universe went right for once... I got to look at Adalma's grizzled face again.

It was an amazing hour of television but my God, it was bleak. Bleak like the husk that is Earth or wherever it is. If people weren't killing themselves they were trying to, looking a bit miserable. It was powerful though, stark and real (well, as real as space ships and robots can be). I think watching it might have actually stung a bit at one point. The use of 'Frak' has never been more blatant either. I'm sure in series one it was used far less frequently and the meaning was less obvious. Series 4 isn't 'fraking' about with lines like "She was fraking everyone in the fleet". It just means fuck and there's no two ways about it. I'm also fairly sure there was a reference to the urethra in this weeks episode.

There is one problem though which detracted from the feeling of sheer unbridled awe, Iggy Pop. Weird, gnarled skin bag Iggy. His lust for life style persona used rather nonsensically to try and sell me car insurance. The guy looks as if he's never worn a t-shirt, let alone driven a Fiat Punto.

That aside, that Barack chap became the President. I won't go on about it, too many people are. I saw these two fruity Brit lads who went all the way over there to see him being sworn in. That's a bit much, watch it on Al Jazeera like everyone else. I have his book, and his action figure. If you're ever on the 253 towards Camden in the morning, keep an eye out for a scruffy looking chap with hay like hair reading 'Dreams of My Father'. Note that he won't be reading a single word of it, he's just trying to catch girls eyes with a sort of "oh, this? Well, it's Barack's book - yes, I know" look.

There was only 12 of them

2009-01-19T22:46:00.001Z

Right

2009-01-18T15:46:00.003Z

Everyone in London is right. Not one decision made by the 8 million is ever wrong. You are bumped into on the street because that was their right of way. So they pushed into you.

A woman just swanned passed 8, yes 8, people in a Sainsbury's queue. She didn't give a shit. She even looked round at us, as we stared at her, open mouthed, like she had murdered a child. A similar thing happened waiting for Oyster top-up on Monday morning, a fat bastard just walked past and jammed his sweaty coins into the machine with his sausage-like mitts.

But she was right, and he was right. Everyone is right and you are wrong.

The tube magnifies this bloody-minded arrogance. It makes even the nicest person a cock of megalomaniac proportions. That's my spot, I am going to get on this train and this is where I am going to stand. So fuck you and fuck you. This is put to the test when a hauty middle-aged twat twitters: "Can you move down, please". No, fuck off Grandma. My spot, I'm right and you can kiss my arse.

The trouble is rarely are people right. In fact 99% of the time, London is wrong. Of course, I am right, but everyone else is wrong.

The end is nigh!

2009-01-18T08:30:00.006Z

Okay,

It’s the end of the world. I’m not sure how exactly but it’s happened. Possibly in an obvious, ‘disease’ related way, a plague we hadn’t made provisions for or was too aggressive to combat. Maybe it’s something more elaborate, a ‘Triffids’ style astrological blinding of the whole human, thus rendering us at the mercy of those giant man eating plants.

Either way, you’re either the one person, or one of the very few who have been spared from the cull of humanity. A pretty heavy thing to think about really, something me and my friends talked through in a Weatherspoons. What exactly would you do in that situation, imagining you woke up one morning and found that over night humanity had ground to a halt?

Perhaps it might all be too much to handle. Thinking about the entire collective history of the human race may tip you over the edge. One of my friends reckoned that he’d top himself within the hour (although, secretly I think that’s just because he couldn’t live in a world where there’d be no one to listen to him). Every book or piece of history would be nothing; you’d be all that was left as an example of humanity. That’s a bit too much responsibility, I was sick on a bus once, it oozed down the aisle towards some kids. I felt dead low.

I reckon I’d do some right odd stuff if left to my own devices for too long. Even spending an afternoon by myself results in me developing new words for universal language, wearing odd clothes and drawing all over myself. And the masturbation, red raw my little fella is. I think in this setting I’d go royally off my rocker, I’d build a shrine to the forgotten age, old music players and Andy Warhol pictures everywhere. A bit like Camden Market I suppose. Listening to music on a crackly old gramophone, drinking tea from a china cup while the Gherkin falls into the earth. Oh, and I’d definitely be wearing a cravat.

I also decided I’d have a wander down to the MI5 building, have a read of some secrets. When it was pointed out to me that I’d most likely be unable to get into all the digitally encrypted files we decided to settle for going down to Buckingham palace and having a tug over the Queen’s pillow.

Here’s a list of what we’d get up to pending near obliteration of the human race:

Ride a little golf cart. Everywhere.
Go down to Oxford Street and set Topshop on fire.
Find Tommy Cooper's fez (What, ride a golf cart without a fez?)
Asphyxi-wank at No. 10, then remove that big gold sceptre from Parliament and put it in the cart.
Go to the arcades in high heels.

Tears for fears

2009-01-17T15:55:00.001Z

"By the end we were both crying. I think it was then that I realised the whole 'gay' thing wasn't really me"

A support group?

2009-01-16T10:39:00.000Z

The MDL

2009-01-16T09:43:00.004Z

"Hey baby, do you like cloudy drinks and moist, dark car boots?

If so, pick me"

A literal stream of thought

2009-01-15T20:18:00.004Z

Okay,

An observation and some general things. First off, if you see someone with a cassette player in 2009, something isn't right. I saw this chap on Oxford street, whipping out his Sony Walkman. For reasons I can't fully explain I was gripped with panic. This shell suited chap wasn't wearing it in some trendy Hoxton style way ("Hey, aren't cassettes like totally cool?" Not really, if we're honest. They got obliterated into history by the CD. It was Darwinism at it's most beautiful). I instantly thought, 'God, he got that as a gift from a visitor. He's loose!'.

Also, and I know I shouldn't be gutted but I am, Patrick Maghooan has died. I loved him and The Prisoner. I realised that I base a lot of my office persona on his Number 6. In these times of redundancies & cost cutting what you certainly don't need to do is act like a man who can't be bent by the system. If anything I should be defacing myself at every single turn to keep my job.

"I'm not a number!"

"No one said you were, this is a disciplinary hearing"

CX

"I hate manure"

2009-01-13T23:07:00.002Z

LondonLove

2009-01-12T23:50:00.010Z

The LondonPaper - 5 minutes of not very entertaining tosh (for those not in the know it's one of the two evening free papers commuters are hit with on the way home from work) but one thing that always catches the eye is LondonLove.

LondonLove is a section where people can blindly text in attempts at finding love: "To the brown haired hottie who likes to sit down on my train in the morning" or "To the fit bird on the tube..." you know, "romantics" who think true love is perving on someone on public transport. So you text in with your plea, and maybe, just maybe, the lucky boy or girl will respond "YES! I love you too, strange person who I have never met".

Anyway here are some of our attempts, that we shall be texting in. Keep an eye out!

“To the extremely muscley woman at Paddington on Thursday, I was the tiny, mustached man with the comb over. Can I watch you work out? Please?"

“I was the tall guy with the hundred yard stare and the knife on the N4 night bus to Islington on Saturday. Any of the women on there will do.”

“You told me to ‘fuck off you fucking weirdo, put your cock away’ on the tube at Baker Street on Wednesday night. Want to give it another go?”

