I’ve had some crazy ideas in the past.  But you would think that with the years ticking past, I would of learnt the whole “Cause and Effect” thing.

My oldest daughter learnt it early on by knowing that if she punches me in the joy department as a joke that Daddy gets a touch annoyed.  My youngest daughter has attitude and although knows things are wrong, she doesn’t care.  She repeatedly continues to think it is funny to claw my eyes out and randomly surprise me by biting me.

Even the cats learnt that standing sideways on the stairs when I am walking down them that they learnt to fly.  Of course, I give the cats too much benefit in that statement…the boy has now jumped on me 4 times since I even opened up the webpage to write this…each time getting thrown a little further away.  The last time I added “Yogi….will you p*ss off!” to which he purred and jumped straight back up and did that collapsing thing so I couldn’t push him away.  Time to see if they always land on their feet  even if the floor is covered in an electric shock mat maybe…  Or I could impale him on a stick and fire up the BBQ?  I am sure the animal huggers would say “He just wants love…give him a hug”.  Wondrous hard thought-out advice that.  Because I fancy a beer.  Maybe I should.  At 1pm on a Thursday when I have to drive in an hour.  Great advice huggers…great advice.

But what I am trying to say is that if young children and some dumb animals learn, why after 37 years am I getting slightly more stupid as the years go on?  It started in 2009 with “Been running for 3 days now…LETS ENTER A MARATHON!”  Longterm readers will remember that.  Newbies wont.  Because you are new.  Yeah I know, I am a fountain of knowledge waiting to explode.  When I do finally explode, the walls are going to be covered in jokes about taking a poo.  I would apologise, but you keep coming back and reading this stuff.  Ergo, your fault.

The joy of marathons.  You train in winter. The roads are impassable and the footpaths are skating rinks. Even the local idiots who hang around on street corners with their trousers hanging round their knees but a big hood keeping their head warm (lets be honest, there is often a lack of brains in their head to keep warm, and they sure as hell ain’t got it in the trouser department either so what are they trying to keep warm?) stay in their bedrooms with their Justin Bieber posters staring in to his pale dead eyes while singing gangsta rap while hoping mummy will keep them warm. My cats don’t see outside for about two months….I try to get them to go out, but the lazy little shytes prefer to lay on my pillow so when I go to bed I am sucking on cat hair all night.

People call it stupid, but it really isn’t as I can at any point decide not to wrap myself in 200 layers and stay in my warm house instead.

It was going so well.  And then something happened.

I cant afford a Harley Davidson.  Nor a flash car with its roof missing.  Nor a young girlfriend to be my “trophy girlfriend” that I take out and people say “He is either rich or hung like a…”.  OK, so that last one…well, it is kinda hard to when you are happily married.  My wife frowns upon me having an affair.  And the frown she uses…wow…yeah I ain’t messing with that.  And the way her eyes go bright red.  And the horns climb out of her head when I mention it.  And the way her voice turns demon-like. And the way she withholds the good loving for another 4 months.

So why are people saying “Dude, your midlife crisis is in full swing isn’t it!”?  Well, I decided to move away from the fun road racing for the rest of the year and take on a few “different” challenges.  I wont bother explaining them, but instead I will just give you the names of some of the runs I am doing in the next few months (if anyone wants to join me…):

The Hurt

The Brutal 10

The Demon Run

Hellrunner Down South

Tough Mudder – OK, that one is next year.  Fine, sue me already.

You get the idea.  Well, it started with The Hurt a few weeks back and it hurt about as much as me trying to open a can of beans using just my teeth while a dwarf electrocutes my testicles repeatedly until I get said can open.  But the can is made of iron.  And my teeth fall out in the first 4 minutes of trying.  And I kinda start enjoying the electrocution a little too much.

And then they decided to run another Hurt later in the year…but with even more hills.  And I signed up.  And then I started looking around and saw the others.  And signed up.

I wrote a post a few years ago mentioning I was having a midlife crisis.  I got ridicule because you all said things like “You are far too young and handsome to be having one”.  OK, so you didn’t.  Actually, I think you all said hurtful words that would have made me cry if I wasn’t such a wall of emotional darkness.  But screw it…my site, I take from it what I will…and I took from it nice words of encouragement rather than your hurtful words.  But this time people are assuming I am actually having a midlife crisis.  But you know, it is OK.  Because at 37, if it is indeed midlife, I am going to live until I am 74.  And you know, I never thought that would happen.

