I was just about ready to go to work, so I leant over the bed to give my girlfriend a goodbye kiss. “GRRR!” she growled in a high-pitched, insane angry cat tone, as she turned her face away from me, causing my lips to slither, snail-like across her cheek. Not the kind of kiss I was expecting, I said out of the corner of my mouth. I quickly scanned the previous day’s memories in an attempt to ascertain what heinous crime I had committed.
No results found
Okay then, you win. What’s wrong? “You woke me up by talking in your sleep.” Is that all? “You shouted: ‘QUICK, PUT THE PHONE DOWN, HE’S COMING!’ It gave me a fright and I couldn’t go back to sleep.” Oh… that’s weird.
Having been suitably admonished for my unconscious misdemeanour, I trudged off to work. Well, I actually jogged, but ‘trudged’ is more apt description of my running style. A passing colleague once told me that I “looked terrible”. Enough said. And thanks for that. Continue reading
As I near the end of my month-long abstinence from the demon drink, I thought that I should update you on my progress. It’s true to say that a small amount of alcohol has passed my lips. Just two pints and two rum and cokes in 28 days. So, technically speaking, I guess you could say that I have failed. But have I really?
It was on day 21 that I was invited for a drink with a couple of friends. I fully intended to avoid drinking. But then, on the day, I had a change of heart. It was a Saturday, after all. That day is designed for drinking.
I started to analyse why I was yearning to break my self-imposed exile from Booze City. Was I weak? Could I not enjoy a night out without alcohol? But then I realised that the whole point of taking a break from drink, was to cut out unnecessary drinking and to (re)learn more healthy drinking habits. Continue reading
The stranger got to the door first and flung it open wide, rather theatrically beckoning the other person through: “After you.” How chivalrous, you may think. What a gentleman.
Except that, in this case, it was I who was being shown through the entrance by a young woman. For a split second I hesitated. This had never happened to me before. Normally, I was the one opening doors for other people. And I had never seen a woman being so courteous to a young(ish) man.
Was it a trick? If I took one step through the doorway, would she tut at me in disgust? Was I supposed to insist that she should go first? The trouble with being a modern man is that we never quite know what we should do, for fear of offending someone. Quite often we simply choose the easiest option… Which is to do nothing at all and feign a lack of attention. Continue reading
Here’s an idea for an unwanted Christmas present for that hard to buy for relative… that you don’t like very much.
This week we had a revelation. The UK’s crappest town 2013 was announced… as LONDON. Yes, that’s right, one of the world’s great super-cities, a hub for finance, fashion, the arts, sport and jellied eels was voted for as being the worst part of the UK to live in. Clearly, by village idiots.
Now there are a number of things obviously wrong with this award. Firstly, it is quite apparent to anyone with a rudimentary grasp of geography, that London is a huge, sprawling metropolis. It is not really a town, as such. If you don’t like one part of London, then you really only need to cross a road or two to find a borough more to your liking.
Similarly, the morons who voted for this award also didn’t seem to comprehend that Gibraltar is not actually part of the UK, as it also made the top six. Presumably, they must have travelled there for it to have met with their disapproval, so how the hell did they not realise that they flew over France and Spain before landing?
I’ve finally decided that I’ve had enough of the booze. Not permanently though. Hell no! But I just feel that I should really push myself and aim to go for a full month of abstinence. I have done this before, but that was during my studies, so it wasn’t a real test. I barely went out!
Also, I didn’t have a girlfriend then. This time I do, so she will undoubtedly want to have the odd tipple. I will be the killjoy. And, let’s face it, it’s no fun drinking on your own and facing judgemental looks from your partner.
It’s time to listen to my body. I’ve forgotten how to moderate my drinking since I moved to London. The variety of options and expendable income make the demon drink just too tempting. Since I’ve grown older my hangovers have got worse, to the point where I commonly receive a visit from my old nemesis Captain Chunder the ‘morning after’. And he’s a real bastard. Continue reading
“Come on Australia! You can’t lose this one.” My work colleague’s face was a picture of hope and despair. She desperately wanted the Aussies to beat England in the Ashes cricket, but she was clearly worried at their capitulation. It looked as though they were about to completely fall apart. And they did. However, I was surprised at her attitude. Because she is South African, not Australian. So why should she care?
Apparently, she has a soft spot for Aussies. Despite living and working in England, it seems as though she has yet to develop affectionate feelings for my country folk. Charmed, I’m sure.
Another workmate had the same favouritism for the Aussies. And he is a Kiwi! Aren’t they meant to be bitter rivals? Apparently, he was showing Southern Hemisphere solidarity. I see.
“I just don’t have enough natural padding.”
A recent weekend saw evidence of the Olympic legacy, when over 50,000 cyclists took to the closed-off roads to haphazardly weave their way around an 8 mile circuit in central London. All ages and abilities were present, from kamikaze youngsters seemingly oblivious to the dangers of suddenly veering off in unpredictable directions, to pensioners, seemingly oblivious to the effect that their choice of tight-fitting clothing had on the sensibilities of the following cyclists.
And it wasn’t just the elderly who made poor fashion choices. Several overweight cyclists also felt the need to attempt to stuff their frames into brightly coloured lycra. They looked like radioactive badly stuffed sausages. The bottleneck at The Mall presented everyone with an unwanted opportunity for lingering views of the offending outfits. So why do they do it? Continue reading