“Homeless man who just stole a guy’s mobile needs change for food. You will find me in a green sleeping bag at Liverpool Street. Nothing less than 50p, please, my dealer is pissed off at me using coppers.”

“To the girl who always dresses really funky at Tufnell Park, In my head you’re the answer to my bullshit life. Drinks? xox”

“To the shift eyed, scruffy looking man at Tottenham Court Road. I know you took my purse but I think I love you”

“I was the guy kicking the shit out of the asian fella on the 12:02 to Milton Keynes, you were the fit bitch looking on, horrified. Meet up, yeah?”

“To the really old creepy guy who stares at me in the mornings while touching his cock, my self esteem has hit rock bottom after a series of life-shattering let downs. Quick fuck in the toilets tomorrow?”

“I was the guy at Goodge St tube station, you’re the girl who had a clump of her hair pulled out at Goodge street Tube station – I still have it x”

“You’re the girl reading The Da Vinci code, five years after everyone else. I’m the guy that whispered the ending in your ear at Oxford St”

"Well at least I tried God damn it"

2009-01-11T16:52:00.004Z

"Yeah, initially I was glad to see Wispas, but now I'm bored of them again"

Toilet attendants

2009-01-11T12:27:00.006Z

I'm a bit hungover, so I am not going to beat around the bush. I hate toilet attendants.

If I am paying £8 for a vodka, I think it's pretty fair that I get to piss that up the wall for free. And I know £8 is too much for some watered down, cheap vodka and some economy OJ, but there is an honesty to being ripped off in a trendy, City bar. They could write "we will be ripping you off, you stupid dickhead" on the door, but they don't need to. I know it's going to happen, they know it's going to happen so let's get on with it, and make it a double.

But having a bloke standing around the toilet, usually singing something about sex, is not an honest arrangement. It's supposed to be a break from de riguer of the evening - a few minutes where it's a bit quieter, you can have a breather and think about what you are doing.

Every man in a bar on a saturday night will unzip, begin splashing out the urine which cost oh so much to create and heave a big sigh. That sigh is a little indication that we know we are talking rubbish, shamelessly attempting to have sex with anything in a skirt and helping our livers die just a bit quicker. We know what we are doing is sad and wrong and will only lead to pain, frustration and regret in the morning but we are doing it anyway. So leave me the fuck alone to wee in peace.

Also, I am confident of few of my abilities, but one I pretty much have down pat is the ability to toilet. I can release all that needs to be released in a timely manner and clean up after myself without too many problems. Oh there have been slips - a splash here, a mark there, the occasional unwashed hand - but I am, on the whole, good at going to the toilet. Thank you.

So why should I have to give a tip to a barely-hirable idiot who's only job is to stand behind me, watch me piss (and maybe comment on my abilities) then offer me some soap and a handtowel? I can squeeze soap out of a dispenser myself and I can pick a towel from a pile myself. Shit, I can even wipe my own hands.

No, I don't want a squirt of cheap cologne, I have my own. And no I don't want a lollypop, I am not on pills or 10. I want to wee alone, maybe have a mumbled conversation about how pissed I am with a fellow micturator, heave a big sigh, and then maybe wash my own hands. I don't want to have to feel obliged to give a twat a pound for a job that I can, and wish to do myself.

There was a time where men were not paid to stand around toilets. They paid for the privilege. And no matter what people say about George Michael, dammit it's more honest than the toilet attendant scam that's blighting the stinking piss holes of our country's fine establishments.

2009-01-10T19:08:00.002Z

The Black Dossier

2009-01-10T11:24:00.004Z

Tales of intrigue,

I got an interesting message on Facebook the other day from the mysterious Ms Black. She isn't a 'friend' of mine on there (but how many really are?), she had no profile picture and she was asking who I was.

She wanted to know if I was the same Chris who was in the Army (!), the one who was stationed in Korea (!!). Wow, I wasn't really sure what to make of it. I have a namesake who's some kick arse G.I.

I had a couple of odd reactions to this. The first was this really existential line of thought where I started to think about my life, all the things I hadn't done. This other Chris had been off, fighting in that damn war. Probably fell in love with a local girl, shaped some experiences with his bear hands.

Secondly, and inevitably, my mind turned to sexual thoughts. I began to think, I could say that I'm the same guy. She may get on a plane from where ever she is, she may be beautiful. When she gets here it could be played one of two possible ways. First, she could get here and find my lies and deceit hilarious and endearing. We'd tell our kids the story of how I pretended to be a Green Beret before she found out I was actually a clammy office spore. Alternatively, I could sidle up to her and just say, "Yeah, well, I know that the last time we saw each other I was this 6" black guy but, y'know, this war has changed us all baby".

Lee (co-author, constant kick and the occasional finger up, the arse) thought that it was some CIA plot. That I'd end up in the same cow shed where they hanged Saddam, having the shit water boarded out of me.

In the end I decided to do the right thing and tell her I wasn't the same guy she was looking for. I told her that I probably couldn't be further away from this other Chris and that the closest I'd ever been to being in the armed forces was my big long stint on Call of Duty. Not exactly the same, but it probably gave me a 15 rather than a 1000 yard stare.

I wished her luck though, especially if he was on the lamb from paternity payments.

CX

Theatreland

2009-01-08T22:17:00.004Z

I ventured into Theatreland today. I never have before, but today I dipped my toe into the part of London I have always thought of as bit 'fruity'.

It's a strange world, the theatre. A world of grease paint, of curtains, of drama, of comedy. A world of laughter, of tears, of showmen and of elderly homosexuals in make-up.

I didn't see a show nor did I act. No, I just bought some tickets for a friend's visiting sister. She wanted to see a) Dirty Dancing or b) Lion King, so I offered to pop down and buy them.

When I asked for the tickets, I was offered "restricted view" tickets to Dirty Dancing for just £52 each, or a "full view" for £64.

Now I thought every ticket to a play, or for anything for that matter was a "full view" ticket. I didn't know that a proportion of theaters had 'shit' seats. Like at school where if you got in last you had to sit next to the smelly, weird kid who blatantly couldn't wipe his own arse and smelt like marmite all the time.

So this meant for £52 each they could almost see the play. For £64 each they could see all the play. That's a discount of nearly 20% - but is it restricted by nearly 20%? It would help if they gave brief explanations of how 'restricted' the seat is:

£64 - full view.

£58 - just sort of behind a pillar, won't really piss you off, you might tut a bit to begin with.

£52 - it'll piss you off a bit, your neck will hurt from straining and at one point you will whisper 'I can't see a bloody thing'.

£37 - this seat is shit. You can't see a fucking thing. You'll probably walk out half way through.

It's like going into a restaurant and being told half your meal is inedible. Would you still pay nearly full price if the waiter told you the chef had wiped his balls on nearly 20% of the steak?

I opted for Lion King "full view" tickets. Least that way, if it's shit, they will know first hand.

Xbox for sale

2009-01-06T21:52:00.003Z

Right,

I'm selling my Xbox. I brought it on a crazy whim after getting £200 extra back from an old flat deposit. Spent an extra £100 on games and a wireless Internet connection and subsequently lost about 5 months of my life, my ability to think and my girlfriend.