See, if I had taken up knitting like I said I was going to a few years ago, I wouldn’t be wading through neck deep water for “fun”.

It is your fault.  I hope you’re happy.

 

Ah yes.  The 4th July.  That day when we eat too much, drink too much and party a little too much. 

OK, by “we”, I mean “you”.  And by “you”, I mean “The people in the US”. 

Today I am going to celebrate Higgs-Boson day.  Because although I know as much about physics as I do about why my daughter thinks it is OK to walk up to me smiling and then smash me in the knackers, laugh and walk off (I have nicknamed her the smiling assassin), I am just not American enough to get on the 4th July thing.  And Higgs-Boson sounds like a beer. “Two bottles of Higgs-Boson please guv’nor!” sounds way better than “Today…we shall celebrate our independence day”

Of course, my knowledge of the Higgs-Boson comes down to this:  Lets spend loads of money building a stuffing long tunnel and throw things around it as speeds that…erm…you know what, I have no idea of how fast or slow they go.  And then smash them together and see if we can meet god.  Crazy.  Why spend that much money when you can just get 2 people to get in to cars, drive them at each other really fast and smash them in to each other.  I am confident that at least one participant in this test will be able to see if he meets god.  Sure, he wont be alive to tell us, but then, smashing atoms around in the name of meeting god? 

Stupid. 

But as I said, my knowledge on the matter isn’t that good. I just cant see god going “oohh…look…you smashed up a few atoms.  I should come say hello!”. 

And how will he announce himself? 

“Hi.  God here.”

“Prove it”

“OK, I know everything and that includes knowing that you masturbate to pictures of chickens every Tuesday when your wife goes out.”

“Shit.  He is real.”

And why would he use the chicken story to announce himself?  That also doesn’t make any sense.

And would he go “Right.  Put the kettle on, pull up a chair and we will have a chat about you giving my son a little grief.” Because you know…I don’t think that would be a conversation I would want to be in. 

How can you tell god “Your son was arrested because we didn’t have anti-social behaviour orders in those days and the snivelling little git was spray painting his name everywhere, so we got medieval on his arse backside.”

On hearing that, god would likely become enraged and go get a knife or a bat or a shotgun or something.  And he would say “I have decided to destroy all living creatures for they have filled the earth with violence” and would likely not appreciate our reply:

“Ooohhh….riiiight…so we aren’t allowed to kill anyone, but YOU…Mr bigtime…YOU get to do what you like.  You are such an arse.  AND you tried this before and couldn’t even follow through with your threat because some guy built a friggin BOAT.  Your big man with a plan idea was beaten by a bloke without power tools.  These days we have guns and bombs and Oprah.  What chance do you think you have?”

I should probably note that I had to go to google and put “God said to” and see what came up in order to get the destroy all living creatures thing.  Coz I am to religion what the England football team is to winning competitions.  Nothing. AND…when I searched for phrases, I never found a single funny one.  In a gazillion years or however long he is supposed to have been around, has he never got a sense of humour?

But I am fairly confident that I met god last week.  I went to the Dr to have a blood test.  “Ooohh…what for!” I hear you not even remotely mutter. 

Well…I don’t know.  That’s why I am had a blood test.  To find out. And while I was there, the woman taking the blood said “You will feel a bit of a prick”. 

“How cliche” I thought, thinking that she has probably said that a hundred times a day for the last 5 years.  So after turning me in to a pin cushion because my veins were playing the “You cant find me!” game, she finally drained me of blood (7 vials of blood later, I realised I had given that woman I met 5 minutes beforehand more bodily fluids than I have ever given my wife in 8 years) and sent me on my way. 

This is where I question her being god.  At the door at the end of the packed waiting room I confused push and pull.  So confidently walking up to the door, pushing hard and continuing to walk, I smashed straight in to the door.  I felt such a prick.  And then I thought “She foretold this.  She is all knowing.” and then I turned to the packed waiting room, muttered something about being in pain and dragged my sorry arse out of the building and licked my wounds (well, blood tastes nice…what can I say.) 

The results come back today.  I am hoping they say “We were testing for awesomeness.  Yes, you have loads.  Well done.”

Anyway.  Where was I?  Ah yes.  The 4th July.  Yeah, I don’t celebrate it.

Once again I appear after another extended break.  By “break”, I mean “I really just couldn’t be bothered to write anything on here.”  This is for a couple of reasons.