I got on this crazy drug, a dizzying high called Call of Duty 4. Nothing made sense anymore, I snapped at colleagues and friends alike literally just thinking about getting back online and tapping the right thumbstick. Thus garroting an American kid. Maybe throwing a smoke grenade...oh yeah, slowly.

In a weird way, it was the best of times but it was also starkly the opposite, I'd go so far as to say it was one of the single most depressing sections of my life. The first thing that hits you, playing at being an army man, is the breathing problems. The amount of respiratory disorders online is gruesome. A load of teenagers, wheezing away making some horrid comments. Not just horrid, some really out of order stuff, although that is mostly the Americans. Once though, I did hear three Manch teenagers ripping into some American kid who said some rubbish joke about Michael Jackson being like an Oreo or something. One just went, "No mate, no. That's really good mate. Where'd you get that, off the back of a Penguin bar". Mental.

Literally in all the time I spent on that infernal machine I could have become conversational in French, or really good at sex. Rather than being a sort of "Listen baby...it's just because I like you so much. Don't leave...please" type of guy.

Fashion

2009-01-06T19:53:00.006Z

Teeny, tiny, little leather jackets,

Teeny, tiny, red pumps,

Teeny, tiny, little pairs of jeans,

Fucking huge scarves.

It's really cold in London this week, barely over -5C (about 20F, Americans), but clothes haven't changed much. Well, the scarves have got bigger, exponentially. Each drop in degree adds about 6 or 7 inches of neck knitwear.

Twisted round and round and round, on top of tiny little jackets.

I think people have been watching too many Loony Toons. They have watched Bugs Bunny skating on ice, turning Elmer Fudd into a snowman, merely wearing a scarf and people have assumed that Bugs is a decent barometer of winter wear. 'Oooh it looks chilly, what would a cartoon rabbit wear?'

London, Bugs Bunny should not define winter wear. Put on a big coat, some gloves and maybe a hat. And blow your fucking nose. There is nothing more unattractive than a sad-looking sniffer, girls.

No, I love YOU!

2009-01-05T22:14:00.002Z

"Okay, it turns out I'm not nearly as good looking as I thought I was.

Whadda ya say we give it another shot babe? I mean your life must have lost a lot of music after I split"

The Things I Now Know about...Nicholas Rowe

2009-01-03T17:56:00.007Z

I see a lot of celebrities,

Okay, maybe that's not 100% accurate. I've seen a couple of celebrities since I've moved to London. I saw Amy Winehouse on the Northern line, messing with her fellas pork pie hat once. He had a distant look in his eyes, almost as if he was thinking "Okay, Back to Blacks selling awfully quickly & no one really has any idea what I actually do for a living - I can cope with this".

Mostly though, I tend to see a whole host of former, bit part or fringe celebrities. Today I was lucky enough to stumble across a real gem. Nicholas Rowe, I chiefly remember him from the 1985 art house smash, Young Sherlock Holmes. A poignant and heart wrenching tale of mystery, first love and ultimately...loss. There is also a scene a gravestone turns into a fridge and all the cakes come alive and start messing about with young Watson, something to do with mind bending, hallucinogenic Egyptian drugs & human sacrifice. All very much in line with the spirit of Doyle. For his part, Rowe takes the character of Holmes and delivers an aloof intellectual, bubbling with sexual intensity. He was also one of the stoners in Lock Stock, the one who got his foot blown off through the cage.

Here are the things I now know about Nicholas Rowe as of this afternoon:

He got on the Victoria line at Finsbury Park.
He's reading 'Things fall apart' by Chinua Achebe. I couldn't judge his reading speed, I am also equally unsure if this is a first time, or a re-read.
He had four sealed envelopes. Belated Christmas cards (I can only think of one person who could solve this problem...like the way he solved the mystery on his first day at boarding school - the clay was from the art department!)?
He's a tall chap, he had some black shoes on. They didn't really go with his jeans.
His wife puts a splash of lavender on their pillow every night*.

*This is purely guesswork. I had to fight a powerful, sexual urge not to get off & follow him at Kings Cross.

Welcome to Introversial

2009-01-03T15:23:00.001Z

Good tidings merry gentlefolk,

Welcome to Introversial in London, a blog and cartoon website created by a couple of cheeky cockney chappies* living and breathing in't City in't 2009.

It might be a bit risky, a bit racy and always a little blue but we aim to put across what we see, do and think in and amongst the grey and the fog of London town.

We will always try to update as regularly as we can, but we are only human. Sometimes there will be something good on telly.

So enjoy, feedback, comment, tell your friends and 'ctrl D' the shit out of us.

C & L

* disclaimer: we are not cheeky nor cockney

Drug maths

2009-01-03T14:42:00.002Z

Going past some yoofs in Camden yesterday, I was treated to some very technical drug maths.

Yoof 1: "'ow much we gonna get yeah?"

Yoof 2: "Well, right, we bin off a week yeah, and we gone through 30 quid's worth, and we still 'ave a week left."

Yoof 1: "So we gotta get 40 quid's worth?"

Yoof 3: "yeah, man, get 40"

Yoof 2: "yeah, bruv, wicked"

Drug maths. 2 + 2 = 4 and a bit. 3 + 3 = about 8. 10 + 10 = shitloads.

Post Christmas Oxford Circus Sales: A Review

2008-12-30T21:22:00.005Z

I've just got back from a stint of post work bargain hunting. In a bit of a panic I hit Oxford Street for some 'Black Tie' related stuff. It turns out that when my office relaxed the dress code, and then refused to take me to task about my relaxed interpretation of the dress code, all my serious job clothes have turned to dust and got replaced with tight little jumpers & colourful shoes ("Okay, the sash is about two things, firstly, I'm not customer facing. Secondly - freedom").

I hit Oxford Street in a mad dash for a New Years triumph, I mean I do have a black tie, but I think I buried relatives in it. So I don't want to take that vibe into 2009, that'll be maudlin enough thank you ("Well, it wasn't exactly rape, but it was in a grey area" - shh, leave that all in '08).

First off, Topman. I got a fair old chunk of Vietnamese finery in there, including a skinny black tie and some trainers, I literally don't need. A couple of observations though, Topman only does clothing in three sizes. These are three sizes that might as well be the Hindu Caste system, 'XXS', 'S' & 'Fuck YOU, you're a disgrace'. I had a lovely chat with a camp chap who worked there and apparently he gets a week off in January as a reward. It didn't sound that bad but he had a look in his eye that broke my heart. Put all my petty bullshit into perspective, he looked liked Beirut. Although instead of massacres his horror was all those paper bits they use to stuff the shoes. A mountain of them... so senseless.

After that it was straight across the road to River Island. The main, instant visible difference between the two outlets? About a stone and a half per sales assistant. The Topman crowd have this whole 'Beautiful People' vibe but when you're in River Island a part of you is also in the Harlequin Centre, Watford. It's a bit grim. That said, I did get myself some crimson pumps. It's almost as if I can't be happy unless I look exactly like Gene Wilder in Willy Wonker (i.e. "Hi, I've just moved into the area... I'm on a certain list you may have heard of").

Then, Uniqlo, which was shut. How arrogant. No seriously, I really wanted some 'Heat Tech' clothing.

Careful what you type

2008-12-28T15:31:00.003Z

I just tried to get on the blog, but typed 'introversial.blogpsot.com' by mistake.

See what you get.....here. It's literally the opposite of what we are trying to do on this blog, ie. defunct the prophecies of the Lord God Jesus Christ.

The main one

2008-12-24T20:18:00.003Z

Okay,

Let's drop some of the niceties. I read something the other day, not something I'd usually pick up or read. I wasn't in a waiting room, I wasn't waiting to have an interview with the bank manager. I was trying to look down a cleavage on the underground.

Let's stop pretending that this lovely little tea party, the one where we all pretend to respect each other and know what the word 'platonic' means, is where we really want to be. We're all sweaty, perverted monsters, as Bernie Mac says in 'Bad Santa', it's Darwinian.

Anyway, I was trying to look at a bra, my commute was gruesome. I deserved it. However, it wasn't happening, I couldn't crane my head any further, it'd looked a bit improper so I had to settle by having a little read over her shoulder. It was More magazine, not my preferred read but the heading caught my eye.

'9 Ways to spice up you sex life'. This was written for women, meaning that it was 9 tips to make the experience more pleasurable for the man. I couldn't believe what I was reading...9?! I couldn't understand it. Neither could Lee, we had a sit down and thrashed out some specifics (he's also married, so I'm not sure if that closes or opens some sex doors).

All we could come up with were the three below:

Do it dead hard, till it hurts a bit.
Up the bum.

& finally:

3. Spit on it.

Real Christmas

2008-12-24T14:21:00.003Z

Dickens is dead. There is no more white Christmas in London. It's just Starbucks with Christmas themed lattes, Ann Summers selling santa themed cheap lingerie and weird, weird Selfridges windows (Santa with loads of beer cans, I don't get it). So I have escaped for a real Christmas in the Mid West.

Over here in Minnesota, people genuinely want you to have a merry Christmas. They really, really do. The weather is currently hovering round -15C, so there is a real need for a hearth, hot cocoa and wrapping up warm. People carol like they mean it and it's the thought that counts.

I have been sledging, ice skating, and snowballing. We have mulled wine, nogged egg and will probably have a fairytale dinner. The radio is filled with White Christmas, people are carrying round wreaths with a smile. The saccarine could kill.

But damn it, it's real. London Christmas is all about signs on the tube saying 'Don't fall on the tracks, fuckwit' or 'Don't piss yourself, you pathetic piece of shit'. People will drink themselves to death, then crawl on an overground train back to whatever suburban shithole they came from. It will rain, your parents will criticise you for not planning your future and all you will want to do is rush back to the grey metropolis to go back to drink the New Year into oblivion. You will get gifts you hate, wince as you think of the credit card bill waiting on your doorstep then wince again at the thought of another year of drudgery.

I'll probably build a snowman, wear a big wooly jumper and sing round a piano. So fuck London.

Oxford Street at Christmas

2008-12-19T19:51:00.004Z

Scene: The Somme, Christmas, 1915

Private: "Why sir, 'tis sunrise. Must be Christmas day, cor' blimey"

Sergeant: "Damn you Smithkins, I'm sick of your insolence!"

Private: "But sir, it's the 'appiest time of the year. Why right na, daaan Laaaandon taaaan, the arfs are bein' lit, the carollers are warming their vocal cords and the little street ragamuffins are 'avin a snow ball fight. All along White Chapel, you can smell the turkey, 'ear the songs and feel the good cheer that comes this time of year. And that warms me cockels, so it does, while us poor souls are 'ere, bein' shot at by fritz"

Sergeant: "I'm sorry Smithkins, you're right. It's this damned war, ye' see? I'm not a bad chap, got a girl back home, mother and father are probably worried silly for me. Nannie will have got the presents round the tree, little Johnnie will be so excited. Even Parsons, the grumpy old gamekeeper will be happy, with a port in his hand and a grouse under his arm. It's wonderful back home, this time and all, snow on the fields, the old cook's wonderful plum duff. Blast it Smithkins, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas one and all!"

Private: "Oh sir! Merry Christmas!"

(all of a sudden several dozen German troops bound into the trench, the pair unawares as they embrace)

German soldier: "Hey! Halt! Acht! Jetzt! Jetzt!"

Sergeant: "What the....?"

(The Sergeant is cut off as the Germans open fire at point blank range. Both men are mowed down by the hail of gunfire, their insides explode into the stagnant black mud that's been their home for a year. They fall into the mud, hand in hand)

Private: "Sir (coughs blood) I think this is the end. Sir, I'm sorry I failed you."

Sergeant: "No, Smithkins, aaarrrghh, it's me who failed you. If only I'd...arrggghh...damn this war..."

Private: "I can't feel my legs, sir. It's all...it's all cold sir..."

Sergeant: "Ye gads, it hurts, maybe I can get up, maybe...."

(A German soldier sees them trying to get up)

German: Nein! Nein! (mows them down once again. Into the dirt, the excrement and the blood of a million innocent souls)

I would rather be there than on Oxford Street this week.

"Please sir, Can I have some more?" Greedy little shit.

2008-12-19T16:45:00.004Z

It's the season isn't it? No, not the season for all your warped family shit to come spewing out over the Christmas Turkey. It's meant to be about the last five minutes of a Christmas Carole (As in the movie, depending on reading speed it'd be dead difficult to judge the last 5 minutes of the Dickens - watched scrooged, it's better), Scrooge opening his window, yelling at that kid to skip away down the street to get a goose that you know'll have been a bit much for someone with a crutch.

That's right, Charity. Giving to others who are less fortunate than ourselves at the most difficult time of the year ("You know what, I could not have a turkey this year & just leave the oven on..."). I get this, I rarely give to others, in any way. It's kind of a personal 'thing' of mine to view any benevolence to others as a weakness in character (I think 'The Prince' ruined my mind). However, I know this isn't the right thing to do, I bitch & moan a lot about being skint all the time when really I spend all my money on buying Pate and silly t-shirts. Some people have it really bad, some people can't have hallumi when they want it & never saw Luche Libre at The Roundhouse.

...However, I'd like to know when exactly the art of soliciting donations for worthy causes became such a blood thirsty, militaristic endeavour. Nowadays you're walking down the street, literally minding your own business (probably for fear of being attacked/witnessing some nastiness and not doing 'the right thing' - that's right, read the fine print on The London Paper, no one saw anything) when all of a sudden, out of nowhere you are launched upon by a mad, wild eyed zealot. That's probably not right, the first thing that hits you is an odd smell, I've figured out what it is. It's the smell of recently removed greasepaint. That's right, they're all drama students who, after many a 'we're really looking for an actor with more range" has decided that those bills aren't going to pay themselves. It's not the end of the world though, maybe one of your victims will be Kenneth Branagh, although he will still probably think you're a twat.

It's just so personal and invasive. I reckon the psychology behind it is similar to that of the crusades, mixed with an acute telesales style logic. Imagine back in the day, a group of Muslim lads, chilling out, playing Hac-e-sac, when all of a sudden over the hill bounds a legion of soldiers powered by their unearthly rightness. My ex used to do it, she had some pretty convincing arguments in favour, ones I couldn't really argue back to. But, to someone who struggles to fill 5 minutes with my nearest & dearest it's a real trial. Especially with the mixture of extreme elation & aggression ("So you want to be my best friend or you'll kick me directly in the face?").