Reason 1 – I am so utterly boring, writing about things I do at home would mean I should rename the site to “Crap you read because you want to feel better about your life”

Reason 2 – I cannot write about things that happen at work due to my contract stating that I cannot write about things that happen at work.  Thus I am not allowed to tell you about the thing that happened when blahblahblahblah which was so funny I almost smiled. 

But I thought I should at least come and give you a post.  Given that I pay for the domain name and hosting.  So lets see where this post goes!

Right.  First things first.  Important site news.  Those of you in IT will know all about the cookie tracking news.  Those who don’t have a clue would have noticed things on websites that mention “Our cookie policy” and how they can be used to track you.  So therefore, below is the cookie policy for this website: (By reading it, you accept the policy)

I like white chocolate chip ones.  Fresh and not too crunchy, but also not so wet you feel like you are holding a fish which is recently dead just bends in to an uncomfortable shape as you hold it from the side.  But then, I also don’t want one that looks like it is suffering from rigor mortis.  I also don’t want my cookie to track what I do.  The cookies I like have no idea how to give me targeted advertising because cookies are food.  Tasty food.  Which makes me fat.

I hope that covers it.  And now I really want a cookie.  I knew I shouldn’t have started this post.

In other news which I shall now move on to, my car died a horrible horrible death….and my wife has told me I should look at other women’s bums.  That I should study them.   Window shopping has never been so much fun.

So.  The car.

I had a nice car.  It did things like drove me places.  It also had a stereo in it so I could put music on really loudly and be obnoxious to other road users.  It was perfect.  I treated it like I treat my wife.  i.e – I filled it with rubbish and left it standing on the side of the road at night.

Hang on, I think I just said that my wife is a prostitute.  Which she isn’t.  Well, kinda is.  I mean, so am I.  So are you.  Where I work love to pay me to come in and do things they like which makes them feel good.  In return, they give me money.  On the days where I have no work to do I sit there doing nothing and they still pay me.  Thus they get that “I feel dirty all over” factor that would come with paying for a prostitute.  I guess.  I don’t know…I have never paid for one.  I would approach my wife and mention I have an urge to find out, but I love my wife and children and I would miss them.  And at 37 years of never having to attend an STD clinic, I like to think my record is going strong.  And police records are a bore so if I did it and got caught, going for an interview and being asked if I had a criminal record is going to sound bad when I say “Yes.  Yes I do.  I once asked my wife to allow me to sleep with someone of lacking morales who would do all those things that me and her don’t do, like me dressing up as an important rich business man and she is a naughty creature of the night who helps me with my car…but we end up falling in love and she then becomes the best wife ever for doing all those things your wife wont do but she will now.”  You know, that sounds good enough to make a film from.  Maybe I could pitch it to a film studio.  I could call it “Pretty Woman”.  Anyway, something for me to think about.  Nothing to bother you with.  Unless…you know….don’t steal my idea.  It is going to be movie gold.

What the hell was I talking about?  Oh yes…my car.  So anyway, I abused the heck out of that lovely car.  And then it decided that it had enough and the following happened:

Day 1 – Driving home (I live 30 miles from work) I had a nice warning come up that said “Check coolant level”.  I did.  It was low.  I filled it up.  I felt manly.  You know, in that way where as soon as you open the bonnet of a car and start to look at the motor you are suddenly the king of all men.  Much like when you buy a new hammer.

Day 2 – Driving to work “Check coolant level”.  At this point I thought “Coolant leak…we have a coolant leak” and turned in to a trekkie.

Then driving home the world came to an end. 

The single worst part of the cascading failure was that the very first thing that went wrong was that the stereo stopped working.  I heard the engine for the first time in years.  I got nervous.  I tried an engineer fix which involved smashing it as hard as I could with my hand.  You will be surprised to know that it didn’t fix it.  Then a few miles later the dashboard went to sleep.  Then a few miles later the engine decided to go to sleep forever.  I got a few weird looks as I stood on the side of the road (not touting for business) trying to close the eyelids on the headlights.  Until I realised that it didn’t have any and I had pretty much stood there for 15 minutes poking it in the eyes. 