Finally, I've put together some excellent avoidance techniques for minimising the conversations with these types:

"Scope you say? No thank you, one of them killed my Grandad"
"Battered women want my help? I doubt it, I tend to contribute to the problem (universal sign for 'drinky drinky'")
"Yes, you can have £2 a month, all you have to do in return is tell me the most horrific, disgusting secret you have"
"Yes, I could spare the money, that's my business, I haven't once commented on your weird skin thing"

Sketchbook

2008-12-16T20:15:00.001Z

"It's bigger than hip hop"

Two to the five to Threezle

2008-12-15T19:37:00.002Z

I normally catch the bus to work at a decent time. Living only 20 minutes away I get to see sunlight, Metro givers & and a range of impish, emotionally impotent office workers.

Work has gotten a feel of 'Siberian Salt Mine' about it recently so this morning I found myself up before 7, where a load of odd jogger types own the streets. It was pitch black, colder and crueler.

The bus ride was a completley different story. No one was reading no one made the custom sideward glance eye shuffle. This set of lunatics held every gaze from under their peaked caps. There were no suits to be seen, just hard looks & calloused, honest hands.

They could see my clammy, office trotters a mile off. Especially when my slender fingers struggled to keep hold of the railings...

God Bless You

2008-12-13T15:54:00.006Z

I have just been blessed on the train.

Some old fellow with a limp and a bible in his pocket went round our carriage and blessed us repeatedly. He mumbled something about some 'Jesus' person and then he asked the Devil to leave us.

Now, I am not going to turn down a quick blessing, God knows I could do with one. But I don't like the assumption that the Devil is in me, or that if he is I want him removed. He might be the best bit of me for all I know. And now Wacky McBlessyou had rid him from me. I might wake up tomorrow all forgiving. Or I might give to charity. Or I might even be joyful and triumphant.

Shit. I have just bought a cardigan which wouldn't look out of place in a Anglican disco. And I gave up my seat on the last leg of my tube ride...I might have lost my Beelzebub mojo....

Nope. Just had some very unchristian thoughts, phew. Come to think of it, he did spend most of his time blessing a black guy and then yelling at him. Maybe he was just a crazy old racist.

2008-12-12T00:42:00.002Z

The other night I saw this awesome statement, literally scrawled on the front of a mouldy, rusty old "ribbed for her pleasure" wall mount.

It's been there from a different era, it's seen governments rise & fall, Rutger Hauer rise like a shooting star, crash into the dirt and then come back. Possibly, to be honest, its probably seen the odd reach over and cupping.

"Friends, how many of us have them". Jesus, that's some strong stuff. Some real emotion has been scratched onto the box ("You want to avoid the STIs but the it's the tetanus that'll get ya").

I'd like to think that the situation played out where the fellow was talking with a girl, he isn't exactly Rutger Hauer, it doesn't come naturally to him but somehow a bonds been formed. He begins to get a glimmer of hope, "you know what...it may end up in some hand holding".

He's into safe sex, he saw the advert where the guys mates go "you need to go in goal, get some practice wearing your gloves" (the reality would be "Yeah, bear back") so he thinks he'll get some, you know...johnnies (sic?). However, just as the pound is rolling around the entry he gets a text off his best mate saying:

"Listen, that bird, I've gone home with her"

Black Hole

2008-12-10T18:50:00.005Z

I know we like to blog about the doings and goings on in Laaaandon town, but I thought I would step back and ponder something bigger.

This week Germans have discovered that there is a black hole at the centre of our universe.

It's as wide as our orbit, 4.3 million times more massive than the sun and is so strong light cannot escape it. But it's 27,000 light years away (2554342670000000 km), so it's not going to ruin your tea or anything.

The black hole bit is just the event horizon, the point where light can't escape. The actual hole is a singularity, one infinitesimal point at which everything is sucked in. Like Kerry Katona's gob.

Just imagine. A black hole. Something so big and powerful it rips space. I couldn't rip into a polythene bag containing some potatoes not 10 minutes ago, I had to use the knife.

It makes things like war and politics and tube trains a bit insignificant when you know just a few billion galaxies away there is something sucking up the very essence of existence and then maybe spewing it out in another dimension or one billion years into the future.

But then your phone rings and it's fucking O2 trying to sell you fucking insurance, again, and all the dreams of magnificence and the almighty poof out of your head while you try not to swallow your phone.

"Is that Mr Jones yeah?"

"yes. what?"

"right, Mr Jones, you know you could have insurance on your phone yeah?"

"I was busy. I was contemplating the heavens. I was pondering the majesty of our universe. I was trying to fit into my head the fact that there are more stars than there are grains of sand on this planet. I was trying to grapple with the absolute incredible, sir"

"So you want the insurance yeah?"

The State of the Nation

2008-12-10T08:13:00.006Z

I'm terrified,

I don't know exactly when it happened or what changed to make it so but something has gone very wrong with Britain. It seems like we're only a radical new fashion trend away from living in A Clockwork Orange, a dash of the old ultraviolence has become fairly commonplace. Yesterday I read about some poor chap who fell asleep on public transport, which can happen, only he didn't wake up at Cockfosters and think "Shit, now I'll have to get the N29 back". No, he woke up on fire.

Some hoodlums, teenagers in hoodies had set him alight while he was having a little nap. It's genuinely horrifying, I'm of the same cloth, get me a couple of after work beers, slightly warm, possibly a flapjack and I'm sound asleep. A bit like a 13 stone Northern hamster. Who'd set a hamster on fire? Lunatic kids, that's who. Maybe if they'd eaten something a little better than burger meals for the last decade they'd be semi-functioning members of society but no, all those e numbers have made them equate a sleeping commuter with an annoying bit of tinder.

On this subject, what's with people carrying knives around. Now I can imagine that it feels awesome. I've often thought that some situations could be resolved better with a small weapon, probably a revolver ("This is what you want Nicky? I Love you"). We went to The Roundhouse in Camden to watch the Mexican Wrestling and some Recruitment Consultants (the filth of humanity) kept pushing in front of us. I reckon that Samantha (44 Mag) would get us the best seats in the house. However, I also realise that these are the impotent thoughts of a man who avoids confrontation at all costs.

Talking this through with some friends I decided England had gone to hell in a hand basket and it would probably be best to opt out at some point. However, we decided that it's not the worst place on the planet. Sure, there is a chance that if you say the words "Excuse me, there is a queue here", you do run the risk of getting hacked to death mercilessly by an N Dub but Jesus, at least it's a queue to a Pret.

Lessons learned from cheap buffet

2008-12-07T10:29:00.006Z

All you can eat ye say? well sir, I would like to jump aboard that train. Who doesn't? It's the best way to dine and it's cheap. Although sometimes it can be too cheap.

We decided to go to Chinatown for some food. First, it's not a town, it's

about three streets in Soho, where you can get ground tiger balls, OKish food and Chinese newspapers. There are also an inordinate amount of betting shops, which really doesn't help with the stereotype.

Anyway, we went up and down the 'town' for a bit and found China China (so good, they named it twice) which boasted "All eat as much as you can" for £8. Well that sounds like a deal. So we went in.

We were ushered upstairs, and straight away it had a Fawlty Towers feel to it. I lived in Hungary for a year, so I am used to shoddy, dodgy dining, but this was pretty bad. Someone had ripped the fire alarm off the wall. I can only imagine it cost a few billion Yen to get through its last health and safety check up.

We took our seats and found out that the £8 was really £8.90. Then we looked round to see our fellow diners. Now we are not snobs per se, but we have come to being used to certain level of quality from our City. Basically there isn't usually any scum hanging about. Scum stay in towns like Halifax and Slough, not the West End of London. But it's near Christmas, people come down to see the lights and to have some cheap Chinese food it seems. Unfortunately we had to sit inches away from them in this woeful Communist cafeteria.

So we ate the God-awful food (the crackers tasted like stale cake, and a good percentage of the meat was unclassifiable) and queued next to scary scallies and fat women who hadn't washed their hair and grunted while eating. Not one person used chopsticks - I mean quite a few seemed to be having difficulty with a knife and a fork.

I can only imagine it was like eating in a cheap Chinese buffet across the road from the Jeremy Kyle studios. Many of these people were probably annoyed that Karen Matthews had thought of it first.

The scary scallies ran out without paying, and the fat kid next to us stared at the wall with his earphones in. Everyone was wearing tracksuit bottoms and most people just ate the stale chips.

You are not supposed to look forward to finishing your meal. We did.

So what did we learn? You get what you pay for, really. Pay £20 each, and you will sit next to people that groom themselves. Pay £8.90, you will sit next to people who consider putting on a clean football shirt as 'dressing up'.

2008-12-07T09:05:00.005Z

(Pictured: Louie Walsh rumoured to be spending a lot of time in Millets)

I swear,

If Eoghan Quigg (pronounced 'Eegohan Queeeeeeg' in a dry monotone voice) wins X Factor I'm quitting this country. Poor little, in the danger area for a mid 20's man, Diana Vickers got voted off last night & it's all getting too much. I thought she'd win it, hands down. it was almost like they shouldn't have bothered unpacking the tiny Gary Barlow from JLS.

Then what happened? Saturday night & the X Factor got torn wide open. Although unlike Ruth "This isn't the last you've seen of me!" Lorenzo, I do think Diana has the potential to do more than the X Factor. More often than not winning isn't the greatest thing. Leona Lewis has done alright, but they put her away in a box for a year so everyone forgot she was on that miscarriage of Reith.

Now, my favourite to win is going to have to be Alexandra, then JLS. There was a point of contention between me & my boss last week when I pointed out that Eoghan "Go on, just touch it for a second...please" Quigg would not grow into an attractive adult. He'll grow into a normal looking sort of chap but not a pop star. Possibly he'll be the best looking lad where he works, but that'll be on the sales floor at Dixons.

I reckon I may not actually finish with this country if he wins. I may just turn off the television, pick up a book & possibly try to learn French or something.

Also, after watching about 30 Seconds of Timmy Mallet on I'm a celebrity get me out of here, I've decided that I need to complete a definitive account of Timmy's personal life. I'd spend some time with him, travel the country with him visiting universities & taking the receipts he found in Tescos car park & desperately trying to get the club card points. Then we'd become so ingratiated in each others lives, I'd make him hate his odd friends & he'd show up at my house for the family Christmas and make dead sly comments about my mums gravy.

Then I reckon It'd ultimately end in a weird, quasi sexual mix between Whack-a-Day & The Deer Hunter.

(Mallet, the highs are high, but the lows will break your fuckin' heart)

2008-12-06T20:33:00.002Z

Hello,

This is a self portrait.

Coursework

2008-12-06T15:19:00.001Z

Fighting birds

2008-12-06T13:43:00.004Z

I just saw some crows fighting. It was awesome. One of the crows had the other pinned down and was going at his wings. They were huge and making a racket. It was amazing to see the brutality of the wilderness right there, near a bin.

It seems London animals are particularly violent. I am expecting to see some sparrows ganging up on a pidgeon, or a fox shoving about a rat.

And they are fearless. Last week, walking back from the tube, there was a squirrel just standing in the road, nibbling on something. I got closer and it didn't move. It was the first time I have ever thought 'wow, that's a hard squirrel'. I was expecting it to drop the food and mug me for the bit of sandwich I had left in my bag.

I think London animals just have attitude. Like seagulls do down in Newquay. And I like that. Fearless creatures just trying to get by in the big smoke, like the rest of us.

Sent Items

2008-12-06T09:09:00.002Z

...ouch,

I woke up this morning with my laptop whirring away next to me, a dry mouth & a crusty belly button. The browser had the 'Successful Post" screen on & I knew I'd come home, put some truth bombs down.

I had a little look at what I'd put up & decided to delete it. I'm not sure if that's the correct blogging etiquette, but as I pointed out to my friend Rob (author of this crazy bullshit that's going to land me in an interrogation room with people demanding to know if I have any clue about his whereabouts), the world of the blog is ultimately not as important as the world of...well, the world. Rob was explaining about blogs to our friend who is blog less, he's a normal person, he goes out, plays football has sex with girls. Rob then made a statement which I found worrying, explaining that he now "reads more blogs then he reads the news". His thinking is that there are people out there with a wealth of opinions, very knowledgeable on key subjects with pressing & valid opinions. This isn't the case at all, the crux of it is that really the people who blog are a pasty mixture of mouthy weirdo & attention seeker. Often saying wild, unsubstantiated things. Stick to the news.

Yeah so, my blog was related to people I work with, it sited specific names, departments stuff like that. I'm not going out like that, Rob did though. He wrote some stuff about his old employer and they had rid of him. Which is ridiculous. I know that when they finally get a case together for me it'll most likely be for my flippant nature, rampant unprofessionalism & sexual terrorism.

Bulbous Bill gets it 3 times a night!

2008-11-30T21:54:00.001Z

Online friends

2008-11-30T21:33:00.002Z

I have missed a trick. In London it seems that people do not meet in real life anymore. Now they make friends through the Internet.

I don't necessarily enjoy the old, tried-and-trust method of meeting people. You need to wash, brush your hair, lie, be polite, lie some more, not glare, resist the urge to punch the cretin in the face. It's a lot of work to put yourself across as a normal human. But you don't have to anymore.

I attended a party last night almost wholly created by meeting and inviting people through Gumtree, the well-known social website.

So all these people were strangers. With the stress on the STRANGE.

It was like having a few drinks in a really sad circus green room. Fat people, weird boogly-eyed people, people who couldn't really speak English, smelly people and people who took notes during party chit-chat.

But the best bit was a strange man that kept coming into the room with animals. First, a lazy chameleon that didn't change colour. I have never seen a real chameleon but when I did I hoped it would change colour instantly and be a hilarious situation for all. But it was sleepy, and stayed a vomit-orange. Boooring.

Then he bought in a little dog, who supposedly had beef with the chameleon. The dog ran round for a bit, made a few friends and weed on the floor a bit. Then Noah took him back to the ark to continue to stare out the sub-par lizard.