But I was saved by a neighbour who towed me home.  Except that he didnt.  Because he brought with him a tow rope made of newspaper.  Which snapped so many times that at one point it was so short I was actually now in front of him.  The poor car got abandoned for a couple of days in a layby.  That in itself isnt a bad thing, but you know…people do “things” in laybys along country roads.  And I was pretty sure I saw a couple of blokes walking towards the car looking for some action.  I was going to put a big sign on the car saying “NO DOGGING ACTION…PISS OFF!” but I figured that was more of an invitation.

The car was last seen being dragged away by a guy who bought its sorry carcass off of eBay.  Meanwhile I have a sexy new one.

But lets move on to the one thing that I mentioned earlier that you know you want to read about. 

A few weeks ago my wife said “Look at her butt.  I think mine is better”.  The single most loaded question I have ever been presented with.  How do you answer that one?  “Who?  What one are you looking at?  Oh her?  Hadn’t noticed…” which shows my “yes sweetie, but I wouldn’t be looking anyway” side.  Or “Yeah I saw that and thought the same.” which is like saying “I often have a look at other women’s backsides”.  And what if I think “Actually, that one is a little better”.  I am in for a nuclear winter from my dear wife.  But then she basically told me it is OK to look at them as long as I think hers is better. 

So I have started a plan of action which involves looking.  As mentioned before, I run.  I do a lot of races.  I have started to watch every single womans lycra covered rear that I can in the name of “Investigative journalism”…and my finishing times in races are really starting to suffer from it.  But I strive for perfection so I will continue to look, safe in the knowledge that my wife wants me to.

I am currently trying to get her to mention the following 2 items, but I feel that I am pushing my luck while pushing her towards a divorce:

1 – I think your boobs are better than hers, but I will continue to look at every woman’s just in case; because baby…I love you.

2 – Beer?  I dont really like it.  I guess I should try drinking as much as I can.  And when I have, I will stumble towards other women and ask them to let me check out there bum…because my wife has asked me to do a survey.

So I haven’t cleared this with my wife but I know she will be up for it, if you girls want to send me pictures of your rear, I can do a comparison test. 

Yes, I know.  I AM selfless.

According to the stats for the site, I get a lot of hits everyday for people searching for “vegetarian memory loss”. 

Who is searching for this?  How do they know they have memory loss if you cant remember what you were looking for in the first place?  Are people very forgetful or are they just attention seeking? 

“I cant remember what I was going to say”.  “It was probably your usual boring crap then”.

And why are so many people searching for memory loss related to vegetarians?  Is it the same person who has the memory of a goldfish and continually puts the same search term in to google and ends up reading the same post on my site (which incidentally is to do with vegetarians.  And memory loss.  Go figure.) Are they a vegetarian?  Do I care?

Don’t get me wrong, I am  not against vegetarians as much as the next guy.  What do they have against vegetables that they feel they must rip them from the ground and eat them?  That is why I eat chicken.  And beef.  They aren’t in the ground growing.  Hell, with the right appliance (say…a gun) I can stop a bird flying. It isnt in the ground growing.  It is trying to escape the world.  I am doing it a favour by eating it.

Although back to the memory loss.  There is one time when memory loss is a real inconvenience.  When you wake up from a really weird dream.  And think “What the…” and then it starts to fade away and you can’t remember it.  OK fine, and not remembering where you put your keys, car, children.  That is also a little inconvenient.  But the dreams…far more important.

I am currently recovering from an interesting bout of flu.  Not that “Man flu” that women think exist (it doesn’t…we do actually get more ill than you but you enjoy moaning so much you need to find a way of making it more about you than us) but actual proper can’t stand up, kick you in the backside and wish you were dead, flu.  And for a while things got a little delirious.  I slept for a couple of days in a row and had 2 recurring dreams.  Which I can’t fully remember. 

One was that I needed to share some money out between 3 people.  Myself and 2 others.  Who were the other 2 people?  No idea.  Why was I sharing it out?  No idea.  How many times did I dream this over and over?  No idea.  I hope that covers any questions about the dream for you.  It was annoying.  And not in that “Why cant I remember” way, but in that “What a stupid dream…it made no sense and made me more like I should be checked for autism than for flu”.  What is my brain trying to tell me in that dream?  It would have been just as useful to dream of a duck with a lisp who is trying to get an internship at a glue stick factory called “Sticky Stuff for Sticking Ltd” where he has aspirations of being head of the QC department and will have the title QC Services Centre Manager and he is worried he wont be able to pronounce his job to Mrs Duck when he gets home at night and tells her of his promotion.  I just got nothing out of it at all.