I think I might organise an online party, see if I can get a bloke with a camel in. Or at least a chameleon that lived up to the hype.

he's right

2008-11-28T23:16:00.003Z

London tube etiquette is a refined art, like beating up old people for their change.

How about those people that are going to stand their ground regardless of the commuters around them? The ignorant arse-brained dick faces that think as long as they don't have to move it's OK. You know who you are Mr glasses or Ms big scarf. Oh and don't forget Lil' Miss sneak round the side while we are waiting for people to get off the train before getting on.

And those indecisive bastards who just stand there in the middle of the walkway. And don't get me started on the retards that continue to bring on those wheelie cases of death. What is in them? A t shirt that says 'I need to wheel my insignificant life about'?

Oh it makes me so mad.

But I am trying to make amends. I am trying to adopt a certain zen-like quality on the tube, to distance myself from the anger and the hate. To do that I remember true fear on the tube.

No, not 7/7. I was in bed that day.

It was the day the scariest human being I have ever been close to stepped on my carriage.

He was about 6'5", weighed in excess of 16 stone. Cap depicting some sort of wolf creature, shorts (it was January) and a waistcoat that only fat guys know where to get. He stomped on and was breathing heavily. He glared round with his beady eyes of perturbed hatred and then focussed on the advert in front of him with the pretty girl. She was advertising some English language college and she wasn't bothering anyone with her pearly whites.

He reached into his pocket with his massive hand and pulled out a pound coin. He then went about frantically scrapping off her face while shouting obscenities. He looked round, probably praying for disapproval, and then stomped off. He could have eaten my head.

So when lefty middle class won't move because he has his little space and that's that, I think of the big man and his pound and am just thankful he isn't near me.

2008-11-28T20:25:00.003Z

Also, what the flip is going on with Never Mind the Buzzcocks? This new series has been dire so far. Not that the jokes have been atrocious but something isn't quite right. I have some ideas.

Bill Bailey wasn't the crux of the show, he wasn't the funniest thing on it and it did feel a bit like he was in the wrong medium there. However, as my friend pointed out, he had an element of realness about him. Something has gone awry. Phil Jupitus looks a bit sad, I've noticed that at the minute he seems to be resorting to doing comedy shouting at people. It's easy & it seems like there isn't much of anything else going on.

Also, Amstell seems to have been neutered slightly. An element must be the whole Andrew Sachs thing, as a comedian he's excellent but he's at his best when he's excruciatingly preying on his guests. The best episodes of the last series was the Donny Tourette episode when he was merciless and really stuck into him. This series it's still a factor but it seems to have been reigned in a bit.

Finally, drop the novelty bullshit, scripted things. The 198th Episode, the Bunny Suit, reading facts off the autocue, it's all shit. Pretty soon it'll be Mock the Week,

The peak of rudeness

2008-11-28T17:08:00.005Z

Also,

On London things. I've been down here for pretty much 2 years now. They've been a good two years, I stay up late on weekends, eat kebabs, stuff like that. One thing that winds me up at the minute is public transport etiquette. Working in Camden means I can catch the bus to work each morning which suits me fine. However, at the minute I'm currently getting myself wound up over a rise in a rather odd type of behavior.

If you're sat on the aisle seat and the window seat is free, you move up if someone wants to sit down. You do not scoot to one side and have them struggle over you. I honestly don't know how this has become acceptable, but it has.

Also, if you are one of the "can you please move down" people, everyone hates you. Everyone thinks you're a cunt and we all imagine what possible inadequacies your private life holds. I reckon most of them are into the old belt wanking.

Black men and ham

2008-11-28T16:27:00.002Z

A lot of our blogs will involve London. It’s where we live and ultimately we want to be at the hub of some sort of London blogging mecca. The Morecombe and Wise of blogging.

But alas we are a long, long way from those echelons. Instead we must scrabble in the mire of mediocrity in the City. And here is something from London, which I have yet to work out is racist or not. It’s funny, though.

From a random email from some friend of a friend of a friend:

“Two days ago I was on the bus and smelt this bacon sandwich type smell. I looked around but couldn't see anything. The smell persisted so I looked directly behind me.

“And there he was - this little black bloke with a scrawny afro sitting there. He had on those stupidly big sunglasses all the women have been wearing the last two summers (it was night), and he was eating the biggest leg of ham I've seen in ages. Christ knows where he managed to buy about two kilo of hot ham, on the bone mind you, in Clapham Junction.

“Anyway it even had that big old white bone sticking out the end, just like in the comics when there was an african feast - the old comics from years ago, when racism wasn't a bad thing. It was like sitting in front of a bloody cannibal. Seemed to be enjoying it though, so fair enough, the nutter.”

London. So progressive yet so much like a Beano cartoon from the forties.

RELAX

2008-11-28T13:23:00.002Z

Picture!

2008-11-28T12:33:00.001Z

East London Haiku

2008-11-28T11:54:00.003Z

Hey,

Here is the first collaboration between Mr Lee Jones & myself. Lee is an old friend of mine and currently works as a journalist. He is a man of many talents and his face tells many stories, one of them involves saying "well, as long as it's just this once" to a Spanish man, but that was a long time ago, he's married now.

C

Live Blogging

2008-11-24T23:18:00.005Z

we have been debating over the merits of live blogging (yes, we. this blog has two bloggers now, deal with it) and it seems to be a point of contention.

On one side blogging is a new art - it's a bit edgy, a bit rough and is certainly raw. But on the other hand we all have PDA 3G ITV 64MB ADSL interweb 5 megapixel Nav4 in-yo-muthafuckin-face phones that have WAP coming out of their arses (well, we don't all have these devices. Only us mugs who were outsmarted by Waz in the o2 shop do), so we should live blog with them, use their technology. Blog there and then, right in the thick of it, as it happens, live web streaming mp4. Click on the web link and hook up to the main frame. BAM.

It hasn't happened yet. One of us thinks it's dumb and unnecessary, the other can't get it working on his phone. I can get BBC football live scores, got that down, but I can't get blogging. I can take photos and I can text. And I know how to set the alarm.

It's because I am not 18 and called Waz and work in an o2 shop, wearing an iPhone as part of my uniform. I was conned into this device. I know it can do a lot of things, James Bond has it, and I know for sure they put a man on the moon with a lot less technology than I have in my pocket. But I can't get it to blog.

Anyway I wanted to live blog tonight as I was in a bar and they served hotdog with mash. It needed spreading. People needed to know there and then that hotdog and mash was out there. But I couldn't tell the world as I can't live blog. I can only blog from my mac at home. Like a fucking cave man.

Yes. Hotdog and mash. Think of that. But of course, it's old hat now. We have all heard of hotdog and mash. Because it's already out there, with a JPEG and a RSS feed. Twittering away or something like that. I was just too late.

The Kings Arms

2008-11-22T19:57:00.008Z

Went out, saw some excellent graffiti in The Kings Arms in Soho. It turns out that gay pubs are a rich seam for some fairly unique wall art. Yeah, a few of them were just blokes names with a mobile number next to it. God knows why, it might be a hobby club or something.

First off there was this one (left), which took up like an entire wall. My favourite bit is the little 'sorry' shooting from the tip. God knows what that says but I'm guessing there's definitely a case of the childhood summer that you'd most like to forget attached to it. I've attached a couple more below. My friend wanted to do this actually in the pub, something to do with 'live-blogging' , which was a little bit much really. To be honest, I think he lives a little bit too much in 2009.

I took couple more which I've posted below. Naively, my friend didn't realise we were in a gay pub and was actually a little bit scared because of all the blokes with (exquisitely shaved) goatees & bald heads, thinking we were in some sort of football hooligan meeting spot.

Below are the other pics I took. The Swastika one is frankly curious but I really like the clearly masoginistic tone of the 'stinky vagina' pic. One funny thing we did hear was as follows:

"Yeah, you do know it's a lesbian bar?"

"Ooh, arguments"

Redundancy

2008-11-07T19:15:00.006Z

(Below - Klan, categorically a set of twats)

That's right,

This week I came up for the chop, it was pretty tense. I felt like a miner in the 80's or something. When I relayed that to a friend she pointed out that eventually none of the miners were left, it was a matter of time. Apart from possibly those last dozen or so that operate the museums, a bit like an olden days Zoo.

But that's insulting to miners, push comes to shove, my transferable skills (A Marquis de Sade level of self loathing & a need to please authority figures) will take me into any call centre.

Unfortunately, it's one of the downsides of working in an industry based on frivolity & boom. One of the first things to get crunched is the eating out industry. That sort of shit gets replaced with buying wheat and stuff, possibly. The thinking was to trim the fat from a few areas in the head office, which is a horrible process really. Everyone is miserable, no works getting done, the girl who orders stationary is at a loss to envisage how department heads could possibly ever grasp the ordering process. There's one girl I work with who's absolutely stunning, working in our HR department. She's had a rough week sitting in on meetings of misery taking notes down. This is the girl who if she said all I had to do to see her topless would be to survive a two storey fall...I'd consider it. I just want to shake her and scream "you know you don't have to exist in this? Release yourself and go and play volleyball in the clouds with Aphrodite".

Luckily our process was dealt with relatively quickly, but its still rather grim. Initially you go through a full range of reasons it could be you. Yeah, gradually I've been interpreting the dress code in an increasingly liberal way. Like taking "Freedom of Speech" & shitting on the US flag. And yeah, sure, I've had a couple of run ins with customers (my bread & butter) that have become public knowledge, but I went on a course. For the rage.

Also, the big one is probably e-mail usage. Initially, I did think "Yes, I did send a picture of a Klan cross burning, but in context that was actually hilarious". There's a few pictures I've sent over e-mail that really need to be looked at in context. Recently that's included a picture of a beautiful male Geisha with an umbrella, a scene from Scanners where the man's head explodes and a picture of a tramp on a bench with two bottles of wine with the heading "Erena, this is you, you pissed tramp". To be sure, I was shitting it.

I also had a "Consultative Meeting" which they were deliriously keen to emphasis was not a job interview for my job. It was all going through the motions, this didn't come out of nowhere, they've been sitting on this for a while. Dotting all the I's & making sure none of the T's immediately preceded 'ribunal'. I was convinced that the names had already been ear marked anyway.

This is the first time anything like this has affected me & it feels starkly of the real world. As my boss said, "The definition of a recession is if you know someone who's been made redundant", I corrected her by saying that it's a period of 6 months where the company continues to shrinks. But still, the sentiment was valid. Ultimately I was up against my two girls, so while I may have avoided the chop right now, there's little to be happy about and I've lost a genuine friend.

In a bit, might be more frequent now my Internets back up (Sky = Liars/Date Rapists),

C X

Just one more thing...

2008-10-21T20:14:00.004+01:00

Hey again,

Just a few issues to address. firstly, and its only a small thing but, to me, you can't really put an 'as seen on tv' label on cherry tomatos. Its not like the cherry tomato is a brand, it isn't a bottle of Flash or a type of butter. Which, is also being advertised in a dreadful way. Gary Rhodes asking peole if they prefer Flora or some other brand. Saying that something like 48% of people prefer Flora to 45% who like lurpack more. As my friend pointed out, 7% couldn't give a shit either way and even then these are not the sort of odds to base an advert around. It's a tight race, if it was a boxing match it'd be dreadful, down to points. You should only make a show of it if it's going to be a knock out.

Also, credit crunch wise, I remember when you could get a pack of Rolo's for 30p, now you'd struggle to get one for that side of 50. I use stuff like this a lot to talk to people in awkward situations.

Often saying things like, "Whispers eh? I've heard the recession is the boom for the often forgotten turnip farmer".

Regards,

Cx

Textual

2008-10-18T13:43:00.002+01:00

I thought I'd try to re-tell one of the jokes I'd received via text the other day. Don't worry, it's not one of those that has the punch line, "Yeah, then they all fucked off home". Here goes:

It's late in the evening, it's also November, so there's a cruel chill in the air, one that gets under your scarf and reminds you of your mortality. A Vicar shifts into the lobby of a B&B. Actually, scratch that, we'll say its small town America, he's a priest and he's heading into a dirty motel, covered in the sticky Deep South heat. He sidles over to the desk, which has a hick behind it, leafing through an old issue of Rolling Stone some former guest left. He looks down his long, pointy nose at him with the kind of beady eyes that a life of celibate piety brings. He leans over the desk & says, "Excuse me, can you make sure that the... (struggles to get the words out)...pornography channel in my room is disabled, thank you".

The hick, who represents common norms looks up from his desk & puts down his magazine. He tries to keep the disdain from his voice but to little success, "No Sir, just the regular kind here. You sick fuck".

Ringo Star, Super Dick

2008-10-14T19:51:00.009+01:00

"After the 20th everythings going in the bin"

What a dickhead, he could have just stayed quite, thrown them in the bin but he had to make a statement. Basically saying that all those people who he earnt money off over the years can go fuck themselves. He's sat in his giant Thomas shaped mansion, sipping on bitter tea, agreeing whole heartedly with Boris Johnson's Liverpool comments.

I also read that the hot weather has led to. Bannana spiders thriving in the UK, possibly laying eggs in my face. And the credit crunch, that's a bit bad isn't it? It's given me six months worth of awkward conversation material, "so...that credit crunch eh? I remember when rolo's were 30p, you don't know what a rolo is? Well then, yes, I will take a London Paper". Although, that doesn't give the man that sells me a jacket potato the right to tut & say "Alister Darling" when he adds 40p to this tariff

No right at all.

A couple of reviews & some social commentary

2008-10-13T18:33:00.004+01:00

Hey,

I watched that new Peter Kay mocumentary thing last night, like an X Factor style paraody. I think the lesson I took away from that was that you can not parody that which is already a joke. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't love X Factor. I think I was fairly close to tears when Bad Lashes didn't get through. It was a travesty, even their weak link (the one in a reality TV girl/boyband, who's a bit ropey) was decent. I love X Factor, the best way to spend a SUnday is by sitting your pants, screaming "No, too fat, who's the market for this?"

I've also watched a couple of movies this week, Hitman, which was shite. Really badly, written by 15 year old marketing executives. Also, from playing the game I had developed an idea that Hitman was meant to be homosexual. Although, me & my housemate both thought that maybe he was meant ot be sexless, like a flower. Also watched The Mist, which was fucking awesome. With a truely haunting ending.