The other dream I seem to remember a little more about.  It was about my family.  And lots of other people.  And they were all being turned in to zombies.

But not zombies as you see in films.

They were being turned in to zombies that were Christmas characters.  People turned in to zombie snowmen and elves and hunted around looking for people to also turn.  And they all had really sinister faces.  That is, if you can have a sinister looking snowman.  You have to wonder if he is sinister, misunderstood or just that his face is starting to melt.
They got my family.  My daughters turned in to elves.  My wife a snowman…well, maybe snow woman.  In my dream I didn’t have the thought of checking for the existence of snowballs or snowboobs.  But that is all I remember.  I don’t remember actually why people were turning in to zombies.  Nor why they stopped being zombies.  I also don’t know if Santa was the main bad guy in the dream.  That is why dreams suck. 

I woke from the christmas zombie dream thinking that it should technically have been a nightmare.  My family was being attacked afterall.  Instead I thought “I should go see a Dr.  This being ill thing isnt working out well for me.”

And I don’t believe people who remember all of their dreams.  Nor do I trust them.   You know the ones.  They tell you every intricate detail of their dream from 4 days ago.  How can you trust a person who remembers that level of subconscious detail?  The chances are they have a little book and they write things about you in.  How often you go to the toilet.  What clothes you wear.  And at night they sneak in your house and watch you sleep while occasionally stroking your hair and drinking the orange juice in the fridge.  Yeah, that is where it goes…it isn’t you drinking more than you thought.  It is that person sneaking in your house.   And that is why some days your bed hair is worse than others.  And they take cuttings of your hair and make their dinner with it.  Seriously…this is true.  People who remember dreams actually do this stuff.  I read all about it in the “Things I make up for this site” book I have.  Which co-incidently I wrote.

I have another dream on occasion but I find it is silly and dont even know why I am mentioning it on here.  I dream I am being taken aboard a big spaceship where I am restrained and scared.  Little green men put various probes in to places they shouldn’t go.  I always wake up the next morning with a really sore arse, but I guess that is just my body remembering the dream.

 

Ah yes.  Valentines day is on the horizon.  A time of year when between the 5th and 13th of the month, many young males will use the words “It just isn’t working out.  No, it isn’t you.  It isn’t anything to do with your over-sized head, clown feet and the fact that in the morning you smell like cabbage…seriously…what is that about?  Anyway…my dear…I want to end it”.

It is the perfect way to not buy a present.  You dump her.  She is devastated.  You dont buy a present.  On the 15th of the month you say “I miss your oversized head and clowns feet…and I have a cold so wont be able to smell you in the morning”.  The male has totally dodged having to buy a card and present for Valentines.  The girl who was dumped and feeling low gets the love of her life back and thinks things will be great for ever more.  Until her birthday or Christmas….or when the next present buying opportunity arises.

My pet hate with Valentines is that on the 13th of the month and even the 15th of the month I can (maybe…I mean…probably not) take my wife out for dinner with no question of having to also supply a card or present.  I can also go to a restaurant where we can sit on a table for 2 which has lots of room.  The next table isn’t sitting on my lap. The food comes when it is ready and I am unrushed.

But on the 14th there are suddenly a billion more people in that restaurant (OK fine, not a billion…maybe 20 more people) and I end up on a table for 1 where we both have to eat.  The table one side of me is now sitting on my lap and they will have an argument.  The table the other side you think “that dude is getting lucky tonight”.  Meanwhile, me and my wife will talk about our kids.  The economy.  The day at work.  How tight my trousers are.  And the meal will cost more and the waiter will be so stressed he will drip sweat in to the soup.  My dessert will come out before my main and my starter will be given me in a doggybag so they can get us out so the next victims patrons can sit at the table.

So this year I am not doing it.  I refuse.  I refuse…and also cant take her out as we don’t have a babysitter.  I know what she is like.  If I take her out, she will ply me with drink (and probably then ply herself with painkillers) and demand me to perform my manly sex duties because it is Valentines.  It is a stressful time for me.  I am a meek mild mannered man.  I don’t think about sex at all.  What is sex anyway?  No idea.  Something to do with balloon modelling?

This year I have done my research…and am going to make her dinner.  A chef called Charlie Bingham has made a cock and bull pie….which is believed to be an alternative to oysters and asparagus.

Well, I have never had oysters….because frankly the thought of eating them makes me want to hurl.  How are they an aphrodisiac???  HOW!!???  And Asparagus?  Also an aphrodisiac?  The only way I can link them to being an aphrodisiac is if I eat them and immediately go to bed and fall asleep….then wake up in the morning pitching a tent.  And every time you eat asparagus and then pee….it is all you can smell.  How the hell does this make them an aphrodisiac?  “Sweetie…come here…watch me pee…and have a sniff!” “Oh baby…never wanted you more”.  I don’t see that conversation ever taking place.

So why bull testicles?  According to the Chinese they are full of “sexually stimulating ingredients”.  No…they are full of “baby making ingredients”.  Two VERY different things entirely.  And saying to my wife “Here, put someone elses testicles in your mouth until you want to have sex with me” is just….well…no.  Just…no.   They are also being sold from Saturday but have “very limited availablility”.  Really?  I am shocked…why did not more bulls come forward and say “yeah go on…chop em off, stick em in some pastry and then let some humans get their jollys!”.

I just don’t see how this pie will work.  I mean, if it is a huge meaty pie…the last thing I am going to want after it is to go “Wow, I am so full I am going to undo the button on my trousers….fancy hopping in the sack and licking bull testicle from around my mouth?”

And then I saw the selling point.  The pie also contains liquor.  Remove your nuts and call it  “Get her drunk and take advantage of her” pie.  If you both drink enough, the earth may not shake but I can promise the room will spin.

Should you want to read the news story where I read about the tasty nutty treat…it’s HERE.

It is believed by many in the “Wow, it is a slow news day…we should probably make something up” circles that today is the day most people break their new year resolutions.

5 days in to the new year?  Really?  What kind of stupid targets are they setting themselves that they fail so easily?

“I will go to the gym more”.  You cant really fail that until you actually spend enough time of the year not actually going.  I will guess by the way that the person who failed probably doesn’t have a gym membership and ate 24 Krispy Kreme doughnuts last night that they have given up the gym dream.

“I will swear less”.  Well that’s just bollocks.  Totally unatainable and stupid to even contemplate it to start with.  Why bother?  You trap your finger in the door and it falls off, you swear.  You don’t go “Well golly gosh.  Would you look at that.  Seemed to have trapped my pinky in the door there and now it is on the floor.  Well, I must get the cleaning done before I toodle off to the hospital”

“I will be less annoying to work colleagues”.  They didn’t like you before.  The clock didn’t strike midnight on new years eve and the people you worked with thought “Hey, I should give numbnuts another chance”.  There is a reason they don’t like you.  The changing of the year is not enough.  Bringing in cookies to work…it still isn’t enough.  But it is a start.

“I will use my car less and will start walking to work”.  You work 20 miles from home.  I am surprised you took this long to fail.  Plus you cant carry your box of 24 Krispy Kreme doughnuts that you plan to eat instead of going to the gym all that way…what if it rains?

“I will wear more dresses to work”.  You are a 6’4″ tall hairy bloke.  Just…Don’t.

“I will drink less alcohol”.  I have no words that can convey the dumbness in this one.  “Right, as of midnight…I am not drinking again until February”.  The bell tolls.  It is now midnight.  You raise a glass.  You fail within the first seconds of the year but don’t see the irony.

“I will have more sex this year!”.  You’re married.  Forget it.

“I will eat more healthily”.  Seriously…who does this one?  Well, who ‘promises’ themselves this one?  ‘I wont eat the poor little piggy sandwich, I will eat this salad instead’.  Again, the clock didn’t strike midnight and you became a rabbit.  It’s a stupid resolution and you are stupid for contemplating it.  You woke up all hungover on the 1st Jan.  You walked downstairs, opened the fridge and made a fry-up.  Fail.

I on the other hand set myself completely attainable targets.  These are.

1 –

That is all.  I don’t think I will fail.  I am sure by the time the clock hits midnight on 31st Dec 2012, that one will still be standing.  This is because I generally do fail at every resolution I make so decided to go for something that I can at least try to do. Last year was “At least 50 posts on this site”. I did 24.  And that is only that high because you got 4 out of me in the last couple of weeks of December. 

My only other resolutions I considered this year were:

“To finish it still alive.”  I really don’t want to piss off fate just now so I am going to put that one on the back burner.

“Learn to speak or read the Klingon language.”   This is a completely valid one.  Not because I am some star trek geek who thinks he will be more attractive to his wife if he talks in a very angry sounding language or anything but because…well…let me explain.

We had a new guy start at the company I work for a while back.  Strange chap.  By strange I mean I just cant work out if he is shy, an axe murderer or maybe…and likely… cannot talk to humans unless they are on his PC screen and are a World of Warcraft character.  He is a little ‘Nerdy’ to say the least.  But I cannot rule out the axe murderer bit just yet because when I found myself sat at his desk, I noticed a notepad.  All written in Klingon.  True story.  It was all there.  Written in Klingon.

And you know…part of me thinks it might be a hit list.  And details of how he will take each person out.  And I got to thinking “How did this guy get through the interview?”.  So now I am thinking “also a closet Jedi”. 

“I am the person you are looking for” 

“You are the person I am looking for”

“I am going to work here”

“You are going to work here”

 And thus, he now works here.  Plotting our demise in his Klingony language.  To be fair, it may not have been Klingon.  Could of been Greek for all I know…but with his shifty eyes, refusal to talk to people…and the fact he carries a Klingon Bat’Leth (can I just confirm…I do NOT know if that should have capitals…before some Klingon wannabe starts with the “Learn how to spell you Qu’vatlh qhuy’cha’ baQa'” – again…I really have NO idea what that means).

Things that worry me:  I just did a spell check on this post and the ONLY words in “Qu’vatlh qhuy’cha’ baQa'” it didnt understand were “baQa”.  What the hell…Wordpress speaks Klingon?  The world is conspiring against me.  Set phasers to bloody hell.

 

 

Well, here we are.  2012.  The year the world ends.  Apparently.  You know, if you are some crazed whackjob that thinks a gazillion years ago some guy was too lazy to finish his calendar off and instead said to his boss “Yeah man…look…I have gone as far as I can go.  When I was on the toilet last night, Jeebus came to me and said ‘You must end your calendar in 2012’ and I asked why and he said ‘because the world will end’.  So I did it.  Because…well…when you are on the can and some gnarly dude with long hair and doesn’t shave pitches up and tells you that, I think you should listen”

His boss replied “You mean Crazy Dave…the cleaner?”

But, after talking his way out of it, he managed to get put on to a different project and so the legend of “We are all going to diiiie!” came to being.  And here we are.  Just a mere 12 months away from saying “Well, that was as apocalyptic as a wet fart in the middle of an empty field wasn’t it” when nothing happens.

So all of this end of the world thing comes from 3 simple words:  Bad.  Customer.  Service.

Had that guy done his job correctly he would have been making that calendar last another 1000 years.  No doom in our lifetime.  But instead, because that calendar making company failed, we are expecting the world to end.  And after watching the film 2012, I honestly thought my life HAD ended.  Wow…that was epic.  Epically bad.

But talking of bad customer service, just look at Harold Camping.  That nutter who said in 1994 that the world will end.  Then backtracked when nothing happened and he said “Hang on…I forgot to carry the 1 in my calculation.  Try 2011 instead”.  2011 passes “Hang on, I forgot to carry the hammer that I need to smack myself over the head with.” and instead of bringing about a hornets nest of bad stuff, he brought some mild anal itching and bad customer service.

So I thought I would tell you, the avid reader of this silly little site about a couple of customer service issues that have plagued my life to the point where I almost remembered them when writing this.

Firstly.  I bought a camera last year.  It was a pretty camera.  I bought it from a shop called Jessops.  Jessops are a big high street camera shop.  They are also the single most useless pointless unbelievably stupid dumb bunch of earth dwelling moronic single celled life forms to inhabit this little rock we live on.  2 weeks after buying that little camera, it stopped working.  Well no, it worked but the lens wouldn’t go back in to its little sleeping hole when I turned it off.  So I took it back to the shop.  “Yeah it looks like you probably have sand in the aperture” the guy in the shop….about as old as my oldest daughter (3 years old) said to me.”  “Does it?  Coz…well…it looks clean. Is clean.  And I haven’t been to the friggin beach.” “Yeah, nothing we can do”  “So you are telling me that within 2 weeks this is as useful as the space inbetween your ears?” “Yes”.  So I had an email chat with the customer services department.  I wont post my responses as I got a little “irate” after they just couldn’t understand what I was trying to tell them.  They never asked me to return it etc etc.  So what I am trying to say is this:  If you are in the UK and want a camera….PLEASE don’t go to Jessops.  Their customer service is as useful as yellow snow in a nativity play.  They say all press is good press.  It’s weird how I dont think that if I managed to get the guy in the shop to stick his head in to a vice and I press it so hard it explodes that they will call it good press.  But if they want to find out…i’ll take the time out of my day.

Moving on from my dramatic camera issue.

Just before that time of year where we all get really drunk, eat too much and bitch and moan how religion has tried to take over OUR holiday….or Christmas as we non-religious people like to call it…I bought tasty snacks in for my co-workers.  Why?  Because I am just an amazingly nice guy.  And because I couldn’t be bothered to write out cards so decided to fatten them up instead.

One of the tasty snacks was a box of Terrys Chocolate Orange Segsations.  And can I just say…tasty as it gets.  Wow…good.  But.  And this is a big but (which is similar to the thing you will get if you eat too many of them)….the box advertised more than they were giving.  What was it they were advertising Sy?  I hear you ask excitedly.  Well, here is the email I sent them explaining my woes:

They have not replied.  I am devastated.  It was weeks ago.  I will never ever ever ever EVER buy another box of those tasty chocolate orange treats again.  You know…until I see them in the shop.  SOOOOO good.  But sadly, their customer service is a goddamn disgrace.  Hang your head in shame you chocolate making nasties.  I would take a photo of the box that I bought  to show you all, but I am currently having camera issues.

But moving on to GOOD customer service.  I have reactivated my Twitter account.  By reactivated, I mean I logged back in.  Started typing stuff.  So if you feel the need to know what I ate for lunch, why I think a certain footballer should let me rip his lungs out and a whole magnitude of pointless rubbish…. twitter.com/wthd is the way forward people.  If you want to know something more exciting, I suggest you stop reading this blog.

I think I am dying. 

You women give it all the “oh I gave birth” and “I am ill but a mother doesn’t stop” rubbish…but sorry, I am so much iller than you women get.  I have the worst headcold.  Ever.  Period.

I can only breath through one nostril as the other has decided to turn in to a fountain.  If I stand up and spin around quickly I am confident I could hit someone standing at least 10 meters away from me.   If I didnt have the other nostril so clear, I would probably be dead now.  I have the snottiest nostril.  Ever.  Period.

I am making noises when blowing my nose that sound like a randy elephant making the “come and get it ladies….but don’t get pregnant as I cant stand to hear you moan about the pain” mating call.  Blowing my nose is the single worst noise. Ever.  Period. 

I have the starting of a sore throat.  I mean, it isn’t there yet as it is more “well, it is possible…I do have the worst headcold ever already”, and I don’t know if I will get one yet, but if I do.  Worst sore throat. Ever. Period.

This morning I woke up with a slight headache.  No not a hangover.  It was a headache.  Yes I know I drank a lot last night but that was because me…as a man…needs to kill the bug in my body so I can continue to make the world turn.  So I got that bug so drunk, became best friends with it and thought I could coax it out after drenching it in whisky.  It turns out it is one of those “hang about” bugs.  So now it thinks it is welcome and I am pretty sure it is setting up home for the long term.  Worst home stealing bug.  Ever.  Period.

I coughed earlier.  Not once.  Not twice.  FIVE times.  Five separate instances of this cough.  IN 7 HOURS!.  On the last one I almost coughed up some of the tasty chewing gum type stuff you get when you have a VERY nasty cold like I have.  Nobody else has had a cough like this.  Ever.  Period.

I also stubbed my toe last night.  Childbirth?  You have NO idea.  “Oh look…I squeezed this 8lb little person out of me”.  Yeah?  Whooopeeedoodeee.  I stubbed my toe against the cupboard.  That HURT.  Worst injury.  Ever.  Period.

But you know.  I came to work today.  I worked hard.  While some women were laying on their backs in the name of childbirth and in the name of finding an excuse to moan about pain, I was here.  Working. At my desk.  I didn’t tell anyone I am ill.  I am a silent sufferer.  You know, apart from the elephant noises.  No, I am a better person than that.  I am only telling you people reading this because you need to understand that when I say I am ill…I am ILL.  Single most ill guy. Ever.  Period.

Walking from the car to the office this morning the wind picked up.  It was cold enough to cut a normal mortal in two.  I just accepted it.  I pushed on through. I came in.  I watched and watched the others moaning.  Silently I took that cold and pushed on.  Coldest wind.  Ever.  Period.

I am therefore the greatest guy. Ever.  Period.